What If It's Us

by Becky Albertalli

  But I’m too nervous to care. I’m cranked up to a thousand. I scoot back in my bed to settle in with the app. Time to take inventory.

  @HudsonLikeRiver. 694 posts. 315 followers. 241 following. His bio’s kind of bare. Huds in the house. NYC baby.

  I scroll again through his pictures, all 694 of them. There’s not a single one of Box Boy, not even in a group shot, and they definitely don’t follow each other. I check the pictures other people have tagged Hudson in. No trace of Box Boy there either.

  I mean, maybe this is all one giant coincidence. Just another Hudson. Another Hudson in New York who dates boys and just had a breakup.

  It doesn’t feel like a coincidence.

  Maybe Hudson and Box Boy deleted every single picture of each other and untagged the ones their friends posted. And of course they unfollowed each other, because they probably can’t stand the sight of each other. Which is why Box Boy was mailing the box in the first place.

  Any luck? Jessie writes.

  Not yet. Frowny face.

  I switch over to Harriett’s profile, since she and Hudson seem close—and even if she’s all for Hudson moving on, she probably knew the ex he’s moving on from.

  And. Holy shit. Four thousand posts. Seventy-five thousand followers.

  Okay, so Hudson’s friend Harriett is some kind of an Instagram celebrity, and that is . . . pretty fucking cool, actually. She posts a lot of selfies with dramatically contoured cheekbones and intricate eyeliner patterns, and now I can’t stop looking through them. I’m not even a makeup guy, but it’s just so awesomely theatrical. If I didn’t think it would be next-level creepy, I’d follow the hell out of Harriett.

  Except—wow. Eye on the prize, Arthur.

  I scroll down to some of Harriett’s earlier posts, where there are fewer selfies and more pictures with friends. Lots with Hudson, lots with various girls, and a whole series of a guy with a beard and shimmery unicorn eye makeup. But there are group pictures, too—I pause longer on those, carefully scanning the faces. I keep scaring the crap out of myself by almost liking Harriett’s pictures. Not on purpose. It’s my self-sabotaging fingers and their unstoppable compulsion to pinch and zoom.

  By now, I’ve worked my way back to March, and there’s a whole series of group pictures in the snow outside Duane Reade. Mostly action shots—a snowball fight—but I notice Hudson in the background, looking out of frame and laughing.

  I swipe sideways. Same snowball fight, but the image is shifted slightly to the right. Now you can see Hudson’s laughing with a guy—but he’s blurry.

  I swipe again.

  And then I forget how to breathe.

  Because it’s the boy. It’s actually him. Center frame, pink-cheeked and smiling self-consciously, while Hudson’s doubled over, cracking up.

  Holy. Shit.

  I take a screenshot and text it straight to Jessie and Ethan. No caption. No emojis.

  As always, Jessie’s the first to reply. Omg Arthur, that’s him? She doesn’t wait for me to reply. He’s beautiful.

  That’s a handsome dude, adds Ethan. Multiple winking emojis. Ethan Gerson: my Totally Accepting Straight Bro Friend Who Can’t Be Alone with Me. I’d be totally accepting of him shutting the fuck up.

  I turn back to Harriett’s feed and scan the post for Instagram handles. A few people are tagged in the snowball series, but not Box Boy. Or Hudson. Maybe they untagged themselves. I keep scrolling.

  For hours.

  Every single group post. I click on every single one. I scroll through Harriett’s followers—all seventy-five thousand of them. I scroll through her follow list. I click on everyone tagged in the snowball pictures and check their followers, too.

  Nothing.

  And not a single other picture of Box Boy.

  Still no name. Maybe Box Boy was right. Maybe the universe really is an asshole.

  What I need now is chocolate. And I’m not talking about a weak drizzle of Hershey’s sauce on a waffle. I need the hard stuff, like Jacques Torres or one of those giant double-chocolate-chip Levain Bakery cookies. The classic Upper West Side dilemma: when your heart says Levain, but your lazy ass remembers there’s a candy bowl next to the coffeepot.

  Emotional blue balls. That’s what it feels like. It’s being handed everything you’ve ever longed for, only for it to slip through your fingers. And there’s no way to fix it. Nothing you can do but slink toward the kitchen counter in a full-body mope.

