What If It's Us

by Becky Albertalli

  “You never answered my question,” I say.

  “Right.”

  “I’m not trying to be a jerk. It’s just that I’ve been getting lots of responses from random people, and—I guess I need to know it’s really you.”

  He pauses. “Well, I don’t remember the piercing.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I can send you a selfie if you want. And you were wearing that hot dog tie. And there was a flash mob and those twin guys wearing rompers and I think I called you a tourist? Oh, and you mentioned your Jewish uncle—”

  “Milton.” My heart is thudding.

  “Right.” Then he seems to stop short. “So it’s you.”

  For a moment, I’m speechless.

  “I’m kind of flipping out,” I say finally.

  “Yeah. This is weird.”

  It’s beyond weird. It’s astonishing. It’s the New York moment of my dreams. The lovers are reunited. Cue the orchestra. Box Boy is real.

  He’s real. And he’s Ben. And he found me.

  “I can’t believe this. I told you the universe isn’t an asshole. I told you!”

  “I guess the universe did do us a solid.”

  “No kidding.” I grin into my phone. “So now what?”

  He pauses. “What do you mean?”

  Oh shit. Okay. Maybe he doesn’t want to meet. Maybe this is it. This call. It’s the end of the line for us. Maybe he was interested until he heard me on the phone. Because I talk too fast. Ethan told me that once. He asked me, When do you even breathe?

  “What do I mean?” I ask finally.

  “I mean . . . Do you want to hang out again?” He says it just like that. Emphasis on “you.” As if I haven’t made that crystal clear. Like, come on, my dude. I put up a poster to find you. I think you know where I stand.

  “Do you—” I start to ask, but now we’re both speaking at once. I blush. “You go first.”

  “Oh, it’s just.” I almost hear him bite his lower lip. “I gotta ask. Are those your real eyes?”

  “What?”

  “Those are contacts, right?”

  “I wear . . . clear contacts.”

  “So, your eyes are that blue.”

  “I guess so?”

  “Huh,” he says. “That’s really cool.”

  “Um. Thank you?”

  He laughs. And then falls silent.

  “So . . . ,” I say.

  “Right.” He pauses. “So how do we do this?”

  “Arthur?” calls my dad.

  I slide quickly out of bed, nudge my door shut, and lock it. “How do we do what?”

  “The hanging-out thing. Should we—”

  “Yeah,” I say, too quickly. Deep breath. “I mean. If you want.”

  “Sure,” Ben says. “Want to grab coffee?”

  Coffee. Really? I mean, technically, yes. I’d grab coffee with Ben. I’d sit in traffic with Ben and hang out with him at the DMV. But this feels bigger than coffee. I’m pretty sure this is fate. Like we were meant to meet, meant to lose each other, and meant to find each other all over again. So this date has to be extraordinary. This date needs scavenger hunts and carriage rides and fireworks and Ferris wheels.

  God, imagine us holding hands on a Ferris wheel.

  “What about Coney Island?” I blurt.

  “What about it?”

  “Like as our first . . . destination. For hanging out.”

  For a moment, we’re both silent.

  “Coney Island?” he asks finally.

  “It’s an old-timey amusement park.”

  “Yeah, I know what Coney Island is,” he says. “That’s where you want to go?”

  “No—I mean, not necessarily. Not unless you want to.” I drum on my bed frame.

  “I mean, we can . . .”

  “No, it’s fine!” I take a breath. “Why don’t you pick?”

  “You want me to plan our . . . date?”

  Date! He said it. Holy shit. It’s a date. This is legit. He’s romantically interested, and I’m romantically interested, which means this is actually, finally happening. An actual date with an actual boy. This is possibly, definitely the number one best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I have no chill about it. None whatsoever.

  But okay.

  I should breathe.

  “That’s fine,” I say calmly. SUPER COOL. MEGA CHILL. I shrug. “If you want.”

  “Yeah, that works. So. Okay. Are you free tomorrow at, like, eight?”

  “Eight p.m. Yup!”

  I can’t stop smiling. I’m just. God. I have a date.

