What If It's Us

by Becky Albertalli

  Okay, maybe there’s a tiny, minuscule part of me wondering what it would feel like to announce, Ben’s actually the world’s youngest surgeon or Ben’s working in the mayor’s policy office. As opposed to, Ben’s really weird and cagey when you ask about summer school.

  But no. None of that matters. I don’t care that Ben’s in summer school. I don’t care if he has a fancy job, and I don’t care if he ends up applying to Yale. I care about how he stood up to that asshole on the subway and how I feel seeing his name in my texts. I care about how much he cared about making my first kiss perfect.

  “Ben’s a writer,” I say. “And he’s amazing.”

  “No I’m not.” Ben shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

  “He is. I’ve read his work.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Mom says. “What do you write?”

  Ben pauses. “Fiction, I guess?”

  “Ooh.” Dad sits up straighter. “You know, I’ve always wanted to write a novel.”

  “Oh really?” says Mom.

  “I’ve actually been—”

  “Oh, I sincerely hope you’re not about to say you’ve been writing the Great American Novel instead of applying for jobs. I really hope you’re not about to say that.”

  “Mara, let’s not—”

  “Oh wow. It’s late.” I stand, face burning. “I better walk Ben to the elevator.”

  Ben looks uncertain. “You don’t have to walk me out. I can just—”

  “Oh, I’m definitely walking you out.” I side-eye the hell out of my parents. Dad’s stroking his beard, and Mom clasps her hands, looking slightly abashed.

  “Well, Ben, I’m so glad you came,” Mom says finally. “We’ll have to have you here for dinner sometime.”

  “Mom,” I say sharply, but then I catch the look on Ben’s face. His eyes are wide, but he doesn’t look horrified. Just bewildered and happy.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say as soon as the door shuts behind us.

  “Why? They’re really nice.”

  “Yeah, for like five seconds at a time, until they start tearing each other’s heads off. I can’t believe they did that in front of you.”

  “You mean the Great American Novel thing?”

  “Yeah.” I presss my temple. “They’re such assholes to each other.”

  “Really? I think your mom was just busting his balls.”

  “No, she’s for real. She always does that. She gets on him for not having a job, and then he gets defensive, and it’s nonstop, and I literally wake up every morning thinking today’s the day they’re going to pull me aside for the whole your father and I both love you very much, Arthur, this isn’t your fault, blah blah, et cetera. Like it’s basically inevitable at this point. I don’t even think the universe is rooting for Team Seuss anymore. It’s just a matter of when.”

  “God.” Ben looks at me. “Arthur.”

  “God Arthur, what?”

  “I’m just really sorry. That sucks so much. I didn’t know.”

  He pulls me closer and kisses me softly on the forehead, like a butterfly landing. I might actually melt. I look up at him and smile. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t have to be fine.”

  “I’m just sorry you had to see them being weird and awkward.”

  “Mine are weird and awkward, too. You’ll see.”

  And just like that, the awfulness vanishes. Because WOW. Ben Alejo . . . wants me to meet his parents. I’m going on the hometown date. I grin up at him, trying to think of the perfect flirtatious-but-not-too-flirtatious response. But then Ben says, “Now I want to tell you something.”

  “Okay.”

  He’s quiet for a moment, just breathing. He looks terrified.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” I say quickly. “I mean. Unless you want to.”

  “I want to.”

  My stomach’s doing cartwheels. Is he . . . about to say what I think he’s going to say? It feels soon. But I guess New Yorkers don’t really mess around. I should plan my response. Do I say it back? Is it weird if I don’t? But why wouldn’t I? Seriously, why the fuck not?

  “It’s about summer school,” he says.

  I stare at him. Wow. I think I could burn this whole city down with my cheeks right now. Am I just a thirsty dipshit, or am I the literal thirstiest dipshit to end all dipshits? God help me if Ben ever finds out that I thought—I actually thought he was going to—

  Anyway. Summer school.

  “What about it?” I ask.

  “It’s . . .” He pauses. “Okay, I just want to say first that Hudson and I are really, really over. We’re not even friends anymore. You know that, right?”