  The kitchen’s fully stocked with coffee again—I guess Dad stepped up and bought some. And it’s the nice stuff—not Starbucks. It’s French roast artisan blend from Dream & Bean—

  A tiny thrum in my chest. My heart’s the first to remember.

  Dream & Bean. His shirt. How could I forget about his T-shirt? If I were a detective, the chief would fire my ass right now. This is the game-changing clue, and it was right under my nose. Who even wears shirts from coffee shops?

  Coffee shop employees, that’s who.

  I google it so fast, I almost misspell the word “bean.” But there it is, two blocks from Mom’s office. In the direction of the post office.

  All my chill vanishes.

  What if what if what if—

  I’m going to find him. It’s going to happen. My heart slams in my chest as I picture it. He’ll be behind the counter, bored and dreamy and adorably disheveled. I’ll walk in, in slow motion, perfectly centered in a beam of flattering light. And obviously the handlebar twins from the post office will be there too, but we’ll barely notice them this time. Our eyes will be glued to each other, his Emma Watson lips trembling. Arthur? he’ll say, and I’ll just nod. I’ll be so verklempt. I thought I’d never see you again, he’ll say. I looked everywhere for you. And I’ll whisper: You found me. And then he’ll—

  But wow. Okay. I need to strategize.

  Because maybe he’s off duty tomorrow. I should bring the picture, just in case. Would that be unforgivably creepy? Showing his picture to the barista?

  Maybe I could hang his picture on the bulletin board, like a real-life missed connection post. Like Craigslist, but old-school. I mean, coffee shops always have bulletin boards. I think.

  All I know is this: I refuse to miss this chance.

  I scramble back to my room, open my laptop, and type.

  Are you the boy from the post office?

  I feel super awkward right now, and I can’t believe I’m doing this, but here we go.

  We talked for a few minutes at the post office on Lexington. I was the guy in the hot dog tie. You were the guy mailing stuff back to your ex-boyfriend.

  I loved your laugh. Wish I’d gotten your number.

  Want to give me a second chance here, universe?

  Arthur.Seuss@gmail.com

  Chapter Ten

  Ben

  “Kool Koffee coffee is the worst,” Dylan says as we step out of Dream & Bean with a fresh cup of coffee instead of refilling his thermos in my backpack. He’s become really bitter since telling Samantha she’s his future wife the way he’d normally tell no one but me. It’s fine and cool with me, but telling the girl? When it’s only been a couple days? That was never going to play out well. “Maybe it’s for the best. Bad coffee is bad coffee, and that’s what Samantha serves. If I had future-married her, I would’ve been leading this second life of lies. I might have told her on my deathbed so I could die an honest man.”

  I shake my head. “Why are you the way you are?”

  “Too many shitty cups of coffee, Big Ben.”

  “It’s not over. I’m sure she’s already realized that you’re just so Dylan that you Dylan’d too hard.”

  “Dylan-ing isn’t a bad thing. To Dylan someone is to adore them. Even if they brew the worst coffee on God’s green earth.”

  We walk through Washington Square Park. There’s a cute Mexican guy with hipster glasses sitting on a bench, nodding along to whatever song is playing on his headphones while he eats ice cream. Ice cream is one of Hudson’s favorite foods—no
t dessert, food. We once played this game where I would close my eyes, he’d take a spoonful of whatever flavors were available in his freezer, and I had to guess which ice cream it was. This was back in early March, when doing little stupid things like that felt extra special. Something that was just for us.

  Dylan’s phone rings. “It’s Samantha, Big Ben. Ha! I knew Wifey couldn’t get enough of Daddy D.”

  “I hate everything you just said. Play it cool.”

  Dylan winks, but I know he’s got to be freaking. He answers the phone. “Hey. I—” His smile goes away. “Oh.” My heart drops a little for him. He turns to me. “It’s for you.”

  Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the happy plot twist we thought it would be.

  I take the phone. “Hello?”

  “I may have found your boy,” Samantha says.

  “Say what.”

  “It wasn’t easy, but I did some digging. I looked into law firms in Georgia with New York connections and came up empty. I jumped to Instagram and searched through the hashtag for hot dog ties, and the most recent photo was last year, so that was out. And I checked Facebook for Yale newbie groups and there’s a meetup for incoming freshmen in New York . . . today at five.”

