“Wow,” I say. “You have to respond soon. Don’t leave her hanging.”
“What should I say?”
I go through everything I know about Samantha. “Maybe invite her out to grab some seafood with her sister? So it seems less romantic?”
“That’ll land me in the friend zone.”
“Dude, she wants to see you. Texting you was clearly hard for her, but she did it anyway. You just have to take your time,” I say.
“Right. I was kidding about the future-wife thing. Half kidding.” He takes the phone back and reads over the message again.
“Can I help you with the text, please?”
Dylan shakes his head. “I got this.” He takes a deep breath and narrates: “Dear future wife . . .”
I snatch the phone.
Thursday, July 19
Our third first date is pretty low-key. No arcade games where Arthur can’t keep up. No meals I can’t pay for. Figuring it out wasn’t easy. Arthur suggested one of those disco parties where you wear headphones and dance to songs of your choice. I suggested Nintendo World, which was apparently too close to arcade games for someone—cough, cough. He suggested a painting class. I suggested rock climbing. We’ve settled on a stroll through Central Park, and I have plans for where I can kiss him.
It’s after six as we walk the same path I walked with Dylan last week. I even knocked out my homework and studied for tomorrow’s test this afternoon so I can stay out until nine. Arthur and I split a pretzel while talking about how his favorite GIF is the one of the bald eagle that tries biting Trump’s hand off, and all I can think about are all the things I want to know about him. And what that means since he’s not here for good.
“What are some of the things you have to do before you go back to Georgia?”
“Win the Hamilton lottery. And I kind of want to see another show on my birthday. Visit Lady Liberty, maybe? Going to the top of the Empire State Building could be interesting.”
“It’s hell to get up there, but definitely worth the Instagram photo op. I really liked that photo of you in the hot dog tie,” I say. “A lot of photos, actually. But I didn’t want to be That Guy who likes all your old photos. That Guy isn’t cool. I hope where I’m taking you is worth the ’gram.”
The only photo we have together is from our first first date. I don’t know if I’m ready to upload a photo of a new guy to Instagram because that’s a huge statement, but it’d be nice to start having something to remember this summer by.
As we head up the stone steps to Belvedere Castle, I’m kind of wishing we’d waited a couple more hours for the sun to set for some city glow action. I really love the way lit windows pop like stars when it gets dark out. But at least Arthur will be able to appreciate the daytime view.
“Here we are,” I say. “What do you think?”
“Definitely Instagram-worthy.”
As we look over the balcony, I say, “I came here looking for you.”
“What?”
“This girl Dylan is interested in, Samantha, she tried helping me find you. And I told her everything I knew about you because she’s pretty much a social media detective, and she found a Yale meetup here and I checked it out. For you. But you weren’t here.” I inch closer to him and our elbows are touching. “I think you’re cool.”
Arthur nods and smiles, but the smile doesn’t hang out for very long. I’m not getting kiss vibes.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine. That’s really sweet,” he says. “I just . . . I saw a photo of you and Hudson at Dave & Buster’s. Did you bring him here too?”
Fucking Hudson. We’re not even friends and he’s still managing to ruin my life. “Nope. Hudson and I never came here.” I shift, our elbows no longer touching. “I brought you to Dave & Buster’s because I was nervous and that was comfortable for me. Is that why you’re upset?”
“I’m not upset,” Arthur says. It’s pretty clear he’s bothered.
“If there’s stuff you want to know, just ask me. It’s fine. Cool?” I massage his shoulder, hoping we can get this back on track. “Arthur, don’t forget that if I never dated Hudson, then I couldn’t have broken up with him. Then I wouldn’t have gone to that post office. Then I wouldn’t have met you.”
I swore that would’ve made me feel better. Except Arthur still doesn’t look happy.
Chapter Seventeen
Arthur
Stop. Talking. Arthur.
It’s like my mouth and my brain don’t even know each other. They’re not even in the same plane of reality. My mouth is the guy in the horror movie with his hand on the door. My brain’s the guy on the couch screaming, “DON’T OPEN IT.”
