What If It's Us

by Becky Albertalli

  “Oh, I’m so sorry I ruined your moment by coming out. How inconvenient for you.”

  “Dude, we didn’t want to ruin your moment.”

  I stare Ethan down. “And since when do you care about my moment?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Hmm, you’ve been weird around me since, let’s see, literally the second I told you I was gay.”

  His mouth falls open. “You think I’m not cool with you being gay?”

  “So, what, it’s just a coincidence that you haven’t texted me once outside the group chain since prom night? Do you even realize that?” I feel my eyes start to prickle. “We can’t even text without Jessie there to chaperone. But sure, you’re totally cool with it.”

  Ethan looks like I’ve punched him. “I am totally cool with it.”

  “Yeah, well that’s not—”

  “Arthur, we knew you were gay.”

  My heart jumps into my throat. “What?”

  “I mean, we didn’t know, but we figured. You’re not really subtle . . . about anything.”

  “So, wait. You knew I was gay, but you pretended you didn’t—”

  “Art, it wasn’t like that,” Jessie says. “We just wanted you to be able to come out when you were ready.”

  “And you were just going to act surprised when I told you. That was the plan, huh?”

  “No. Not at all—”

  “I love that y’all had, like, a whole strategy for this. That’s just great.” I nod. “That must have been very interesting for you guys to talk about behind my back. In between makeouts. Wow. Any more secrets you’d like to fill me in on?”

  “Arthur! God. I knew you were going to make this awkward.”

  “Oh, I’m the one making it awkward? You guys have been dating! All summer!”

  “I know. And we tried—”

  “Listen, I’m not weird about you being gay,” Ethan says suddenly. He presses a hand to his forehead. “I’m weird about Jess. Okay? This is new for me, too. I don’t know how to do this. It’s like, I wanted to tell you everything, the way you do about Ben—”

  “Wow.” I laugh harshly. “I guess it’s your lucky day, then, because guess who I never want to talk about ever—”

  “No. Arthur.” Ethan looks pained. “That’s not what I meant. Okay. This isn’t—look, I know our timing sucks, but now you know, and I guess that’s . . . that. And I’m sorry. But dude, I just need you to know that I don’t have any issues with you. I never have. It’s just that we were trying to find the right way to tell you, and we wanted to do it together, and then it dragged on for so long, it started to feel like I was lying to you. And I hate that.”

  “I mean. You were lying to me. For months.”

  Ethan frowns. “But it’s kind of like how you didn’t want to tell us you were gay—”

  “Oh, don’t you dare.” I practically spit. “Don’t you fucking dare compare this to coming out. That is not the same thing, and you know it.”

  “We know!” Jessie’s eyes brim with tears. “Arthur, I’m sorry, okay? You’re right. You’re totally right.”

  For a moment, we just stare one another down. Ethan, Jessie, and me.

  “I don’t know,” Jessie says finally. “I guess I thought you’d be happy for us.”

  “I am!”

  “And I know this was a shitty time to drop this bomb, because clearly something just happened with—”

  “I don’t want to talk about Ben.”

  “That’s fine! Art, that’s fine.”

  “And I think you guys should go.”

  “Are you—”

  “Hanging up now.” It comes out choked.

  Then I hug my messenger bag to my chest and cry until my face hurts.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Ben

  Tuesday, July 31

  The only person who should be upset on Harry Potter’s birthday is Lord Voldemort. But here I am, staring at a wall while Sorcerer’s Stone is on, pretty pissed off. While I was failing a quiz this morning, Samantha went over to Dylan’s early “to help set up.” I thought I was going to walk into Dylan’s apartment with Hogwarts banners hanging from the walls. Maybe some bowls with color-coded candy for each house. At the very least, streamers from wall to wall. But Dylan’s place is just as Dylan’s as ever before. The only difference is the freshly made Butterbeer in the fridge, the Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans in a cereal bowl, and our T-shirts.

  Butterbeer doesn’t take six hours to make.

  They probably had sex, napped, and had sex again.