  “You’re kidding,” I say.

  “I’m texting a link to the Facebook group now.”

  The phone vibrates against my face. I open the text, click the link: class of 2022. Meetup at Central Park.

  “There’s no promise he’ll be there,” Samantha says. “I searched through the list of people who RSVP’d yes, but people, like yours truly, often don’t RSVP, so I have hope.”

  “Wow. You’re amazing,” I say.

  “I’m also talking on company time, so I got to leave the stockroom, but best of luck with your search and tell Dylan I said bye!”

  “Thanks,” I say, right as she hangs up.

  “What happened? Was she talking about me?” Dylan asks.

  “D, I’m sorry. She’s about to go run off into the sunset with Patrick,” I say. He tries taking his phone back, but I don’t let go. “I’m kidding. But look: she may have found Arthur. There’s a Yale freshman meetup thing today. It’s almost too convenient, right?”

  “Yes, it’s very convenient that my future wife did all the work for you.”

  “You know what I mean. There are so many things Arthur can be doing in this city he doesn’t live in. He’ll see all these people in school. There’s no way he’ll be there.”

  “We don’t have to go.” Dylan snatches his phone and looks at the group. “Wow. Samantha is wasting her time at that sad excuse of a coffee shop. She can be the Hermione in our trio. Dibs on Harry.”

  “But that means I’m Ron.”

  “Sucks for you.”

  “Ron ends up with Hermione.”

  “Okay, but . . . I don’t want to be Ron. No one wants to be Ron. Rupert Grint probably didn’t even want to be Ron. How about this? I’m Han Solo and she’s Princess Leia. You can be Luke.”

  “I don’t care,” I say. “Let’s focus.”

  “Right, right. We should go to the meetup anyway. Maybe Arthur won’t be there. But maybe he will be,” Dylan says.

  Knowing he could be there is more than enough to get me going. “Let’s do it.”

  “May the Force be with you, Ron Weasley.”

  “We should have aliases,” Dylan says.

  We’re walking through Central Park and toward Belvedere Castle, where the meetup is happening. There’s something really enchanting about reuniting with Arthur at a castle like some bomb-ass fairy tale. Too bad I smell like my dad’s cologne and I’m wearing a polo shirt from last spring that’s now super tight on me because that’s the Yale bro look apparently.

  “Aliases will only make this more complicated,” I say. I wish we hadn’t gone back home to change first. I just want to be in clothes I like.

  “More awesome, you mean. I think I’m going to be Digby Whitaker. You can be Brooks Teague.”

  “No.”

  “Orson Bronwyn?”

  “No.”

  “Final offer: Ingram Yates.”

  “No.” We’re approaching the stairs that lead up to the meetup. “Okay, D, real talk. I’m kind of freaking. I really want Arthur to be up there, but I’m also feeling weird getting my hopes up about someone new. I need wingman advice, Digby Wilson.”

  “Whitaker,” Dylan corrects. He claps his hands. “Let’s say Arthur is here and you hit it off. He’s leaving at the end of the summer anyway, right? You can treat this like a rebound.”

  “No. I don’t want to do that to anyone. Or myself.”

  “You’re right. Bad advice, Big Brooks.”

  “Ben.”

  “Not getting anything past you.” Dylan takes me by the shoulders and stares into my eyes, like an intense coach and his trainee. “Maybe you do need a break before you’re really ready to move on. I will respect you if you walk away from this. But I know you’re a dreamer, Big Ben, and maybe the universe is giving you this second shot.”

  I hope he’s right. I hope the universe proves me wrong and actually comes through—for both of us.

  “Maybe,” I say.

  “If you won’t do it for yourself, at least do it for all the people on the train who had to suffer through your cologne in such tight quarters.”

  “Asshole.”

  We reach the top of the open space, the sun and lake and rest of the park hanging out behind the crowd of Yale’s noobs. A lot of the guys here are tall, so I walk around, dragging my feet, but out of the twenty or so guys, some smelling like cologne way nicer than my dad’s, none of them are Arthur.

  “He’s not here,” I say. “And we’re the only ones in polos.”

