What If It's Us

by Becky Albertalli

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ben

  I don’t think I’ve ever been a bigger disappointment than right now.

  Boyfriends are supposed to be the ultimate hype men. The ones responsible for smiles and building each other up even when they’re down. They’re not supposed to be the reason someone is heartbroken in the first place. But I betrayed Arthur’s trust and I’m the cause behind his un-Arthur-like face. I held Arthur’s big Broadway dreams in my hands and crushed them.

  I had nothing but his heart in mind and the worst of me got in the way.

  “Arthur?”

  He’s standing there. Shaking. He hasn’t looked this pained since the night that asshole came for us on the train. Now I’m the asshole. I reach for his shoulder and he shrugs me off. He just sinks to the curb.

  I want to say I’m sorry, but I know he won’t hear it.

  He’s crying. This is not just about tickets. I’m a screwup and he thinks I’m not into him as much as he’s into me. I take out my phone and sit beside him.

  “Arthur? Can you look up for one sec? Please.”

  I pull up YouTube. I have to make this right now more than ever.

  I hand him one earbud and keep the other. I type Hamilton karaoke, and when “Alexander Hamilton” comes on, I sing along. I put myself out there the way Arthur did with “Ben.” I feel him watching me as I try keeping up with the lyrics, as I try not to focus on the various people walking by us as I make a mockery of the performance that will soon be happening right behind us. One minute in, Arthur doesn’t react. But then:

  “My name is Alexander Hamilton,” Arthur says. Lead role. Of course.

  We vibe along to the rest of the song, singing together—one of us significantly better and more carefree than the other. But he’s the only audience I’m caring about.

  When the song ends, I’m ready to apologize. But Arthur takes my phone and looks up a cover of “Only Us” from Dear Evan Hansen, and he comes closer to me as he sings the words “So what if it’s us, what if it’s us, and only us.” This song is so beautiful. What it feels like to be wanted by someone who sees you for who you are. How the world—the business of Times Square—can feel like it’s falling away when you’re with the right person. When it’s my turn to choose the next cover, I go for “Suddenly Seymour” from Little Shop of Horrors, a movie I saw with my parents a few years ago. He chooses “The Wizard and I” from Wicked. I step it up—I choose “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” from The Lion King. I wish I could read Arthur’s mind as he sways along. Arthur chooses “What I Did for Love” from A Chorus Line, and every song we choose feels like we’re having a conversation without saying a single word.

  “One more,” Arthur says.

  “We can stay here all night,” I say. “Though my phone only has twenty percent battery left.”

  He plays a high school chorus banging out to “My Shot,” and I wish I went to the kind of school that had talent shows so I could see something like this in person.

  Which only reminds me we should be inside the theater.

  “I’m so sorry, Arthur. I will never forgive myself. We should be seeing the real deal.”

  “I know this may sound like bullshit, but I loved this even more.”

  “Really?”

  “Ben, millions of people can say they were inside the Richard Rodgers Theatre and saw Hamilton. We’re the only ones who can say we sat on the curb and got so much of Broadway in one night.”

  “And you’re sure that’s better because—”

  Arthur shuts me up with a kiss.

  “Well played,” I say.

  We get up.

  “Seriously, I’m sorry—”

  Another kiss.

  “Okay. But I messed u—”

  Another kiss.

  “Let me say—”

  Another kiss.

  “You kissing me while I try to apologize is a good problem to have.”

  “Ben, I’m happy. That was amazing and romantic and perfect. You’re the King of Rebounds.”

  We go on into the heart of Times Square. Tons of foot traffic keeps splitting us up, but we always make our way back to each other, not letting strollers or group selfies keep us apart. When I get his hand next, I keep him close and I don’t want to let go.

  Not tonight.

  Not ever.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Arthur

  Friday, July 27

  Jessie texts me on the group chain as the train leaves Thirty-Third Street. You free now?

  Gah—on my way to Ben’s apartment. I’m sorry!!