  “Controversial opinion incoming,” Dylan says. He takes a sip from the Butterbeer, getting more foam on his beard. Pretty sure he’s doing it on purpose in the hopes Samantha will lick it off, but her self-respect keeps getting in the way. “Michael Gambon is the better Dumbledore.”

  “Wrong. So wrong,” Samantha says. “Richard Harris was perfectly cast. Pure Dumbledore. Demeanor, appearance, delivery, everything.”

  Dylan raises a skeptical eyebrow. “The court rules that you can only have an opinion on Harry Potter casting if you’ve been a fan longer than a year.”

  “I may be late to this world, but I will still out-Harry-Potter you,” Samantha says. She grabs the bowl of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. “I propose a Triwizard Trivia Tournament. If you get a question right, you choose your own bean. If you get it wrong, someone chooses for you.”

  I play along even though my heart’s not really in it. If I could ace chemistry questions the way I’m slaying this Harry Potter trivia, I would’ve never been in this mess with Arthur because I wouldn’t have been stuck in summer school with Hudson in the first place. Where the fuck is a Time-Turner when you need one? I would go back in time and never date Hudson. Maybe not even be his friend at all knowing that’s where it started. But then I wouldn’t have been at the post office with the breakup box to meet Arthur. Not like that has a happy ending either.

  Dylan gags on a vomit-flavored bean as I watch the movie. Ron’s pet rat, Scabbers, comes on the screen, and I think about Arthur singing “Ben” during karaoke. Things weren’t easy then, but they were simpler. Sorry was enough to keep it moving. But now Arthur has unfollowed me on Instagram and probably enlisted Namrata and Juliet on putting together restraining orders.

  “I’m seriously the worst,” I say. I take a swig of the Butterbeer, which we’d planned on spiking with rum thinking Dylan’s very Irish parents wouldn’t care, but all bets were off on that because they don’t want Samantha buzzed on the way home. “I ruined everything. Something good with Arthur. How much he loves New York. He’ll probably never want to come back, and . . . I really wanted him to want to come back.”

  Samantha puts down a bean and sits in front of me. “You’ve done everything you can right now. He might just need some more time.”

  “I haven’t gone to his house,” I say. “Or job.”

  “Let’s not do that.”

  “Why not? No one invited him to my school.”

  “No, but you were dating,” Samantha says.

  I can’t believe how quickly everything has gone with Arthur—strangers to boyfriends to exes. We wouldn’t be exes if Arthur hadn’t tried to surprise me. But that’s who he is. Someone who goes the extra step. Someone who puts up a poster to find a boy from a city he doesn’t live in even though he’s not here to stay.

  “I know it couldn’t last anyway,” I say.

  “He was only here for another week, right?” Dylan asks.

  “Yeah, but . . . nothing lasts. Me and Hudson didn’t last. Me and Arthur didn’t last. You and Harriett didn’t last. You guys won’t last. Nothing lasts.”

  “Um.” Dylan gestures at himself and Samantha. “No need to bring us into this, Bennison.”

  “D, I’m just saying. We all talk a big game like the universe is actually setting us up for something epic, and then everything ends. If we were all just a little more realistic, we wouldn’t keep losing people.”
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br />   Samantha stands. “I’m going to, uh, get more Butterbeer.” She walks out of Dylan’s bedroom.

  “Dude. Big Ben. The fuck.”

  “What?”

  “You’re telling me my relationship with my girlfriend isn’t going to last . . . in front of my girlfriend. Like she wasn’t standing right there. Which she was.”

  “Yeah, but for how long is it going to last?”

  “Hopefully a long time.”

  “But probably not. You’re hyping up this relationship like last time, and you’re just going to disappoint Samantha like you did Harriett.”

  Dylan pauses Sorcerer’s Stone, which, wow, dude never pauses a game, but he’s pausing a movie we’ve seen over a dozen times. “It’s different with Samantha. She’s—”

  “What, she’s special? Yeah, well, I know some other girls who were special. Gabriella and Heather and Natalia and Zoe and Harriett. That’s your pattern. You make your jokes about it being meant to be and you move on. You have no idea what I’m going through right now.”

  Samantha comes back and grabs her phone off the desk. “I’m going to head out.”

