What If It's Us
Page 17
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I stare at the screen. Six weeks of ignoring my texts, and now he’s FaceTiming me out of nowhere. Which isn’t a big deal or anything. It’s just unexpected.
I press accept.
“Arthur!” says Jessie. They’re mushed up together on Ethan’s basement couch. Otherwise known as the group text in video form. But it’s fine. I mean, it’s great. Ethan and Jessie are great, and I love them, and their timing is actually kind of perfect.
I smile. “Hey! Just who I needed to talk to.”
They glance at each other so fast it barely registers. But then Jessie says, “Oh really? What’s up?”
“I found Hudson.”
“Excuse me. WHAT?”
“But it’s not him,” I say quickly. “It’s not the post office guy. But I think maybe it’s the boyfriend?”
“Ex-boyfriend.” Ethan points his finger. “You’re the boyfriend.”
“Pshh. I wish.”
“Soon-to-be-boyfriend,” says Jessie. “Wow. How did you find him?”
I tell them about Panera and the panini and the last name and the eyebrows, but when I finish, Jessie looks perplexed. “Wait, how do you know it’s not just some random guy named Hudson?”
“Because . . .” My stomach sinks. Suddenly, Juliet’s logic seems specious at best. “I don’t know. Is it that common of a name?”
“Devon Sawa named his baby Hudson.”
“Of course you know that.” Ethan nudges Jessie sideways.
“Anyway, nothing’s coming up on Google or Facebook or Instagram or Tumblr or Snapchat or Twitter or literally anywhere, and I hate this.”
Jessie’s expression softens. “You really like this guy, huh?”
I groan. “I don’t even know him. I met him for five minutes. Why am I still thinking about him?”
“Because he’s hot,” suggests Ethan.
“I just don’t understand. Why would the universe introduce me to this boy and then take him away from me five seconds later?”
“Maybe the universe will send him back to you,” Ethan says. “Slightly used, though. A little wear and tear. Mostly good condition.”
Jessie’s silent for a moment, chewing her lip.
“Maybe the universe wants to make you work for it,” she says finally.
“I am working for it! I just spent an hour googling some random dude who likes paninis and didn’t go to band camp.”
“Hmm,” says Jessie. She stands, suddenly out of frame.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“I have an idea.”
I look at Ethan, and he shrugs. Jessie’s footsteps thud across the floor.
So now it’s just Ethan and me, and we’re totally silent. He can barely meet my eyes.
“So this is . . .”
“Yup.” He blinks.
“Everything good?”
“Totally good.”
“Okay. Great.”
“Yup.” He presses his lips together and stares at his lap. “So how are M&M?”
Otherwise known as Michael and Mara Seuss. Who I’m pretty sure are on the express train to divorce town.
“Great!” I say. “Perfect!”
This is painful—and there’s no sign of Jessie. I’m sorry, but she needs to pull the plug on this mess right now. Ethan’s still gazing somewhere above the webcam. Would he notice if I texted her? Just a quick SOS. And maybe a tiny threat that if she doesn’t come back this second, I will ruin her. I will track down the video love confession she recorded for Ansel Elgort in eighth grade, and, God help me, I’ll find a way to break into the projection room at Regal Avalon. If she thinks this won’t be the most memorable screening ever of Mission: Impossible 6, she’s—
“Hey!” she says breathlessly, sliding back next to Ethan on the couch. “I think I found Hudson.”
“Wait . . . what?”
“Mmhmm. Oh my god. I’m just—Arthur, I’m so proud of myself right now, you don’t even know. This is—like, this is actually happening. Are you ready?”
I nod slowly.
“Are you okay? You don’t look okay.” She laughs.
“Neither do you.” I pause. “Are you sure it’s him?”
“I mean, you’ll have to look at his picture and tell me.”
“There’s a picture?” My stomach twists.
“Don’t ever underestimate my internet creepiness.”
“I never do,” says Ethan.
“Shut up. So I had a stroke of inspiration. I was thinking about the whole story with Namrata, and I was like, you know what? I’m searching for Hudson Panini.”
“Um—”
“No, hear me out. So I go to Twitter, and I literally type in Hudson panini—and the first thing that comes up is a guy named @HudsonLikeRiver. So right away, I’ve got chills, because that’s exactly what you said, remember? Hudson, like the river.” She points at me, smiling. “Anyway, this guy HudsonLikeRiver has a tweet from 11:44 in the morning today, and it says craving a panini lol.”