  “I know.” I take both his hands. “Let me guess. Hudson was a jerk about summer school.”

  Ben looks at me strangely. “Wait.”

  “He’s an asshole. I’m sorry, Ben, I know he was a part of your history and everything, but fuck him. There’s nothing wrong with summer school, okay?”

  “I know. Yeah. Okay—”

  “No, it’s not okay. How dare he make you feel like that. I don’t care if he made straight As. I don’t care if he’s a Rhodes Scholar. He doesn’t deserve you. He never deserved you.”

  Ben stares down at the carpet. “I should call the elevator.”

  “Okay, but just promise me you’ll stop giving Hudson real estate in your brain. He doesn’t know anything. You’re so fucking smart. I wish you could see it.”

  The elevator light blinks and the doors slide open.

  “That’s really sweet of you.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I know.” The elevator starts to close, but he catches it with his foot.

  I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t want you to go.”

  “Me either.” He tugs me closer.

  So I kiss him and I kiss him as the doors press in around us.

  I flop back onto my bed, and my whole body’s buzzing. Heart, stomach, fingertips, all of it. My brain won’t stop spinning. I feel like I’m living inside a love song.

  Kissing Ben. Holding Ben’s hand. Ben’s crinkly brown eyes.

  I should text him.

  But when I look at my phone, I see two texts from Jessie.

  The first one: Hey!

  The second one: Wondering if you me and E can talk.

  Sure what’s up, I write back.

  She responds immediately. Too complicated for text. FaceTiming you, okay?

  I accept the call, still lying down. Still smiling dazedly.

  “Whoa. Looks like someone had a good night,” says Ethan. They’re on the floor of Jessie’s bedroom, backs pressed against her bed. And something about the familiarity of it all makes me ache: their faces, their voices, Jessie’s purple floral bedspread.

  I grin. “Y’all are up late.”

  “So are you,” says Jessie.

  “So, what’s up? What is this complicated thing?”

  “Well.” They exchange glances.

  “That should be in caps, right? Complicated Thing.” I laugh.

  No one else laughs.

  “Wait.” I sit up. “Is this . . . an intervention?”

  Jessie looks startled. “What?”

  “It’s about Ben, right? I’m too obsessed with him.” I press a hand to my mouth.

  They look at each other again.

  “You do talk about him a lot,” says Ethan.

  “Guys, I’m so sorry.”

  I’m the worst friend on earth. Maybe I’m one of those guys who gets tunnel vision whenever he falls for someone. Maybe I’m just incurably self-centered.

  “It’s fine.”

  “No it’s not. I haven’t even asked you how you are.”

  Another furtive glance. Jessie bites her lip.

  “Well,” Ethan says. “I guess . . .”

  But then a text from Ben pops up, obscuring half of my screen. So . . . I told my parents that your parents invited me for dinner, and my mom turned the whole thing into wanting your whole famil
y to come have dinner at our house tomorrow—I know that’s crazy, don’t be freaked out. They just really want to meet my awesome new boyfriend.

  My heart leaps into my throat. Ethan’s still talking—I think—but it barely even registers.

  “Boyfriend,” I whisper.

  Ethan pauses. “What?”

  “Ben just called me his boyfriend.”

  “When?”

  “Just now. Over text.”

  Jessie’s mouth falls open. “Oh, Arthur, really?”

  I nod wordlessly.

  “Damn,” Ethan says. “That was fast.”

  Jessie nods. “Wow. Are you . . .”

  But another text pops up and Jessie’s voice fades to the background. Shit. Okay. I didn’t mean to say boyfriend. Unless you want to say boyfriend. We don’t have to label it. Wow. I’m sorry. Don’t freak out.

  “. . . the talk?” she finishes.

  “Sorry, what?” I blink. Then I shake my head quickly. “Ugh. I’m doing it again.”

  “No, you’re good,” Jessie says. “This is a big deal. Boyfriend. Wow.”

  “Yeah.” I blink again. “Yeah.”

  “Go respond to him!”

  “When I’m done talking to you guys.”

  “Arthur. Go put your boyfriend out of his misery.”