  I frown at my phone, trying to ignore the guilty twinge in my chest. It’s been almost a week since I cut short our FaceTime, and we still haven’t found time for a do-over. Jessie still hasn’t told me her Complicated Thing.

  It’s like we’re spinning in opposite directions, like everything’s off-kilter. And I can’t explain why, but it feels like my fault. Even when it’s Ethan and Jessie who are busy. Even when they’re the ones not texting me back. I guess it’s just weird, being the first one in a relationship.

  No worries, Jessie writes. Are you gonna eggplant emoji, peach emoji, two dads with baby emoji?

  Are you asking if I’m going to conceive a child tonight?

  Pshh you know what I’m asking.

  And I know. Of course I know. I’m getting three and a half hours of alone time with Ben tonight, because Mrs. Ortiz from up the block (agent of God, champion wingwoman, all-time MVP) wants to play cards with Diego and Isabel. And yes, I’m aware of what can happen when you’re alone in an apartment with your very cute boyfriend. But I’m not letting myself build this up in my head. No expectations.

  “Next stop, First Avenue,” says the intercom.

  Almost there!!!!!! I text Ben.

  He writes back. Outside the station! Told you I wouldn’t be late. Smiley face. Also six exclamation points, is that a relationship milestone?

  It means we’re letting our punctuation balls hang out!!!!!! OKAY I’M HERE, coming up

  See you now!!!!!!, he writes back.

  And there he is, in his headphones and Iceman T-shirt, leaning against a fence outside the station. His face brightens when he sees me, which makes my stomach feel fizzy. All I want to do is kiss him on the lips. Just a hello kiss, nothing tongue-y. But I hug him instead and he breathes in my hair, and that’s pretty amazing, too.

  “It’s weird that you’re here.”

  “I was here five days ago,” I remind him.

  “But not here.” He gestures vaguely at the subway. “And our parents were there. It’s different.” His cheeks flush. And if I wasn’t thinking parent-free thoughts before, I’m definitely thinking them now.

  “I’ll carry your bag,” Ben says.

  “It’s pretty heavy.”

  “I’m pretty strong,” he says, smiling, so I smile back and let him take it. “Oof. What’s in here?”

  “Mostly my laptop.”

  Also six boxes of condoms. Not that I plan to have thirty-six rounds of sex. But if sex happens, I need options, including glow-in-the-dark options.

  We set off down the sidewalk. “So this is the East Village. I guess you probably came through here on Sunday.”

  “Well, our Lyft driver didn’t really give us the grand tour.”

  “Well then. You are totally not in luck.”

  “I’m not?”

  “Empty apartment. Cute boyfriend wearing cute work clothes.” He bites back a smile. “I’m probably not going to be the world’s most thorough tour guide.”

  “Understandable.” I grin back.

  But here’s the funny thing: he kind of is the world’s most thorough tour guide. He’s not exactly taking the long route, but he has a story for everything we pass. Like his school, which he calls his Real School, as opposed to summer school at Belleza High in Midtown. Or the beauty store where he and Dylan cut off chunks of their hair with nail scissors so they could hold them up against the boxes of dye
and finally know the truth of their own hair colors (Dylan: Chocolate Lava, Ben: Honey Brown). Or the bagel shop that sells cups of ice cream that you eat with tiny wooden paddles. Or how scared he got the day eight-year-old Dylan broke his arm and had a panic attack. I just soak it all in. I’ve never seen Ben so animated. I really love this side of him. I love seeing his neighborhood through his eyes, the way his memories occupy every block.

  “Now we’re in Alphabet City,” he says.

  “I can’t believe Alphabet City is a real thing. It sounds like it’s from Sesame Street.”

  Our hands keep brushing as we walk. “That show was almost named after my street,” he says, smiling. “They were going to call it 123 Avenue B.”

  “You live on Avenue B?”

  “And you’re staying in Apartment A. I think the universe is mocking us.”

  “Or high-fiving us,” I say, high-fiving him. Except even when the high five is over, we go on holding hands. Just for half a block, maybe.

  By the time we reach his building, my heart’s slamming all over my rib cage.