“Okay . . .”
“Arthur, he was craving a panini today, thirty minutes before you ran into him ordering a panini. And his name is Hudson!”
“But how do we know he’s the Hudson? Is he from New York?”
Jessie leans forward, grinning. “I’m not done. Anyway, I check his bio, and it’s super vague, and all of his tweets are vague, too—and they’re bad, they’re bad tweets. Not even funny-bad. And his picture is a bitmoji. So I’m like, fuck. But then I get the idea to check Instagram, because people usually just use the same handle, right? And sure enough. Boom. @HudsonLikeRiver. Public profile, fifty zillion pictures, amazing eyebrows. He’s from New York. Art, I’m freaking out.”
“Oh. My. God.”
“You have to go check it right now,” she says. “We’ll talk to you later, okay?”
She ends the call, and I just sit there, shell-shocked. A boy named Hudson. From New York. With great eyebrows. Who was publicly craving a panini for lunch today. Box Boy would be following him on Instagram, right? At least they’d be tagged in pictures together. Which kind of makes my stomach churn, but whatever.
Deep cleansing breath. I pull up Instagram and type in the handle.
Hudson like river. @HudsonLikeRiver
And I’m there.
Text from Jessie: Is it him??
I can’t even form a reply. God. It’s him. Hudson. Clarendon-filtered, wearing that backward baseball hat. Selfie upon selfie.
But I have to stay calm. Just because he’s Hudson Robinson, random panini boy, doesn’t mean he’s Hudson from the address label. It doesn’t mean anything. For one thing, Box Boy is nowhere. Not a single picture of him in Hudson’s entire feed.
I click through them anyway, starting with the most recent—which is—I’m not even kidding—a picture of his fucking panini. The next one’s a selfie with some girl, adorably named @HarriettThePie, and then a peace sign selfie with the hashtag MovingOn.
Moving on.
It’s from the day I met Box Boy—which doesn’t necessarily mean anything. There are lots of ways a person can move on. Hudson could have changed jobs. He could have gotten a haircut. He could have moved on from bread bowls to paninis.
But the comments. One particular comment.
I press accept.
“Arthur!” says Jessie. They’re mushed up together on Ethan’s basement couch. Otherwise known as the group text in video form. But it’s fine. I mean, it’s great. Ethan and Jessie are great, and I love them, and their timing is actually kind of perfect.
I smile. “Hey! Just who I needed to talk to.”
They glance at each other so fast it barely registers. But then Jessie says, “Oh really? What’s up?”
“I found Hudson.”
“Excuse me. WHAT?”
“But it’s not him,” I say quickly. “It’s not the post office guy. But I think maybe it’s the boyfriend?”
“Ex-boyfriend.” Ethan points his finger. “You’re the boyfriend.”
“Pshh. I wish.”
“Soon-to-be-boyfriend,” says Jessie. “Wow. How did you find him?”
I tell them about Panera and the panini and the last name and the eyebrows, but when I finish, Jessie looks perplexed. “Wait, how do you know it’s not just some random guy named Hudson?”
“Because . . .” My stomach sinks. Suddenly, Juliet’s logic seems specious at best. “I don’t know. Is it that common of a name?”
“Devon Sawa named his baby Hudson.”
“Of course you know that.” Ethan nudges Jessie sideways.
“Anyway, nothing’s coming up on Google or Facebook or Instagram or Tumblr or Snapchat or Twitter or literally anywhere, and I hate this.”
Jessie’s expression softens. “You really like this guy, huh?”
I groan. “I don’t even know him. I met him for five minutes. Why am I still thinking about him?”
“Because he’s hot,” suggests Ethan.
“I just don’t understand. Why would the universe introduce me to this boy and then take him away from me five seconds later?”
“Maybe the universe will send him back to you,” Ethan says. “Slightly used, though. A little wear and tear. Mostly good condition.”
Jessie’s silent for a moment, chewing her lip.
“Maybe the universe wants to make you work for it,” she says finally.
“I am working for it! I just spent an hour googling some random dude who likes paninis and didn’t go to band camp.”
“Hmm,” says Jessie. She stands, suddenly out of frame.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“I have an idea.”