  My brain feels foggy, almost waterlogged. “Boyfriend. I’m just—”

  “Arthur, go!” Jessie laughs. “We’ll talk later, okay? I’m hanging up.”

  I hang up, too, and tap back into my Ben texts, reading and rereading until I think I might burst.

  Not freaking out, I write. See you tomorrow, boyfriend.

  Then I stare at the screen of my phone for five minutes straight, smiling harder than I ever have in my life.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Ben

  Sunday, July 22

  My boyfriend’s family is coming over for dinner. I’ve been pretty say what about this all day. I dusted the bookshelves and the TV and the space underneath the couch. I dumped out all the garbage bins. I wiped down counters and the table. I did laundry so we’ll have fresh hand towels in the bathroom. I lit four black-cherry candles that are mixing surprisingly well with the feast my parents are cooking up.

  The doorbell rings as I’m setting the table.

  I check the clock. If that’s Arthur and the fam, they’re early. Well, they’re on time. I should’ve known better, because this is Arthur. But damn.

  “I’ll get the door,” I say.

  Please don’t be them, please don’t be them . . .

  “Hey!” Arthur says, holding a box of cookies. His parents are behind him with bottles of wine.

  It feels a little next-level to kiss Arthur in front of his parents, so I hug him and shake their hands.

  “How are you doing?” Mr. Seuss asks.

  “Starving,” I say.

  “It smells great,” Mrs. Seuss says.

  I don’t know if she’s talking about the candles or the dinner, but it’s a win either way. “Come in,” I say. The hallway feels too tight for four people, and I’m more self-conscious of that now than ever before. No matter how much cleaning I did, there’s no pretending that the apartment isn’t way tinier than they’re used to, or that the two chairs we borrowed from my neighbor don’t stand out at the dinner table, where we’ll all be elbow to elbow shortly. “Ma, Pa. This is Mr. and Mrs. Seuss. And Arthur.”

  My parents know better than to make fun of their last name considering how much shit they’ve gotten for theirs, especially my mom, whose maiden name is Almodóvar, and people pretty much made a game out of butchering how to pronounce it.

  “Thank you so much for coming,” Ma says. “I’m Isabel, this is Diego.”

  “Mara,” Mrs. Seuss says while shaking their hands. “Your home is lovely. Thank you for inviting us over.”

  “Of course. And you, Arthur,” Ma says, her head tilting with a smile. “The legend.”

  He smiles at me and back at her.

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Alejo.” Not going to lie, I love the way he says our last name. It’s not a perfect pronunciation, but he’ll get there with time.

  Arthur gives Ma cookies from Levain Bakery, which is a tiny shop on the Upper West Side known for its huge cookies and long lines out the door. The fact that they waited in that line to bring us dessert means a lot.

  Dinner is almost ready, and I feel like the world’s most unnecessary tour guide as I show them around the living room. But when I see Arthur studying every picture hanging from the wall, I remember that home isn’t about how big the space is but how we fill it. Above the TV is the framed Puerto Rican flag that Abuelita brought over when she and Ma moved from their home city of Rincón to New York. The side-by-side first-day-of-school photos of me and Pa, where we would look like identical clones if it weren’t for Ma’s freckles across my face. The oil paintings my parents made on their first date because Pa wanted to wow Ma with an experience more memorable than just dinner. The coffee table we found on the curb outside our building, which slides open to reveal decks of cards and board games. I still feel exposed, but I’m no longer worried about being judged.

  “Where’s your bedroom?” Arthur says.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mr. Seuss says.

  Pa walks over with some coquito for everyone to try, which is basically just coconut eggnog. Arthur and I get the virgin coquitos, and normally I can have some of the regular one, but they want to make a good impression in front of Arthur’s parents, which I respect. Team Seuss seems into the coquito. Mrs. Seuss already wants the recipe, and she and Mr. Seuss follow Pa over to the kitchen.

  “So far, so good, right?” I say. Arthur doesn’t seem to hear me. He’s looking around like he’s in Hogwarts. “Arthur?”

  “Oh. Sorry. What?”

  “Nothing. What are you thinking about?”