  “Okay, I think I have an idea,” he says slowly. “But I’ll surprise you. Want to meet outside the subway at Times Square? Main entrance.”

  “That sounds good.”

  And by good, I mean great. I mean exquisitely perfect. I mean I’m living in a Broadway musical. THIS IS AN ACTUAL BROADWAY MUSICAL.

  “Okay. See you then.”

  We hang up. And for a full minute, I sit frozen, staring at the screen of my phone.

  I have a date. A date. With Ben. I’m dating Ben. And dear God. Dear universe. Holy fucking shit.

  I cannot mess this up.

  Part Two

  It’s Us

  Chapter Twelve

  Ben

  Saturday, July 14

  It’s almost time for my first date. Well, first date with Arthur.

  It’s 7:27 and I should start getting out the door. I throw on the black T-shirt Ma insisted on ironing. My parents are standing by the door as Dylan follows me out of my bedroom, where he’s been hitting me with decent pep talk the past half hour. He only told me to think with my dick once. Improvement.

  Dylan circles me while scratching his chin. “I sign off on this look.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait, I want a photo of you two,” Ma says as she runs into the kitchen.

  “Why both of them?” Pa asks. “Dylan isn’t his date.”

  Ma returns with her phone. “His best friend came all the way from home.”

  “Five blocks,” Pa says.

  “It’s Ben’s first date. This is an Instagram moment.” Ma’s Instagram profile is classic Ma. She heavily filters photos of meals and selfies. She’s a total abuser of hashtags. #It #Is #Really #Hard #To #Read #Entire #Captions #Like #This. She noticed when I stopped following her.

  “It’s not my first date,” I say. If you scroll back six months, Ma still has the photo of my first date with Hudson. We had gone to a comedy show that was uncomfortably homophobic. Hudson pulling me into our first kiss was the perfect middle finger to that comedian. And just perfect.

  Ma stares me down. “You can keep correcting me or you can take the photo and leave.”

  “Fine.”

  Dylan stands in front of me, wrapping my arms around him prom-style. I smile and roll with it.

  “Perfect.” Ma takes her photo. “Thank you!” She kisses both of us on the cheek, sits down on the kitchen stool, and gets to work on her magical caption.

  “Have fun, weirdos.” Pa sneaks me some extra cash the way a drug dealer hands off a dime bag. He kisses me on the forehead and hugs Dylan. “Ben, home by ten thirty. Dylan, home whenever the hell you want, you don’t live here.”

  “Yet.” Dylan winks on his way out.

  I close the door behind us.

  I’m speed-strolling to the subway instead of speed-walking because sweating through my shirt will not be a good look. We get to the station, swipe our way through, and I stand at the yellow edge of the platform to see if the L train is approaching. It’s not. I’ll be ten minutes late, that’s fine. Fifteen tops. Still not bad for me—there were times when I was thirty minutes late with Hudson. Puerto Rican time is a joke, but it’s also a real thing with Team Alejo. I wouldn’t have racked up as many detention slips for lateness if it wasn’t. For Thanksgiving, Títi Magda always tells the family to show up at two knowing we won’t get there until four, which is the actual time th
e kitchen will be ready. It’ll be fine.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to hang around and observe the date?” Dylan asks. “Good ol’ Digby Whitaker has no problem skipping his movie.”

  “I will strangle Digby with arcade tickets if he shows his face.”

  “Hot.”

  We’re going uptown to Times Square. Dylan is going to see some horror movie while I hit up Dave & Buster’s with Arthur. The L train arrives and we ride it to Union Square. We switch to the N train, which is waiting on the platform for passengers transferring.

  “So,” Dylan says. “A lot of pressure tonight, huh?”

  “Literally the last thing I want to hear before a date. Before anything.”

  “I’m just saying. You guys have this epic beginning.”

  “I know that, but . . . I’m trying to be somewhat realistic here.”

  It’s weird how six days ago I met Arthur at a post office and the universe reached out with both arms to pull us together. Still, I never move at this speed. Hudson and I were friends for months before he charmed me into taking it to a different level with him.

