“Do you miss working?” Ma asks.
“So much. The first week I got to watch a lot of Netflix, but that’s satisfying, not fulfilling. I’ve done a dozen consultations and not been hired yet, and it’s really taking a toll on me—on us.” He gestures to Arthur and Mrs. Seuss. “But we’re hanging tight.”
“The coquito will make you feel better,” Pa says. “Embarrassing the boys might help too, right?”
“Yes, please,” Mr. Seuss says.
“No,” Arthur and I say at the same time.
Our parents trade stories about what we were like as kids. I thought I was in the clear with secrets because Arthur knows I’m in summer school now, but I wasn’t prepared for him to learn about ten-year-old Ben and Dylan acting like we were on a reality show called Being Bad Boys without realizing how sexual that sounded. And Arthur sinks into his chair while everyone, myself included, bursts into laughter because of how often he used to take selfies with mannequins on his dad’s phone while they shopped for school clothes.
“I have another one,” Mrs. Seuss says.
“No you don’t,” Arthur says. “You’re fresh out of stories.”
“A few months ago, when Arthur found out we’d be spending the summer in New York, Michael and I came home early from a friend’s birthday party and Arthur was—”
“Mom!” Arthur shouts.
“—watching a YouTube video of a Dear Evan Hansen song and belting along while dancing.”
“It was magnificent,” Mr. Seuss says.
I don’t laugh this time because Arthur seems a little upset.
I stand. “Arthur, let’s go to my room. I can show you the cover I drew for my book.”
Arthur practically knocks into his dad getting out of his seat. “Yes, please.”
“But wait, we’re still eating,” Ma says.
“Food isn’t going anywhere,” I say, taking Arthur’s hand. “We’ll be back.”
“Keep the door open!” Mr. Seuss shouts.
We go to my bedroom with flushed faces.
Like we’re going to lock the door and get wild in here with them outside.
Except when we enter my room, I lead Arthur out of sight and I kiss him with this howling hunger that’s demanding more time with him each passing day.
I take a breath. “You okay?”
“Better now. I just don’t like being teased about Broadway. The videos keep me going. I saw two shows last month, but they weren’t my top shows.” His eyes widen. “Oh. That’s shitty to say. That my Broadway shows weren’t good enough. I was lucky to go to any. I just keep entering the lottery for Hamilton and Dear Evan Hansen, but no luck.”
“There’s still time,” I say. “And it could’ve been worse out there.”
“True.”
Arthur looks around the room. He walks over to my desk. “So this is where the future bestselling and global phenomenon The Wicked Wizard War gets written. Where’s the book cover?”
I reach into my drawer and pull out a purple folder where I drew some of the little monsters in the story. And I pull out the book cover. It looks like a Harry Potter cover except there’s a Ben-looking wizard in the center and he’s hiding behind a demolished wall as evil wizards search for him. It is not good at all, and even Arthur laughs.
He looks around at the rest of the room. I put Hudson’s breakup box in my parents’ closet a couple hours ago. I should just get rid of it. I don’t like hiding anything from Arthur. But it’s just like the old posts on Instagram that I can’t get myself to just delete. Like Hudson never happened. Like he’s someone to be ashamed of. And throwing away the good memories feels like a slap in the face to our history. It has nothing to do with the future.
I don’t know.
“I really like your room,” Arthur says. “This entire apartment. I hope this doesn’t come off as wrong, but I really love it because it feels more like home than my own house does. Everything here feels like it matters. If something broke or got lost, you would notice. So many things in my house feel so replaceable.”
“Maybe you just don’t know why some of it matters?”
“Maybe. I need to get better at asking questions.” Arthur sits on my bed.
I sit beside him and I think about sex because that’s what happens when your beautiful boyfriend is in bed with you. If we make a move to have sex while he’s still in New York, it’s going to be his first time. That’s wild pressure. I want to prove myself to him so that no matter what happens between us, he won’t ever look back at me and regret our choice. Like how I don’t regret Hudson and me losing our virginity together and I hope he doesn’t either. People change and he did and I did too, but who we were when we had sex still feels right to me. I hope I always feel right to Arthur.