The Hudson door. I can’t stop opening it.
And tonight was supposed to be the night when everything clicked into place. I spent all week plotting every minute of it in my head. I was going to be funny and cool, and he’d be totally charmed. Not even charmed. He’d be straight-up enchanted. I imagined we’d end up on a bench in Central Park, sitting without an inch of space between us, and Ben would tap my arm to tell a joke or make a point, but he’d leave his hand there a moment longer than he needed to. I’d catch him staring at my profile. We’d watch all the tourists walk by, and he’d lean in close with whispered running commentary. I actually lost sleep this week imagining the heat of Ben’s breath on my ear.
And of course there would be kissing. My first kiss. Followed by the loss of my virginity in some quiet, starlit field.
But no. Not even close. Instead, it’s me bleeding out all my neuroses, looking for answers to questions I have no right to be asking. But I don’t know how to make myself stop asking them. People like me should come with a mute button.
“I mean, I understand why you have pictures of him. But do you really need fifty-six of them?”
“Why are you counting my pictures?” he asks.
I turn toward him, stopping on the path, but he grabs my hand and tugs me out of pedestrian traffic. Next thing I know, we actually are on a bench in Central Park, just like I pictured it. And he’s still holding my hand, which is more than a little bit wonderful.
“I wasn’t really counting.”
“You just guessed there were fifty-six.”
“Okay, I counted them.”
He smiles slightly.
“It’s just—your social media is basically a shrine to another guy.”
“Why don’t you just not look at those pictures?” Ben asks.
I untangle our fingers. “You’re missing the point.”
“Hudson and I were friends, too,” he says. “You’ve got tons of pictures of Ethan and Jessie.”
“Yeah, but Ethan and Jessie are Ethan and Jessie!”
Ben sighs. “And Hudson is Hudson.”
I watch him fidget with his shoelace.
“Okay, I’m just going to ask.” My voice is quiet, almost hoarse. “Why’d you break up?”
He meets my eyes, but I can’t read his expression. “Do you actually want to know?”
“Yes!”
“Are you going to hold this against me?”
“Did you do something awful?”
“No!” Ben shuts his eyes briefly. “It’s just—it was messy. He broke my heart. I told you he cheated on me, right?”
I bolt upright. “He cheated?”
Ben’s staring out into the park, jaw clenched. “Kind of? I mean, he kissed some guy, so—”
“Um, that’s not kind of cheating. That’s cheating.”
“But I guess he thought we were already broken up.”
“Were you?”
“Not that I was aware of.” Ben’s voice is tinged with exasperation. “We had a fight, and I told him to get out of my face, but I wasn’t like, hey, why don’t you go hook up with some dude at a party whose name you don’t even know—”
I gasp. “He didn’t even know the guy’s name?”
“He knew his gamer handle.” Ben shrugs. “Yung10DA.”
&
nbsp; “Young tenda?”
“Spelled y-u-n-g. And, like, the actual number ten.”
“Oh my god.” I shake my head slowly. “Hudson dumped you for a guy named Yung10DA?”
Ben pauses. “Can we maybe stop talking about this?” I open my mouth to reply, but Ben cuts me off quickly. “Just for the record, though, I dumped Hudson.”
“Right.”
“Also, he didn’t pick Yung10DA over me. That dude was just there.”
“No, I get it—”
“And—”
“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it,” I say finally.
He exhales. “I don’t.”
“Okay . . .”
“Okay then,” he says. “Done deal. All good. We’re good.”
But when I sneak a glance at him, he’s wringing his hands, mouth pressed into a tight line.
Friday, July 20
It was brutal, I write.
Oh, come on, writes Jessie.
I’m serious. I bombed it. I trace the perimeter of a tile with the toe of my boot. I haven’t even been at work for an hour, and I’m already sending panicked texts to Jessie and Ethan from the bathroom.
How do you know you bombed it? asks Ethan, but he puts a bomb emoji in place of the word.
