What If It's Us
Page 19

I shake my head. “Why are you the way you are?”
“Too many shitty cups of coffee, Big Ben.”
“It’s not over. I’m sure she’s already realized that you’re just so Dylan that you Dylan’d too hard.”
“Dylan-ing isn’t a bad thing. To Dylan someone is to adore them. Even if they brew the worst coffee on God’s green earth.”
We walk through Washington Square Park. There’s a cute Mexican guy with hipster glasses sitting on a bench, nodding along to whatever song is playing on his headphones while he eats ice cream. Ice cream is one of Hudson’s favorite foods—not dessert, food. We once played this game where I would close my eyes, he’d take a spoonful of whatever flavors were available in his freezer, and I had to guess which ice cream it was. This was back in early March, when doing little stupid things like that felt extra special. Something that was just for us.
Dylan’s phone rings. “It’s Samantha, Big Ben. Ha! I knew Wifey couldn’t get enough of Daddy D.”
“I hate everything you just said. Play it cool.”
Dylan winks, but I know he’s got to be freaking. He answers the phone. “Hey. I—” His smile goes away. “Oh.” My heart drops a little for him. He turns to me. “It’s for you.”
Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the happy plot twist we thought it would be.
I take the phone. “Hello?”
“I may have found your boy,” Samantha says.
“Say what.”
“It wasn’t easy, but I did some digging. I looked into law firms in Georgia with New York connections and came up empty. I jumped to Instagram and searched through the hashtag for hot dog ties, and the most recent photo was last year, so that was out. And I checked Facebook for Yale newbie groups and there’s a meetup for incoming freshmen in New York . . . today at five.”
“You’re kidding,” I say.
“I’m texting a link to the Facebook group now.”
The phone vibrates against my face. I open the text, click the link: class of 2022. Meetup at Central Park.
“There’s no promise he’ll be there,” Samantha says. “I searched through the list of people who RSVP’d yes, but people, like yours truly, often don’t RSVP, so I have hope.”
“Wow. You’re amazing,” I say.
“I’m also talking on company time, so I got to leave the stockroom, but best of luck with your search and tell Dylan I said bye!”
“Thanks,” I say, right as she hangs up.
“What happened? Was she talking about me?” Dylan asks.
“D, I’m sorry. She’s about to go run off into the sunset with Patrick,” I say. He tries taking his phone back, but I don’t let go. “I’m kidding. But look: she may have found Arthur. There’s a Yale freshman meetup thing today. It’s almost too convenient, right?”
“Yes, it’s very convenient that my future wife did all the work for you.”
“You know what I mean. There are so many things Arthur can be doing in this city he doesn’t live in. He’ll see all these people in school. There’s no way he’ll be there.”
“We don’t have to go.” Dylan snatches his phone and looks at the group. “Wow. Samantha is wasting her time at that sad excuse of a coffee shop. She can be the Hermione in our trio. Dibs on Harry.”
“But that means I’m Ron.”
“Sucks for you.”
“Ron ends up with Hermione.”
“Okay, but . . . I don’t want to be Ron. No one wants to be Ron. Rupert Grint probably didn’t even want to be Ron. How about this? I’m Han Solo and she’s Princess Leia. You can be Luke.”
“I don’t care,” I say. “Let’s focus.”
“Right, right. We should go to the meetup anyway. Maybe Arthur won’t be there. But maybe he will be,” Dylan says.
Knowing he could be there is more than enough to get me going. “Let’s do it.”
“May the Force be with you, Ron Weasley.”
“We should have aliases,” Dylan says.
We’re walking through Central Park and toward Belvedere Castle, where the meetup is happening. There’s something really enchanting about reuniting with Arthur at a castle like some bomb-ass fairy tale. Too bad I smell like my dad’s cologne and I’m wearing a polo shirt from last spring that’s now super tight on me because that’s the Yale bro look apparently.
“Aliases will only make this more complicated,” I say. I wish we hadn’t gone back home to change first. I just want to be in clothes I like.
“More awesome, you mean. I think I’m going to be Digby Whitaker. You can be Brooks Teague.”
“No.”
“Orson Bronwyn?”
“No.”
“Final offer: Ingram Yates.”
“No.” We’re approaching the stairs that lead up to the meetup. “Okay, D, real talk. I’m kind of freaking. I really want Arthur to be up there, but I’m also feeling weird getting my hopes up about someone new. I need wingman advice, Digby Wilson.”
“Whitaker,” Dylan corrects. He claps his hands. “Let’s say Arthur is here and you hit it off. He’s leaving at the end of the summer anyway, right? You can treat this like a rebound.”
“No. I don’t want to do that to anyone. Or myself.”
“You’re right. Bad advice, Big Brooks.”
“Ben.”
“Not getting anything past you.” Dylan takes me by the shoulders and stares into my eyes, like an intense coach and his trainee. “Maybe you do need a break before you’re really ready to move on. I will respect you if you walk away from this. But I know you’re a dreamer, Big Ben, and maybe the universe is giving you this second shot.”
I hope he’s right. I hope the universe proves me wrong and actually comes through—for both of us.
“Maybe,” I say.
“If you won’t do it for yourself, at least do it for all the people on the train who had to suffer through your cologne in such tight quarters.”
“Asshole.”
We reach the top of the open space, the sun and lake and rest of the park hanging out behind the crowd of Yale’s noobs. A lot of the guys here are tall, so I walk around, dragging my feet, but out of the twenty or so guys, some smelling like cologne way nicer than my dad’s, none of them are Arthur.
“He’s not here,” I say. “And we’re the only ones in polos.”
“It’s early,” Dylan says. “Arthur may show up in a polo?”
I glare.
“We’re here, and we should try to have some fun,” Dylan says. “If you send me home, I’m just going to listen to sad music and stare out the window and jump whenever my phone buzzes and then be sadder than I was before when I see it’s just you texting me and not Samantha.”
“You’ve made me feel like shit, but sure, let’s stay.”
“Yay.” Dylan looks around. “Yale has some lookers here. Aren’t you feeling motivated to study really damn hard in senior year to try and get that full scholarship life?”
“Not a hot dog tie in sight.”
“Is that a new fetish?”
“No, it’s just . . . it’s cool to see someone not take himself so seriously.”