  “I still can’t believe I’m here. I’m in my boyfriend’s living room. I have a boyfriend. You are that boyfriend. This is your living room.”

  “You really like it?”

  “I really do.”

  “I’ll show you my bedroom later. Let’s wait until they’re super buzzed.”

  We rejoin the group and Ma gets everyone seated. She doesn’t want the families bunched together so she’s sitting next to Mrs. Seuss and Pa is sitting next to Mr. Seuss and I’m across from Arthur. We’re all still really close, like we’re huddled around a fireplace in a cold forest instead of a dinner table that has no business seating six people. The table is set with pernil, ham with pineapple sauce, yellow rice, pink beans, and salad. Maybe Arthur’s family should come over every weekend so we can eat like kings more often. I just hope they like the food now. I was almost tempted to ask my parents to fry some chicken and mash some potatoes and grill some corn on the cob, but that would’ve only stopped Arthur from discovering more about me. The little things that form the bigger picture.

  “Mind if we pray?” Ma asks.

  “Ma, no, they’re Jewish.”

  “Oh, it’s absolutely fine. Please do,” Mrs. Seuss says.

  Ma looks mortified as she turns to Arthur’s parents. “Oh no—Benito neglected to mention you’re Jewish. I made pork. I am so sorry. I can make some—”

  Mrs. Seuss leans forward. “Oh, please don’t worry! We don’t keep kosher.”

  “We love pork,” Mr. Seuss adds. “No objection to pork. Pigs die for us constantly. It looks delicious, by the way. What do you call this dish?”

  “Pernil,” Pa says.

  Team Seuss just got their word of the day.

  I’m holding Mrs. Seuss’s and Pa’s hands and resting my foot on Arthur’s as Ma prays. She thanks God for the food and for bringing me and Arthur together so we can enjoy this food with new friends, and I peek at Arthur, whose eyes are still closed, but he’s smiling so hard I can see his beautiful teeth. Like he wished on enough stars that his dreams are coming true. We all say amen.

  Mrs. Seuss takes a bite of the ham. “This is
delicious.”

  Ma taps her elbow and places the other hand on her heart. “Thank you. Mami taught me when I was seven. She was an afterschool teacher, so I would have to fend for myself when I got home. I’d make a snack and get dinner started while doing my homework. I love cooking.”

  “Do you cook professionally?” Mrs. Seuss asks.

  “No. I do accounting for a gym. I’m scared I’ll fall out of love with cooking if someone’s paying me to do it. It’ll become work and I won’t be excited to come home and cook with my family.”

  Man, I love my mom. She’s the kind of person who will make everyone feel at home even if she has a problem with you, sort of like she was with Hudson. But I can tell she’s already so comfortable with Mrs. Seuss, like I can maybe even see them hanging out. Except Mrs. Seuss will be leaving at the end of the summer and taking my boyfriend back to Georgia with her.

  “You’re an attorney, right?” Ma asks.

  “Yes. At Smilowitz & Bernbaum. It’s a great firm. One that’s been very relaxed about Arthur following your son into a post office instead of running his coffee errand.”

  We all laugh. I never realized that Arthur went into the post office just to follow me in.

  “How about you, Diego?” Mr. Seuss asks.

  “I’m an assistant manager at Duane Reade. It’s not fancy, but we’re comfortable. I have a great team—mostly great. Bills get paid. Food makes its way to the table. Ben gets his allowance. Anything else would be extra.”

  I think about extra a lot. Vacations to all these tropical islands I’m always seeing in movies. Owning expensive sneakers that I can take out into the world and not keep in a closet, scared that I’ll mess them up. Family car to get us out of here on weekends. Updated iPhones and laptops. College since I won’t score a scholarship. These are all things Arthur’s family doesn’t have to worry about as much.

  “Yourself?” Pa asks Mr. Seuss.

  “Computer programming. I’m in between gigs right now because of the relocating,” Mr. Seuss says. He turns to Mrs. Seuss immediately. “Which is not anyone’s fault. I thought it’d be easier to find a position of interest that can be managed with our time frame before we go back home.”