I lean in to kiss him when my mom calls for us.
“We’re done talking about you! Come finish your dinner.”
I squeeze his hand and we go back out there.
The rest of dinner is painless. We’re all laughing together, not at one another. The only thing that could’ve made the night a little extra perfect is if Dylan, and yeah, Samantha too, were here. I hate that I’ll have to recount the night to Dylan and that I won’t be able to do it justice. That I’ll forget some jokes that had us all laughing so hard. But I guess that’s just the cycle that comes with dating—time spent with best friends is minimized and you get this whole new life they’re not always a part of.
Arthur and I help clear the table as my dad brings out the cookies Team Seuss brought over. The cookies are huge—like, it looks like someone put four globs of cookie dough too close to one another on the tray and a mega cookie happened. Two are double chocolate chip, two are oatmeal raisin, two are chocolate-chip walnut.
“Thanks so much for bringing these over,” Pa says. He offers the box to Arthur.
“You get first dibs for hosting us,” Arthur says.
“Kiss-ass,” Mr. Seuss says with a smile.
Pa grabs one double-chocolate-chip cookie and Arthur watches him take a bite with this wide-eyed look, like my dad just took Arthur’s car for a joyride and crashed it. Ma grabs the other double chocolate chip because she’s never been big on anything with nuts or raisins. Arthur stares at her like she just got the last available ticket in the world for Hamilton.
Smart money is on Arthur wanting one of those cookies.
“This is so good,” Ma says.
Arthur grabs the chocolate-chip walnut cookie and picks out the walnuts before eating it.
Mr. Seuss takes a bite out of the oatmeal raisin cookie. “I probably won’t wait twenty minutes for a cookie again, but I’m glad we did it.”
We talk a little more before calling it a night. As Arthur hugs my parents, I can’t believe this is all happening. Whenever Hudson came over for dinner, he would just shake their hands like they were my bosses and not my parents. But it’s also really awesome seeing our dads hug and Pa telling Mr. Seuss that they have to come back over soon since they never got around to drinking the wine they brought over. Mrs. Seuss trades numbers with Ma, and wow, if I ever write my mom back into TWWW, I’ll have to include her enchantress BFF Mara.
Arthur and I kiss very quickly while everyone is saying bye and Team Seuss thanks us one last time before leaving.
“That was so fun,” Ma says. “Arthur is wonderful. Adorable. Great manners. I really like him. The whole family.”
“Me too.”
“What’s going to happen when he goes home?” Pa asks.
I shrug. This question sucks. “I’m just getting to know him while he’s here.”
I think about the way Arthur smiled so hard during dinner when he thought no one was watching him and what I could do to win as many smiles out of him as possible.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Arthur
Monday, July 23
“I leave the room for five minutes,” Namrata says, “and now you’re standing on a fucking chair.”
“I’m taking a sens
ory motor break.” I press my fist to my chest. “Oh Benny booooooooy . . . the pipes, the pipes are calling.”
Juliet glances up from her laptop. “I’m just glad he stopped singing ‘Ben’s Body Is a Wonderland.’”
“Anyway, big announcement time,” says Namrata. “Guess who’s dropping out of school and moving in with their parents.”
I gasp. “You?”
Namrata snorts. “No, dumbass. David’s roommates.”
“The dino porn guys?”
“Their Kickstarter got funded, so they’re taking the year to work on Jurassion Passion. And apparently 714 people are willing to pay for that quality content, so.” She shrugs.
“Good for them!” I bump back down into my seat, sliding the chair back to the table. “Let’s throw a party.”
“You want to throw a party celebrating dinosaurotica?” Juliet asks.
“I’m in a good mood, okay?”
“We noticed,” says Namrata.
“Want to know why?”
“We know why. Starts with B, rhymes with ‘when,’ as in when are you going to start working on the Shumaker files?”