  But Arthur? I barely know him. I guess that’s any relationship. You start with nothing and maybe end with everything.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Arthur

  We’re minutes away from showtime, and I’m kind of freaking out.

  How do people even do this? It’s not like I’m the first almost-seventeen-year-old to go on a date. People date in Georgia. But back home, that means someone paying for your Zaxby’s, not Saturday night at Times fucking Square.

  “You look great.” Dad catches my eye in the mirror. “Untuck your shirt.”

  “It’s supposed to be like this.”

  “Mmm. I don’t think so.”

  I peer at my reflection. I don’t know what to think. I’m wearing a blue plaid button-down shirt, half tucked in like a J.Crew model. Like a really short J.Crew model. I’m wearing a belt, too, and I ironed my jeans. It’s highly possible that this is the best I’ve ever looked. Either that or the douchiest. It could go either way.

  Dad sniffs. “Are you wearing perfume?”

  “It’s cologne.”

  “Wow. Art. So this is fancy.”

  “No! I mean. I don’t know.” I press my hair down, and it springs back up immediately. I have that messy brown Jew hair, just like my parents. I should dig up some gel. I could go full Draco Malfoy.

  “You might want to tone it down a little, don’t you think?”

  “Dad. It’s a first date.”

  “Yes. Which is why you should probably tone it down.”

  “No. Okay. I don’t think you . . .” I trail off, suddenly realizing I forgot to buy breath mints. And I’m not talking Tic Tacs. I need the hard stuff. I need Altoids. I’ve already brushed my teeth six times, gargled mouthwash, and googled How do you know if you have old-man breath. Seriously, what if he kisses me, and it’s like kissing Uncle Milton? What if my first kiss and last kiss are the SAME KISS? I need a guidebook for this. I need a fairy godmother.

  “So where is he taking you?” Dad asks.

  “I have no idea.”

  I mean, I have theories. Not that I’ve given this a lot of thought or anything. Not that I was up all night mapping it out in my head. But okay. We’re meeting in Times Square, which is the most iconic New York spot ever, so he’s clearly going for that big-city, big-date vibe. It’s probably too early in the relationship for a Broadway show, even with a TKTS booth discount, but I could see us doing Madame Tussauds. I would love that. We’d take tons of pictures, in case we ever need to trick people into thinking we know famous people. First kiss would happen next to my birthday twin and forever president, Barack Obama. Or maybe Ben’s going for more of a classic rom-com feel, like a trip to the top of the Empire State Building. I’d be cool with that. More than cool.

  There’s a twist of a key, and our front door creaks open. “Anyone home?”

  “In Arthur’s room,” calls Dad.

  “Oh wow,” Mom says, appearing in my doorway. “All dressed up for your big date.”

  “Oh.” I blush to my hairline. “It’s not . . .”

  “You look great, sweetie. Tuck in your shirt.”

  “Or untuck it,” Dad says.

  “He’s going on a date, not bingeing Simpsons reruns.”

  “Yeah, but he’s already wearing a collared shirt and cologne.”

  Mom looks pointedly at Dad’s sweatpants. “Right, God forbid he make an effort—”

  “Welp. Gotta go,” I say loudly. I’m out the door so quickly, it’s like I’m breaking out of prison. I’m flushed and practically buzzing with nerves. I don’t think I actually breathe until I step onto the sidewalk.

  I peek at my phone. No texts from Ben. But that’s good. It means he hasn’t canceled.

  It means I’m walking to the subway. It means I’m riding to Times Square.

  It means it’s seven thirty on a Saturday night, and I’m four stops away from the first act of my love story.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ben

  It’s 8:11 when we reach the stop. Dylan wishes me good luck with my future husband as I race half a block down to the main entrance of the Times Square train station. It’s a Saturday night in summer, so this block is a nexus of tourists plus New Yorkers who made poor life choices that landed them here. There are police officers and men dressed as the Avengers standing underneath the giant subway sign that’s lit up like the billboards for Broadway shows, American Eagle Outfitters, and more. And there’s Arthur, half the size of the dude dressed up as Captain America. His shirt is half tucked in and he’s staring at his phone, sneaking looks around every two seconds. He’s looking for me.