Well, for one thing, he didn’t ask me on another date.
And as soon as I write that, it’s real—so real, it makes my stomach lurch. I took this well past the point where a do-over could fix it. I can’t even blame Ben for cutting me loose. Why would he possibly want to see me again? So he can spend another few hours being interrogated about Hudson?
So what? You should ask him out, says Jessie.
I can’t do that.
Why? You have his number. Thinker emoji.
Because he’s not going to want to hang out again. I bite my lip. I don’t think you understand.
Were you a wet kisser? asks Ethan.
Shut up, Ethan. Arthur, ignore him.
I didn’t kiss him. Too busy asking him about Hudson, I write.
ARTHUR!!!!
I know, I know.
I can picture Jessie so clearly—lips pursed, frantically typing. You can’t grill him about his ex on the third date.
I frown. Actually, it was the third *first* date.
Suddenly, Jessie’s FaceTiming me. “Jess, I’m at work,” I hiss.
“You’re clearly in the bathroom,” she says. “Look, I’m not going to—okay. Here’s the thing. I know I’m not quote-unquote ‘experienced’ or whatever, and I’m obviously talking out of my ass here—”
I can’t help but smile.
“But Arthur, don’t listen to Ethan, okay? He is . . . not one to talk, trust me.” Jessie rolls her eyes. “But you actually like this guy.”
I shrug.
“Arthur, come on. You made a poster to find him. You stalked him all through New York—”
“I did not.”
“It was sweet! And yeah, you screwed up, but come on. Remember how hard it was for you to even find him? The fact that you did? Arthur, that’s a miracle.”
“I know, but—”
“Arthur, this is fate! Don’t you dare give up this easily.”
I spend the subway ride home drafting the text in my notes app—which of course makes the whole thing loom even larger. It’s hard to feel casual about a text that’s gone through three rounds of revisions. I might as well write the final version out in calligraphy. Or engrave it. Tattoo it on my butt cheek.
Hey. So I know last night was weird, and I hope it’s okay that I’m texting you. Feel free to delete this if you want, but I hope you don’t. I’m really sorry, Ben. I shouldn’t have asked about Hudson. It’s not my business, and you were right, I was jealous. It’s just, I think I like you a lot, and I’m kind of new to this whole thing of actually dating guys I like a lot. Or dating guys at all, really. And I honestly get it if you’d rather just end things (I wouldn’t want to date me either, lol). But if you want to give this another shot, I’m totally 100% super madly up for that. Maybe we could have another do-over?
I copy it into my texts and click send before I lose my nerve. And for a moment, I just stand there, in the middle of the subway station.
I just did that. I told him I liked him. I mean, he probably figured it out, what with the whole chasing-him-around-New-York thing. But that was different. That was almost like a game I was playing with the universe. This time it’s Ben, and this time it’s real.
I shove my phone into my pocket so I don’t obsess the whole way home, but it starts buzzing with texts before I even reach the end of the block. Jessie, I’m sure. Or Dad. Don’t check and don’t hope. I won’t look until I’m home.
Yeah, that lasts approximately two seconds. I whip it out and tap into my texts, heart skittering in my chest. There are two.
No, you’re fine, I totally get it. It’s a lot. Anyway, no worries, Arthur, and I’m super madly up for a do-over, too. Maybe we keep it casual this time and go from there?
And then the second: Actually, I don’t know what you’re up to tonight, but I was going to hang out with Dylan and his maybe-girlfriend. No big deal if you’re busy, but let me know if you want to save me from the whole third wheel thing. Apparently we’re doing karaoke, so I’m warning you, it’s probably going to be a disaster.
I whip around in a full one-eighty, already speed-walking back to the Seventy-Second Street station. I’m smiling so hard my jaw hurts. But right outside the entrance of the subway, I pause to text Ben back. Three words.
I like disasters.
Chapter Eighteen
Ben
This is going to be a disaster.
We’re running a few minutes late when I get off the train with Dylan and Samantha. They are so drunk from flirting that I don’t trust Dylan to not ruin this for me.