“Ten points to Ravenclaw!” I announce, holding my fist like a microphone. “But which Ben? Is it Affleck? Stiller? Carson? Nope, it’s BENJAMIN HUGO ALEJO. My . . . boyfriend.” I do a quick drumroll. “Also Ben Platt.”
“Great speech,” says Namrata.
Juliet peers at me for a moment, her chin in her hands. “It’s pretty wild, actually,” she says. “I can’t believe you pulled this off. You put up a poster for this guy, then you actually found him, and now you guys are boyfriends.”
“We are! We’ve even got the label. We’re doing some heavy labeling.”
“Jesus. And you’ve already met his parents,” Namrata says. “It’s been, what—two weeks?”
“Yup.” I beam.
“So what the fuck is next?”
I mean, the thing that’s so crazy is I don’t even know. I don’t know what comes next. Because Broadway tells me one thing, but Reddit tells me something very different. And no one’s advice seems to fit how I feel.
Nothing’s quite what I expected. I think I knew I’d feel giddy, but I didn’t know I’d feel so certain. I didn’t know it would feel like the whole world clicking into place. It’s weird, because even I know that two weeks are nothing. So why do two weeks with Ben feel so earth-shattering?
It’s scary how easy it is to picture a future with him. It’s scary how every minute, something new reminds me of him. New York in general reminds me of him.
As far as I’m concerned, Ben is New York.
And that’s terrifying.
Tuesday, July 24
Hi hello yes we still need to discuss the Complicated Thing!! You guys free?
Hellllooooooo Jess, helllooooo Ethan
JESSICA NOUR FRANKLIN ETHAN JON GERSON WHERE ARE YOOOOOU
Im alone in the group chat frowny face frowny face frowny face.
Y’all are in Target aren’t you, why does Target have the worst signal WTF
GET YOUR BUTTS OUT OF THE DOLLAR SECTION AND INTO MY TEXTS
Wednesday, July 25
By Wednesday, I’m a human fireball. The moment work ends, I launch out the door of the building, skidding to a stop next to Morrie, the doorman. Ben’s surprising me tonight. I don’t know where he’s taking me, but he’s been hyping it all week.
“Whoa there, Doctor,” Morrie says, blue eyes twinkling. “In a hurry?”
“Someone’s meeting me here.”
My boyfriend. My boyfriend my boyfriend my boyfriend.
Morrie steps away to open the door for someone, and I sneak a glance at my phone. Five fifteen, and nothing from Ben. I peer up the street, taking inventory of all the faces. I don’t even see him in the distance. I bite back a twinge of disappointment and shoot him a quick text.
A moment later: Sorry, running late! Be there in 5
He shows up at five thirty.
I just look at him. “I thought you might be dead.”
“No—sorry. Lost track of time.” He hugs me tightly. “Hey.”
And it’s the kind of contradiction that makes my brain hurt. On one hand, here’s Ben, late, yet again, and obnoxiously unperturbed about it. On the other hand, I don’t want him to stop hugging me, ever.
We set off for the subway. “So, where are you taking me?”
“Downtown.”
“Interesting.” I take in his outfit. He’s definitely dressier than usual. This may be the first time I’ve seen him in pants that aren’t denim.
He checks the clock on his phone.
“Are you worried about the time?” I ask. “Should we Lyft?”
“We’ll be fine.”
“I can pay for it,” I start to say, but the look on his face stops me in my tracks. “Or not. Subway’s probably faster anyway.”
But the subway isn’t faster. The subway is a shitshow. It’s literally one stop from Grand Central to Times Square, but the train never starts moving. They don’t even shut the doors. I turn to Ben after a moment. “Do trains sometimes just . . . forget to go?”
He taps his hand on the pole, mouth pressed tight. “I don’t know what’s happening.”
“Should we tell someone?”
“Tell who?”
“The Metropolitan Transportation Authority.”
That makes him smile. “I don’t think so.”
“I heard someone threw up,” says a lanky guy in glasses.
Ben checks his phone again.
“What does that mean?” I ask, but Ben doesn’t seem to hear me.
