What If It's Us
Page 28

“Like a first date? Again?”
“Exactly. This time you can plan it. Whatever you want.”
“Challenge accepted.”
We smile as we shake on it.
Chapter Fifteen
Arthur
Sunday, July 15
A do-over date. And I’m the one who’s supposed to plan it.
I didn’t even know this was a thing. I thought they were just called second dates.
A do-over.
But at least I get to see him again. Which is convenient, since he’s all I can think about. I can’t even get out of bed. I’m too busy staring at the photo strip of us together. And yeah, we look a little like Pepé Le Pew and his bewildered cat girlfriend, but we really do seem like a couple. If you saw these pictures, you would not conclude that Ben and I are platonic bros. But the idea of myself as part of a couple is so intensely surreal, I can’t even wrap my head around it.
I finally wander out into the living room around ten in gym shorts and glasses. Dad’s on the couch, drinking coffee with the news on mute. “Why are we watching the orange guy?” I ask, sinking into the cushion beside him.
Dad shuts the TV off. “Good morning, Romeo.”
“Wow. Please don’t.”
Dad’s brow furrows. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t be weird.”
“Uh-uh. Nope,” Dad says. “This is not My So-Called Life.”
“I don’t understand that reference, Dad.”
“You’re not The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I did not just rent The Breakfast Club.”
“What does that—”
“It means chill with the fake teen angst. This is your first date, and I want to hear about it.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird that we talk about this stuff?”
“Why? Because I’m your dad?”
“Yes. Obviously.”
He just gapes at me, like he’s trying to process that.
I sigh. “It was fine, Dad. It was an okay date. We have another one tomorrow.”
“Whoa. Look at you. Second date.”
“Well, it’s not a second date. It’s a second first date. We’re having a do-over.”
Dad strokes his beard. “That’s interesting.”
“I know.”
“But he clearly likes you.”
I sit up. “You think?”
“Well, he wants another date.”
“Yeah. God. I don’t know how to do this.”
“How to plan a do-over date?”
“I don’t even know how to plan a regular date.”
Honestly, how am I supposed to know how to pick a destination and set the mood and charm Ben’s pants off? Not literally. Kind of literally, though.
I glance sideways at Dad. “Okay, so if tomorrow’s the first date, how do we talk about Dave & Busters? Do we pretend it didn’t happen? Do we call it Date Zero?” I rub my forehead. “Do we try to reenact it?”
“Why would you reenact a bad first date?” Dad asks. “Just relax. This is going to be great. Just stick with the tried-and-true, like a diner. Something basic.”
Basic.
I nod. “Okay.”
Monday, July 16
Okay, no.
I’m not doing basic. I’m sorry, this isn’t some random guy. This is Ben. Which is why I’m here on a Monday evening, crammed into a corner table at a restaurant in Union Square called Café Arvin. It’s one of those places that looks like a nightclub shoved into a warehouse, with oddly geometric light fixtures and a menu that changes every day. But Yelp says it’s a Best Date Restaurant, so hopefully Ben will be into it. Assuming he shows up. He was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago, but he hasn’t texted to say he’s running late.
Just like last time.
I should check on him. Are you coming—are you even alive—are you—
Now I sound like my mom. Which is probably the wrong note to hit on a date.
I just never knew dates required so many little decisions. When to text, when to chill, what to do with my hands when I’m waiting. When he walks in, should I look up at him and smile? Should I be nonchalantly reading my phone? I need a script for this. Maybe I just need to stop overthinking.
But the moment I see him, I stop thinking altogether, because, wow: he’s gotten even cuter. Or maybe I just keep noticing new cute things about him, like the curve of his jawline, or the slight hunch of his shoulders. He’s wearing a gray V-neck and jeans, and his eyes scan the room as he talks to the hostess. When he finds me, his whole face lights up.
Suddenly he’s settling in across from me.
“This place looks fancy,” he says.
“Well, you know. Nothing but the best for our FIRST date.”
“Yeah. First date. Never been on a date with you before.” Ben smiles.
I smile back at him. “Never.” And then my brain goes totally blank.
Unanticipated complication: apparently, I don’t know how to talk in nice restaurants. Everything’s so hip and elegant here, and no normal conversation feels worthy. It feels like we should be talking about deep things—classy, intellectual things, like NPR or death. But I don’t even know if Ben likes NPR or death. To be honest, I barely know anything about him.
“So what do you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you have an internship? What do you do all day?”
“Oh, it’s . . .” He trails off, peering down at his menu, and I watch his face go pale.
“Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine. I’m just . . .” He rubs his cheek. “I can’t afford this.”
“Oh,” I say quickly, “don’t even worry about it. This is my treat.”
“I’m not letting you do that.”
“I want to.” I lean forward. “I’m still rolling in bar mitzvah money, so it’s all good.”
“But I can’t. I’m sorry.” He holds up the menu. “I can’t eat a thirty-dollar burger. I literally don’t think I’m capable of doing that.”
“Oh.” My stomach drops. “Okay.”
He shakes his head. “My mom could buy dinner for us for three days with thirty dollars.”
“Yeah, I get that. I guess—” I look up, and my gaze snags on a guy sitting one table over. “Holy shit.”
Ben leans in. “What?”
“That’s . . . is that Ansel Elgort?”
“Who?”
“He’s an actor. Oh my God.”
“Really?” Ben cranes his neck around.
“Don’t stare at him! We have to play it cool.” I grab my phone. “I have to text Jessie. She’s going to flip. Should I talk to him?”
“I thought we were playing it cool.”
I nod. “I should get a selfie, right? For Jessie?”
“Who is he again?” Ben asks.
“Baby Driver. The Fault in Our Stars.” I push my chair back and stand. Deep breath.
I walk over, and Ansel shoots me a polite half smile. “Hi.”
“Hi! Hi.”
“Can I help you?”
“Hi! Sorry. I’m just.” I exhale. “Wow. Okay. I’m Arthur, and my friend Jessie loves you. Like a lot.”
“Oh!” Ansel looks surprised.
“Yeah, so.”
“Well, that’s . . .”
“Can I get a selfie?” I ask.