  There’s no doorman and no elevator, but there’s a big empty stairwell leading to an empty apartment. And as soon as the door shuts, he cups my face in his hands, tracing his thumbs along my cheekbones. But he doesn’t kiss me right away. He just looks at me, smiling faintly.

  “I have something to show you,” he says, sliding my bag off his shoulder.

  “What kind of something?”

  “Something awesome.”

  “Is it something I’ve seen before?”

  “I don’t know.” He smiles so sweetly, it makes my heart flip. “It’s in my room.”

  “Oh.”

  “So . . . should we . . .”

  “Sure. Yup. Yeah.”

  I follow him into his bedroom, which feels totally, unrecognizably different from Sunday in a way that I can only assume is due to sex vibes. I’m so nervous I’m almost shaking. I can’t wrap my head and my heart around this strange new possibility. This thing my brain’s been circling around for years. How could I ever have predicted the circumstances of this moment—this particular night, this particular place, this particular boy. I always thought it would feel larger than life, and it doesn’t, but I like that. It’s not a starlit field, but it’s better, because it’s Ben.

  “So.” He sits on his bed, and I settle in beside him. Then he strains sideways and slides his laptop off his nightstand. I watch as he cracks it open and scrolls through his applications. I have to admit, this is an unexpected part of the process. But maybe it’s porn. I think I’ve heard of people who do that—have sex with porn in the background. I don’t entirely see the point. It seems kind of like watching YouTube videos in a movie theater. But maybe this isn’t porn-related. Maybe this is The Wicked Wizard War–related, and he’s opening up a freshly written sex scene to inspire us. That I could get into.

  “Oh, here we go.” Ben scoots backward on the bed. We end up side by side, our backs pressed to the wall, and he tilts his laptop toward me.

  It’s . . . a computer game.

  “I made you a Sim,” he says shyly. “Look, that’s you.”

  And there I am, center screen, tousled dark hair and button-down and a bow tie. It’s actually somewhat creepy how much my avatar resembles me. I know a little bit about this game, mostly because Jessie loves it, but the level of detail catches me off guard. It’s not even just the clothing or the coloring. Sim Arthur has my facial features. I blink. “Why do I have a green diamond floating over my head?”

  “Have you never played this?” Ben asks. I shake my head. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Then this is going to be a big night for you.”

  I force a grin, but my mind is whirling. So this is it. We’re playing The Sims. This is Ben’s big night. He introduces me to his avatar, who basically looks like Ben in Harry Potter robes, and under normal circumstances I’d be super charmed by this, but all I can think about are those thirty-six condoms burning a hole in my messenger bag. It’s just hard to get excited about losing my Sim virginity when I was sure I was going to lose my actual virginity. But I guess that’s my own fault for coming in with expectations.

  But seriously, three and a half hours in his apartment with no parents, and this is how he wants to spend it? This is the only activity he could come up with to do in this bed?

  “We have a really pimping house,” he informs me. “Oh, and we live with Dylan.”

  “Of course we do.”

  I have to admit, our Sim house fucking rules. Ben’s not shy about using cheat codes for money, so we’ve got a huge indoor pool and a sunroom for parties. There’s a dragon sculpture in the foyer and a light-up dance floor in Dylan’s room, and also the entire backyard is an amusement park, with a roller coaster and a carousel and a Tunnel of Love.

  “For you and Dylan?” I ask.

  “We don’t let Dylan ride it anymore,” Ben says darkly.

  Ben walks us upstairs to our bedroom. OUR BEDROOM.

  “We share a room?”

  “Is that okay? This was actually mine and Dylan’s house, and I kind of . . . moved you into my room.”

  He looks nervous, which makes me brave enough to scoot closer to him. “Very okay,” I say, resting my head on his shoulder. “I like being your roommate.”

  He hooks his arm around my waist and kisses me softly on the forehead.

  And something shifts. We don’t log out of the game, but Ben slides the laptop back onto his pillow. Then—it’s hard to explain, but he pulls me on top of him, and we’re not exactly lying down, but we’re not exactly upright either. He slides his hands beneath my shirt, and the warmth of his palms on my back makes me giddy. I thread my hands into his hair and kiss him without thinking, and The Sims’ music and chatter fades into the background, not nearly as loud as the thud of Ben’s heartbeat.