I look at Ethan, and he shrugs. Jessie’s footsteps thud across the floor.
So now it’s just Ethan and me, and we’re totally silent. He can barely meet my eyes.
“So this is . . .”
“Yup.” He blinks.
“Everything good?”
“Totally good.”
“Okay. Great.”
“Yup.” He presses his lips together and stares at his lap. “So how are M&M?”
Otherwise known as Michael and Mara Seuss. Who I’m pretty sure are on the express train to divorce town.
“Great!” I say. “Perfect!”
This is painful—and there’s no sign of Jessie. I’m sorry, but she needs to pull the plug on this mess right now. Ethan’s still gazing somewhere above the webcam. Would he notice if I texted her? Just a quick SOS. And maybe a tiny threat that if she doesn’t come back this second, I will ruin her. I will track down the video love confession she recorded for Ansel Elgort in eighth grade, and, God help me, I’ll find a way to break into the projection room at Regal Avalon. If she thinks this won’t be the most memorable screening ever of Mission: Impossible 6, she’s—
“Hey!” she says breathlessly, sliding back next to Ethan on the couch. “I think I found Hudson.”
“Wait . . . what?”
“Mmhmm. Oh my god. I’m just—Arthur, I’m so proud of myself right now, you don’t even know. This is—like, this is actually happening. Are you ready?”
I nod slowly.
“Are you okay? You don’t look okay.” She laughs.
“Neither do you.” I pause. “Are you sure it’s him?”
“I mean, you’ll have to look at his picture and tell me.”
“There’s a picture?” My stomach twists.
“Don’t ever underestimate my internet creepiness.”
“I never do,” says Ethan.
“Shut up. So I had a stroke of inspiration. I was thinking about the whole story with Namrata, and I was like, you know what? I’m searching for Hudson Panini.”
“Um—”
“No, hear me out. So I go to Twitter, and I literally type in Hudson panini—and the first thing that comes up is a guy named @HudsonLikeRiver. So right away, I’ve got chills, because that’s exactly what you said, remember? Hudson, like the river.” She points at me, smiling. “Anyway, this guy HudsonLikeRiver has a tweet from 11:44 in the morning today, and it says craving a panini lol.”
“Okay . . .”
“Arthur, he was craving a panini today, thirty minutes before you ran into him ordering a panini. And his name is Hudson!”
“But how do we know he’s the Hudson? Is he from New York?”
Jessie leans forward, grinning. “I’m not done. Anyway, I check his bio, and it’s super vague, and all of his tweets are vague, too—and they’re bad, they’re bad tweets. Not even funny-bad. And his picture is a bitmoji. So I’m like, fuck. But then I get the idea to check Instagram, because people usually just use the same handle, right? And sure enough. Boom. @HudsonLikeRiver. Public profile, fifty zillion pictures, amazing eyebrows. He’s from New York. Art, I’m freaking out.”
“Oh. My. God.”
“You have to go check it right now,” she says. “We’ll talk to you later, okay?”
She ends the call, and I just sit there, shell-shocked. A boy named Hudson. From New York. With great eyebrows. Who was publicly craving a panini for lunch today. Box Boy would be following him on Instagram, right? At least they’d be tagged in pictures together. Which kind of makes my stomach churn, but whatever.
Deep cleansing breath. I pull up Instagram and type in the handle.
Hudson like river. @HudsonLikeRiver
And I’m there.
Text from Jessie: Is it him??
I can’t even form a reply. God. It’s him. Hudson. Clarendon-filtered, wearing that backward baseball hat. Selfie upon selfie.
But I have to stay calm. Just because he’s Hudson Robinson, random panini boy, doesn’t mean he’s Hudson from the address label. It doesn’t mean anything. For one thing, Box Boy is nowhere. Not a single picture of him in Hudson’s entire feed.
I click through them anyway, starting with the most recent—which is—I’m not even kidding—a picture of his fucking panini. The next one’s a selfie with some girl, adorably named @HarriettThePie, and then a peace sign selfie with the hashtag MovingOn.
Moving on.
It’s from the day I met Box Boy—which doesn’t necessarily mean anything. There are lots of ways a person can move on. Hudson could have changed jobs. He could have gotten a haircut. He could have moved on from bread bowls to paninis.
But the comments. One particular comment.