  “Nope. I’m out,” I say, getting up.

  “Good. Maybe you can go act like you’re the victim with someone who doesn’t know better,” Dylan says. “You’re the one who broke Arthur’s heart, Ben. And ended things with Hudson. Never the other way around. You get to be hurt, but don’t play dumb like you’re any better than me.”

  “That’s me. Stupid Summer School Ben.”

  “What?”

  “Whatever. I don’t want to be here.” I lock eyes with Dylan. “You don’t need your best friend when you’ve got your future wife around, so I’ll just talk to you again in a couple weeks when this is over.”

  “No idea where my best friend has gone, but I’m definitely glad the dickhead who looks like him is leaving,” Dylan says. He takes Samantha’s hand and turns his back on me.

  I rush out and wow. I have pushed everyone out of my life. Not pushed. Shoved. No Samantha. No Dylan. No Arthur.

  But maybe I don’t have to be alone.

  I know I’m not supposed to go see him. That’s common sense. But I’m not ready to go home. I get to his building and I text him that I’m downstairs and I really hope he’s here.

  Down in a sec, he says immediately.

  And yup, Hudson is in the lobby pretty quickly. He tried talking to me at school this morning, but I pushed him away because he’s the reason I’m in this mess in the first place. Nope, I am. Dylan is right. We’re both heartbreakers, he’s just playing dumb. Dylan and I will be friends again in no time and he’ll say I told you so and I’ll say You did and he’ll say More sexy time for us now that we’re single again and we’ll be all good.

  But right now, I look around to make sure Arthur doesn’t pop up somewhere, and when I don’t see him, I hug Hudson and I cry so damn hard.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Arthur

  Wednesday, August 1

  How’s this for pathetic: me in pajama pants and a questionably clean T-shirt from Mom’s law firm picnic, smeared in Cheeto dust, on the couch watching YouTube videos of Pokémon dancing to Kesha songs. I’ve reached the summit of Suck Mountain. Peak Suck. Suck Everest. Watch me take suck to new and exciting elevations.

  The good news is that Charizard can really fucking dance.

  But wow. I haven’t had an actual conversation in days. Dad’s in Atlanta for a job interview, and Mom’s been working late every single day. And of course, I’m “out sick” again. Hopefully forever. It doesn’t even feel like a lie at this point.

  Mom walks in around eight, perching beside me on the arm of the couch. “Honey, how are you feeling?”

  I force a cough, but it morphs into a choke halfway through.

  “So . . . not good?”

  “Not good,” I confirm.

  She presses a hand to my forehead. “No fever, though. We’ll keep an eye on it.” She smooths my hair. “You going to be okay this weekend? I hate leaving you alone on your birthday.”

  “It’s fine.”

  I mean, here’s the thing: my birthday’s Saturday. Mom’s driving upstate tomorrow morning for a bunch of depositions and meetings. She’s not coming back until Monday, and Dad’s not back until Monday either, so I’ll be spending my seventeenth birthday alone in Uncle Milton’s apartment. Of course, the worst part is knowing it could have been the most epic birthday ever. This could have been a fucking honeymoon weekend with Ben. No parents. Apartment wide open. Just me and thirty-six condoms and my beautiful sweet boyfriend. Otherwise known as my asshole ex-boyfriend.

  “I’m giving Namrata and Juliet your number, okay? I’ll have them check in on you.”

  I shrug.

  We’re both silent. Mom clears her throat. “So, do you want to talk about—”

  “Nope.”

  I mean, what would I even say? Too bad I won’t be losing my virginity while you’re gone, Mom, because Ben broke my fucking heart, and now I’m single and alone. Here, have six boxes of condoms. I’ll literally never need them.

  “Well, if you change your mind . . . ,” she says, pursing her lips. Here we go. “I don’t know, Arthur. Your dad and I are just so worried about you—”

  “Okay, you don’t have to do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “The whole parental unity game. Your dad and I. Come on.”

  “Sweetie, I—”

  “You know what’s awesome? The way everyone—every single one of you—just walks around lying to me. All the time. Because, oh, it’s Arthur, and he can’t handle our scary big secrets.” I thrust my palms up. “You guys want to get a divorce? Fine. Just fucking tell me.”