  “It’s early,” Dylan says. “Arthur may show up in a polo?”

  I glare.

  “We’re here, and we should try to have some fun,” Dylan says. “If you send me home, I’m just going to listen to sad music and stare out the window and jump whenever my phone buzzes and then be sadder than I was before when I see it’s just you texting me and not Samantha.”

  “You’ve made me feel like shit, but sure, let’s stay.”

  “Yay.” Dylan looks around. “Yale has some lookers here. Aren’t you feeling motivated to study really damn hard in senior year to try and get that full scholarship life?”

  “Not a hot dog tie in sight.”

  “Is that a new fetish?”

  “No, it’s just . . . it’s cool to see someone not take himself so seriously.”

  “Well, someone who is actually here is checking you out,” Dylan says. “Eleven o’clock a.m.”

  “A.m. or p.m. doesn’t matter.”

  “Yeah it does. He’s got those a.m. breakfast-date vibes. Not the p.m. take-me-into-the-bathroom-and-let’s-bump-butts vibes.”

  I check out the guy instead of asking Dylan if he knows anyone who bumps butt as a sexual activity because I know he’ll have answers and I have my limits. The guy is really cute and definitely breakfast-date wholesome—dark brown skin, peach blazer, white T-shirt, navy slacks that end above his ankles, and white low-top sneakers that probably cost more than what I spend on clothes in three months. It looks pretty effortless, and if I learned anything from Instagram rising star Harriett, everything that looks effortless requires too much effort. But it’s always worth it if you want the likes and the looks.

  “Nice style,” I say. I’m extra self-conscious in my tight polo. “But I feel like I’d rather be him than be with him.”

  “Maybe we say hi before you completely write him off?”

  “We don’t know if he’s even into guys.”

  “Then you make an ass of yourself. It’s not like you’re actually going to have to spend the next four years at Yale with him.”

  Don’t I know it. There’s nothing about any of my report cards since sixth grade that have my parents expecting to find me graduating from an Ivy League school. Ma really wants me in college so no one can write me off the
way no one took her seriously for so many years, but sometimes it feels pointless anyway. Like if I’m pitted against anyone standing here in this circle, they’re going to see me as Community College Ben and not Yale Ben, and I’ll lose out.

  And now there’s this cute guy who I just automatically feel unworthy of. I once felt that way about Hudson too and that worked out before it stopped working. I’m not big on talking to strangers, like I wouldn’t have ever approached Arthur, but there’s an opening here, so I drag Dylan with me to go say hi to this guy while he’s in the middle of a conversation with a girl in a radiant yellow hijab.

  “Hi. I’m Ben.”

  “I’m Digby Whitaker.”

  “Whoa. Hell of a name,” the cute guy says.

  “Thanks. What’s yours?” Dylan asks.

  “Kent Michele,” he says, shaking Dylan’s hand and then mine.

  I turn to the girl. “Ben.”

  “Alima,” she says. “So, you guys excited?”

  Dylan clears his throats. “Oh yeah. Really excited to advance my education in Greek, Ancient, and Modern studies, you know. I kind of want to name my son Achilles because I think there’s a lesson here about downfalls.”

  I don’t . . .

  I just . . .

  It’s like Dylan tries to out-Dylan himself sometimes.

  “Sounds way more fun than Ethics, Politics, and Economics,” Kent says. “Fun times.” Oh good, he’s not so full of himself that he thinks his major is riveting stuff. He definitely gets some cool points. “What are you into?”

  And damn, the way he asks that gets me blushing a little. I realize I have no idea what courses are available at Yale. Or colleges in general. I’m not even a senior yet and haven’t really been thinking that far. So I just keep it honest. “I’m big on writing.”

  “Me too!” Kent says. “Well, used to be. Don’t make fun, but I used to write a lot of fanfiction.”

  “Oh, Ben definitely won’t be making fun of you,” Dylan says.

  “I’m not the Little Mermaid, I can speak,” I say with a forced laugh, like ha-ha-ha-shut-the-hell-up. I turn back to Kent. “What fandom were you writing?”

  “Pokémon,” Kent says, and he cringes a little like I’m about to make fun of him. He has dimples too because damn. “I know it’s silly, but that was my everything growing up.”