The lanky guy chimes in. “Well, they have to clean the whole car and sanitize everything. We might as well settle in.” He seems almost pleased about it. “We’re not going anywhere for a while.”
“We better walk,” says Ben. “Come on.”
I follow him out of the station and out to the street. “It’s not much farther. We’ll be there in ten.”
But ten minutes turns into fifteen, and that’s with him walking so fast, I’m practically jogging to keep up. He turns onto Broadway and then Forty-Sixth Street, and I open my mouth to ask where we’re going, but then I see it, all lit up in yellow-gold.
“Ben.” For a moment, I’m speechless. “You did not.”
He exhales, grinning. “Okay, so Lin-Manuel Miranda was running this lottery promo for—”
“For teens enrolled in New York Public Schools. I know. I know.”
Holy shit. This is happening. This is actually happening. My voice cracks. “You won?”
“I mean, I entered.” Ben shrugs. “I don’t know. I figured, even if we lose, we could still hang out.”
“I’m sorry, what?” My mouth falls open.
He smiles uncertainly. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I just . . . are you seriously implying that seeing Hamilton and quote-unquote ‘just hanging out’ are two equally good alternatives?”
“I feel like there’s an insult buried in there.” Ben laughs.
I don’t laugh.
“Anyway, I think they should have announced the winners by now. Let’s check with the box office.”
I nod, but I feel like crying. God, I actually let myself picture this happening. Just for a moment, but already the loss of it stings. No one ever wins the Hamilton lottery. I enter every single day. And yeah, maybe the odds are better on this promo thing, but I’ll never be that lucky. The universe doesn’t love me that much.
But I follow Ben inside the theater, where there’s an immaculately made-up blond woman at the will call window. “Hi. Excuse me,” Ben says, his voice an octave higher than normal. I’m sort of in love with how weird he is around adults. “So. Um. I entered a competition today for New York Public School students, and I don’t know if you’ve announced the winners yet, or if I need to check in somewhere else, or . . .” He trails off. “My name is Ben Alejo.”
“Benjamin Alejo?” The lady looks at him, eyebrows knitted. “Oh, hone
y. We just gave away your tickets.”
“W-what?” he stutters. “I won?”
My heart sinks into my stomach.
“Two front-row tickets, but they had to be claimed by six p.m. I wish you’d called in.”
Ben shakes his head wordlessly.
“I’m so sorry. I can enter you in the lottery for tomorrow if you’d like.”
“Um. Sure. Thank you.” His voice is almost a whisper.
But by the time we’re back outside, he’s raging. “That’s ridiculous.” He stalks down the street, and I hustle to catch up. “When does the show start? Eight? There’s over an hour. They could have called me.”
“Are you joking?”
“They had my number on the form.”
I want to scream. Or tear something down. I have that tornado feeling in my stomach. “Do you have any idea how many people would kill for the tickets you just lost? Front-row seats?” My voice breaks.
“Yeah, well, if they’re going to set an arbitrary time to claim—”
“It’s not an arbitrary time. That’s how this works. We were late.”
“Yeah, if the train hadn’t stopped—”
“If you’d been on time, we wouldn’t have been on that train.”
“Arthur, come on.”
“I’m just . . .” I exhale. “Like, do you even get that you just lost front-row Hamilton tickets?”
“I get it! God.” His voice is thick. “You have no idea how much I wanted this to work out. No idea. I wanted this so badly.”
“Yeah, well. Me too.”
“I know. Arthur. It’s Hamilton. I’m just—”
“It’s not just Hamilton, okay?”
“It’s not?” He looks at me helplessly.
“How do you not get this? God, Ben.” My chest feels so tight it could burst. “You’ve been late for every single date. Every single one.”
“I know. I’m—”
“And you know what? If you were excited about seeing me, that wouldn’t happen. It wouldn’t. It’s like you don’t even care.”
He looks at me like I’ve hit him. “I do care!”
“But not enough. You don’t care enough.” I stare at him, heart pounding. “Maybe I should care less.”
What If It's Us Page 18