  “Hey,” I call.

  Arthur almost drops his phone. “Hey,” he says. Blushing. Startled, I guess.

  I go in for a handshake and he’s coming in for a hug. “Oh. Sorry.” I go in for the hug this time and he extends his hand and almost grazes the Ben Juniors. I grab his forearm before he can pull away and shake his hand. Great start. He smells nice, at least. Cologne. I didn’t even shampoo.

  “Thought you were ghosting for a second,” Arthur says.

  “Yeah, sorry. I’m usually right on time or super late. I thought I had it under control tonight though,” I say. Ten minutes is nothing compared to how late I’ve been in the past.

  “I thought I was going to have to put up another poster to find you,” Arthur says. He cringes and shrugs, which scores a smile out of me. “So where are we going?” He talks a lot, which I’m fine with, and he’s not good at maintaining eye contact, which sucks because I want to stare at his electric blue eyes. Punch me in the face if I ever compare them to the sky or the ocean, because they’re much cooler than that.

  “Just right up here,” I say. A vendor on the corner is selling water bottles, candy, and newspapers, and I stop real fast to get Skittles since they double as an appetizer and breath mint. “I’m still feeling burned after green apple was replaced by lime.”

  “She was still sexy though.”

  “What?”

  “The green Skittle. I’ve got some really gay DNA, but even I get it. She was strutting around in all those commercials and getting the red and yellow Skittles all riled up.”

  “You’re talking about M&M’s.”

  “Oh.” Arthur blushes.

  “The green one riled you up?”

  “Not really. But she was sexy in that cartoon way. Like how you know Bugs Bunny or Puss in Boots are probably respectable in bed.”

  “I’ve never given thought to Bugs Bunny or Puss in Boots having sex . . . And now I’m thinking about them having sex with each other . . .”

  Arthur bites his lip and shrugs. “Sorry for bringing up sexy cartoons in the first five minutes of our date,” he says. “It’s obvious I’ve never done this before, right?”

  “Had a conversation?”

  “Been on a date.” More blushing, like he’s going for a
world record.

  I really had no clue until he outed himself. It’s not weird, but the pressure keeps on building. “You shouldn’t feel bad for bringing up sexy cartoons. My best friend, Dylan, once sent me a link to some Harry Potter porn. You can never read those books the same after you’ve seen Hermione, Harry, and Ron in a potions lab shouting Erectus Penis.”

  Arthur’s laugh is way different from Hudson’s. Hudson’s was harsher and always sounded exaggerated, even when it was real. Arthur’s laugh is higher and louder, and I don’t know much about him, but I have no doubts his laugh is legit. And I really like the sound of it.

  We walk past Ripley’s Believe It or Not! and Madame Tussauds, a tourist trap with wax models of celebrities that people take selfies with and share on Facebook. No New Yorker is ever impressed.

  Arthur looks excited until we walk past.

  Next door is Dave & Buster’s. “Here we are.”

  “The arcade?”

  “Every dude’s wet dream,” I say. “You been?”

  “I’ve gone a couple times back home.”

  “Awesome. I could use some competition.”

  I lead us up the two sets of escalators.

  I buy my card with game credits and he gets his own. I would buy his too, but, you know. Probably better to establish money stuff from the beginning anyway. In a heterosexual relationship, it’s pretty clear who’s expected to be the gentleman. . . . It’s the gentleman. Things are hazy when you’ve got two gentlemen. The only person I feel comfortable paying for me outside my family is Dylan, but that’s because I know he’ll be in my life forever and I’ll pay him back if I ever hit it big. Hudson wasn’t a guarantee. Neither is Arthur.

  There are a lot of fluorescent lights when you enter. A photo booth where Hudson and I kissed behind the curtains and made stupid faces. The bar where we casually ordered cocktails with all the confidence in the world that we weren’t going to get carded. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought Arthur here, but all the places where I know how to have fun all have memories of Hudson days. If things work with Arthur, we can make this place our own this summer.

  It’s pretty packed, but there are some free games open. “What should we do first?”