  Mom’s mouth falls open. “Divorce?”

  “Come on.”

  “Arthur, what? Your dad and I are fine.”

  “You’re not fine.”

  She peers at me strangely. “How long have you been stressing about this?”

  “Since forever! You’ve been fighting nonstop all summer.”

  “Sweetie, no. It’s just been kind of a tough time, with your dad being out of work and—”

  “Oh, believe me, I’m up-to-date. You need to learn how to have quieter fights.”

  It’s like someone sucked all the air from the room. I stare at my hands. I swear I can hear my heartbeat.

  “Okay, why don’t we call your dad?”

  “Right now?” I groan, covering my face.

  She presses the phone to her ear and stands, murmuring something under her breath, but I don’t even try to eavesdrop. I’m tired of caring about this. I’m tired of trying. That’s what I need to do: stop giving a shit and stop trying. Just like my parents stopped trying with each other.

  Just like Ben stopped trying with me.

  Ben, who texted me once. Literally once. And there you have it. That’s how hard he was willing to fight for me. But why would he fight? Why would he fight for a boy who’s moving back to Georgia when he’s had Hudson sitting two feet away from him all summer? And yeah, I know he can’t control that. But he lied about it. Every single day. Every word he’s ever said. He never even mailed the box.

  Mom steps back into the living room and hands me her phone. “Here’s Dad. He’s on speaker.”

  “Hi,” I say flatly.

  “So, who told you we’re getting divorced?”

  He sounds amused, which is annoying.

  “Uh, well, seeing as you can’t even go five minutes without being assholes to each other, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist—”

  “Wow.” Mom sits back down on the couch and hooks her arm around me. “Don’t hold back.”

  Dad laughs. “Kiddo, we’re not getting divorced.”

  “You can tell me! Just be honest.”

  “We are being honest!” Mom shakes her head. “Arthur, we’ve always argued. That’s just us. We’re not perfect. Relationships are messy. You and Ben haven’t been a hundred percent smooth sailing—”


  “This isn’t about Ben!”

  “Art, I’m just saying, things get stressful. You mess up, you say the wrong thing, you get on each other’s nerves—”

  “But you guys are married. You should have your shit together.”

  Mom does this choked little laugh—and when I glance up at her, she’s grinning full force at Dad’s name on the phone screen. So, that’s a little disorienting—it’s like catching Valjean and Javert holding hands. But maybe my parents really are a Saturday-night-on-the-sofa kind of couple. And an arguing-over-stupid-shit kind of couple. Maybe they’re both.

  “So you’re just a regular mess,” I say finally. “Not a pending-divorce mess?”

  “Regular hot mess. Standard-issue,” says Dad.

  Mom hugs me sideways. “Maybe you should give your hot mess another chance to explain himself?”

  “Psh. That’s different.”

  “Oh, Arthur. If you say so.”

  Maybe the universe doesn’t hate all of Team Seuss, but it definitely hates me.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ben

  Hanging out with Hudson and Harriett has felt pretty easy. It’s sort of like when I put away my winter boots because it was spring again and I got to slip back into last year’s sneakers; I grew a little bit, but they still fit. We’ve been catching up and filling in the blanks on everything that’s been going on since Hudson and I split, though we’re not bringing up our breakup at all. Even last night when I went over to Hudson’s, he was just listening to me whine about Arthur and Dylan. He’s being the friend he used to be.

  “I’m living for Mr. Hayes’s Instagram,” Harriett says as we step out of the frozen yogurt store, a smoothie in one hand and her phone in the other.

  “I didn’t know he has one.”

  “When you have a face like Mr. Hayes’s, your Instagram magically appears.”

  On a bench with Harriett in the middle, we lean in as she scrolls through Mr. Hayes’s Instagram profile. I expected rows and rows of shirtless selfies, and while some definitely exist, everything else is motivational, like removing the clutter in your home and living minimalistically and balanced breakfasts and this mega cheeseburger he conquered in Germany.