“Dylan, what are tonight’s dos and don’ts?”
“I don’t care for pop quizzes.”
I stop in front of him. “D, I’m serious.”
“I promise not to talk about how you have sexy time with Hudson during summer school—” I glare. “Okay.” Dylan turns to Samantha, who’s just laughing. “Ben, I’m not going to blow up your spot. I will only talk up the good things. I’ll start with how you’re an awesome friend and an even better lover.”
Samantha shakes her head. “I’m going to be honest, I can’t tell if you guys have actually had sex or if this is an ongoing joke I need to accept.”
“What happens in Ben’s room stays in Ben’s room,” Dylan says.
Deep breath. “Hudson is a word we all have to forget about. If Arthur got bothered by seeing old pictures of Hudson on my Instagram, he would freak out if he knew I was stuck in summer school with him.”
“You’re planning on telling him, I hope?” Samantha says.
“Yeah. Just got to figure out the right moment,” I say.
I keep it moving. We get to the karaoke center and Arthur is waiting in the lobby. He’s wearing a short-sleeved, sun-colored plaid shirt and he’s just really damn cute. “Hey,” I say. “Sorry we’re a little late.”
“It’s okay,” Arthur says. “Hi.”
I go in for a hug because I think we’re past handshakes and awkward fist bumps. I think he breathes me in, but I might be making that up. Hugging Arthur is different from hugging Hudson; Hudson’s chin was able to reach my shoulder whereas Arthur’s face is pressed against my chest, kind of like I’d imagine it would be if we were lying on the couch watching TV.
“This is Dylan and Samantha. Guys, this is—”
“Arnold!” Dylan shouts, and hugs Arthur. “So great to finally meet you. Ben has spoken so highly of you.”
“Hi, Arthur,” Samantha says. “He’s trying to be funny. He’s not funny.”
“I’m mostly funny.”
“Nope,” Samantha and I say at the same time.
Arthur looks between all of us. Like he’s just now realizing how outnumbered he is in this circle. “So . . .” He puts
his hand on my shoulder. “Fourth first date and first double date.”
“Fourth first date?” Samantha asks.
“We want the first date to be epic and worthy of how we met,” I say. “So we keep calling do-over when things detour a bit.”
“Our beginning was very epic too,” Dylan says. “I was just smart enough to get Samantha’s phone number.”
I want to remind him that he almost messed up his epic relationship, but that’s bad form in front of our future people; I’ll save it for when we’re alone.
Samantha grabs his arm and looks into his eyes. “It was very romantic and epic the way you came to my job and waited in line and talked to me. Everyone should follow your lead!” She half hugs his waist and looks back at Arthur. “The poster you set up for Ben sounds wonderful, by the way. I feel like I’m in the presence of romantic greatness.”
Arthur blushes. “Thanks. Luck was on our side.”
The woman behind the counter calls out Arthur’s name. He apparently put his name down when he got here. We’re led into this boxy room with one L-shaped couch, a TV, and two microphones. In the center of the table is my worst enemy—the binder of songs that we’ll be choosing from tonight. In front of one another. For the first time. Even Dylan and I haven’t done karaoke together. We’ve sung together, but we’ve never ever had a microphone and we were never sober.
“Dylan! Go use your beard to get us some alcohol.”
“I can’t drink,” Dylan says. “Still too nauseous after that seafood.”
“Don’t blame the seafood,” Samantha says.
“Fine. Get yourself whatever and the rest of us something not boring,” I say.
“I don’t drink,” Samantha says.
“Me either,” Arthur says. “Doesn’t mix well with my Adderall.”
“I’ll drink for all three of you,” I say, which makes me sound like an alcoholic, but there’s no way I’m getting through this hour sober.
Dylan rushes out of the room.
Arthur and Samantha flip through the binder.
“Do they have Hamilton or Dear Evan Hansen here? This karaoke place back home didn’t have updated songs yet,” Arthur says.
What If It's Us Page 13