What If It's Us
Page 40

“Come hang with us,” Dad calls from the couch, while Mom offers Ben some water.
Ben peers around the apartment, gaze flitting from painting to painting.
“Uncle Milton likes horses.”
“I cracked that code,” says Ben.
We settle onto the love seat.
“So, Ben, tell us about yourself.” Mom slides back onto the couch, leaning forward to really nail that uncomfortable eye contact with Ben. “How’s your summer been?”
“Um. Great.”
“I bet you’re keeping busy,” Mom says. “I’m glad Arthur’s finally spending more time outside the apartment, too. I kept telling him, when are you ever going to get the opportunity to explore New York for the summer? Go enjoy it. Don’t spend your time watching YouTube videos of—”
“So, Ben actually grew up here,” I interrupt. “He’s a New York native.”
“Very cool,” says Dad.
“Did you always live in Georgia?” Ben asks, looking back and forth between my parents.
Dad shakes his head. “I grew up in Westchester, and Mara’s from New Haven.”
“Yankees,” I say. Ben glances at me and smiles.
Mom turns casually to Ben. “So are you working this summer?”
“Uh.” Ben looks like he wants to melt into the couch. “I’m taking a class.”
“Oh, wonderful. For college credit?” She smiles expectantly.
“Mom, don’t interrogate him.”
“Oh, come on. I’m just curious. Your dad and I were just talking about how much summer jobs have changed. When I was younger, we were all camp counselors, or we worked at Ben & Jerry’s. But you guys have these fancy internships or college-prep courses. I mean, I guess that’s what you’ve got to do, these days—”
“Mom, stop it.”
“Stop what?”
I glance sideways at Ben, who’s staring uncomfortably at his knees.
“Just. Stop . . . talking.” I don’t think I’ve cringed so hard in my entire life. I get it, Mom’s used to a particular kind of badass. The Ethan and Jessie kind, who come with rock-solid PSAT scores and debate team trophies and National Merit Scholarships.
“I’m actually in summer school,” Ben says.
Mom’s eyes widen. “Oh!”
Ben looks mortified, which makes me mortified, too. My fucking parents and their fucking achievement spirals. I want to send a secret message straight into Ben’s brain. I’m not like them, okay? That stuff doesn’t matter to me.
Okay, maybe there’s a tiny, minuscule part of me wondering what it would feel like to announce, Ben’s actually the world’s youngest surgeon or Ben’s working in the mayor’s policy office. As opposed to, Ben’s really weird and cagey when you ask about summer school.
But no. None of that matters. I don’t care that Ben’s in summer school. I don’t care if he has a fancy job, and I don’t care if he ends up applying to Yale. I care about how he stood up to that asshole on the subway and how I feel seeing his name in my texts. I care about how much he cared about making my first kiss perfect.
“Ben’s a writer,” I say. “And he’s amazing.”
“No I’m not.” Ben shakes his head, but he’s smiling.
“He is. I’ve read his work.”
“That’s wonderful,” Mom says. “What do you write?”
Ben pauses. “Fiction, I guess?”
“Ooh.” Dad sits up straighter. “You know, I’ve always wanted to write a novel.”
“Oh really?” says Mom.
“I’ve actually been—”
“Oh, I sincerely hope you’re not about to say you’ve been writing the Great American Novel instead of applying for jobs. I really hope you’re not about to say that.”
“Mara, let’s not—”
“Oh wow. It’s late.” I stand, face burning. “I better walk Ben to the elevator.”
Ben looks uncertain. “You don’t have to walk me out. I can just—”
“Oh, I’m definitely walking you out.” I side-eye the hell out of my parents. Dad’s stroking his beard, and Mom clasps her hands, looking slightly abashed.
“Well, Ben, I’m so glad you came,” Mom says finally. “We’ll have to have you here for dinner sometime.”
“Mom,” I say sharply, but then I catch the look on Ben’s face. His eyes are wide, but he doesn’t look horrified. Just bewildered and happy.
“I’m so sorry,” I say as soon as the door shuts behind us.
“Why? They’re really nice.”
“Yeah, for like five seconds at a time, until they start tearing each other’s heads off. I can’t believe they did that in front of you.”
“You mean the Great American Novel thing?”
“Yeah.” I presss my temple. “They’re such assholes to each other.”
“Really? I think your mom was just busting his balls.”
“No, she’s for real. She always does that. She gets on him for not having a job, and then he gets defensive, and it’s nonstop, and I literally wake up every morning thinking today’s the day they’re going to pull me aside for the whole your father and I both love you very much, Arthur, this isn’t your fault, blah blah, et cetera. Like it’s basically inevitable at this point. I don’t even think the universe is rooting for Team Seuss anymore. It’s just a matter of when.”
“God.” Ben looks at me. “Arthur.”
“God Arthur, what?”
“I’m just really sorry. That sucks so much. I didn’t know.”
He pulls me closer and kisses me softly on the forehead, like a butterfly landing. I might actually melt. I look up at him and smile. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t have to be fine.”
“I’m just sorry you had to see them being weird and awkward.”
“Mine are weird and awkward, too. You’ll see.”
And just like that, the awfulness vanishes. Because WOW. Ben Alejo . . . wants me to meet his parents. I’m going on the hometown date. I grin up at him, trying to think of the perfect flirtatious-but-not-too-flirtatious response. But then Ben says, “Now I want to tell you something.”
“Okay.”
He’s quiet for a moment, just breathing. He looks terrified.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say quickly. “I mean. Unless you want to.”
“I want to.”
My stomach’s doing cartwheels. Is he . . . about to say what I think he’s going to say? It feels soon. But I guess New Yorkers don’t really mess around. I should plan my response. Do I say it back? Is it weird if I don’t? But why wouldn’t I? Seriously, why the fuck not?
“It’s about summer school,” he says.
I stare at him. Wow. I think I could burn this whole city down with my cheeks right now. Am I just a thirsty dipshit, or am I the literal thirstiest dipshit to end all dipshits? God help me if Ben ever finds out that I thought—I actually thought he was going to—
Anyway. Summer school.
“What about it?” I ask.
“It’s . . .” He pauses. “Okay, I just want to say first that Hudson and I are really, really over. We’re not even friends anymore. You know that, right?”