  He draws back, breathing heavily. “Should we take this off?” He presses his thumb against one of my shirt buttons. He looks slightly terrified.

  “Do you want me to?”

  He nods quickly.

  “Okay.” I scoot a few inches sideways, so I’m slightly less on top of him. My heart’s beating so fast it’s practically buzzing. “FYI, it’s hard to unbutton buttons when your hands are shaking,” I say, and even though it’s not a joke, we both laugh. We’re both breathless.

  Ben grins up at me, his eyes landing first on my face, then my chest, then the wadded-up button-down in my lap. “Cute undershirt,” he says, catching its hem with his fingers. He meets my eyes, and I nod. And the next thing I know, we’re in our boxers, horizontal.

  “This okay?” he says softly, and I nod into the crook of his neck. He traces his fingertips along my back and my shoulders, and then he kisses me fiercely. I can’t get over how warm his skin feels against mine. I run my hands along his stomach, which makes him squirm.

  “Should I not—”

  “No, you’re good.” He exhales. We stare at each other, smiling.

  “So,” I say finally. “Do we want to try . . .”

  His eyes widen. “Do you?”

  “Maybe. Yeah.”

  “Okay. Yeah.” He hugs me closer. And for a moment, we stay just like that—chest to chest, cheek to cheek. And then, slowly, his fingers trail closer to my boxers, slipping under their waistband. “This still okay?”

  Holy shit. I laugh breathlessly. “Yup.”

  So this is actually happening. It’s happening. It’s happening, and my whole body knows it. His hand slides down another inch. I don’t think I’ll ever not be hard again. His eyes never leave mine. He looks nervous. And he holds me like I’m breakable.

  Another inch, and my heart leaps into my throat. Because how is this real? How is this possibly real? How is this the same me that woke up this morning in a bunk bed?

  “Still good?” Ben asks softly.

  I nod, but I’m strangely close to tears. I’m just—I don’t know. How is this happening? And how do
es this work? No, seriously, how does this specifically work? Who puts what parts where and in what order and when does the condom go on, and what about lube? I know fucking nothing about lube. And here’s Ben, peering at me sweetly, with those eyes and those freckles, and I guess he probably knows the mechanics, and I should probably warn him how much I’m going to suck at this. Unless he’s already figured it out. God. He probably already thinks this is a mistake, and I’m a mistake, and sex is a mistake, and also what even is sex? It’s so WEIRD. What a weird thing to want to do. Or maybe I’m the one who’s—

  “You okay?” Ben asks.

  “I’m freaking out.”

  “Oh.” His eyes widen. “Okay.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “No! Arthur.” He kisses me gently and opens his arms. “It’s fine, okay? Come here.”

  I tuck my head onto his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around me tightly.

  “I’m really sorry,” I whisper.

  “Don’t be sorry.” He kisses me again. “If you’re not ready, you’re not ready. That’s fine.”

  “I am, though! I thought I was.” I bury my face. “I just—I don’t know.”

  “So we try again another day. No big deal.”

  “We don’t have a lot of other days.”

  He rests his head on mine. “I know.”

  We’re quiet for a moment, just breathing.

  “Are you disappointed?” I ask.

  “No way. I’m just glad you’re here.”

  “Yeah, me too.” My throat feels thick. “God. Ben.”

  “Mmm?”

  “I really like you. It’s kind of scary.”

  He shifts back to look at my face. “Scary why?”

  “Well, for one thing, you make me not want to leave New York.”

  “I don’t want you to leave either,” he says.

  “Really?”

  He smiles. “You think I’m half-assing this?”

  “I don’t know.” I sigh. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to look like or feel like. I just know I really like you. This is serious for me.”

  “I feel serious about you too.”

  “Really?” I say again.

  “God, Arthur.” He kisses me. “Te quiero. Estoy enamorado. You don’t even know.”