What If It's Us
Page 41

“I know.” I take both his hands. “Let me guess. Hudson was a jerk about summer school.”
Ben looks at me strangely. “Wait.”
“He’s an asshole. I’m sorry, Ben, I know he was a part of your history and everything, but fuck him. There’s nothing wrong with summer school, okay?”
“I know. Yeah. Okay—”
“No, it’s not okay. How dare he make you feel like that. I don’t care if he made straight As. I don’t care if he’s a Rhodes Scholar. He doesn’t deserve you. He never deserved you.”
Ben stares down at the carpet. “I should call the elevator.”
“Okay, but just promise me you’ll stop giving Hudson real estate in your brain. He doesn’t know anything. You’re so fucking smart. I wish you could see it.”
The elevator light blinks and the doors slide open.
“That’s really sweet of you.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.” The elevator starts to close, but he catches it with his foot.
I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t want you to go.”
“Me either.” He tugs me closer.
So I kiss him and I kiss him as the doors press in around us.
I flop back onto my bed, and my whole body’s buzzing. Heart, stomach, fingertips, all of it. My brain won’t stop spinning. I feel like I’m living inside a love song.
Kissing Ben. Holding Ben’s hand. Ben’s crinkly brown eyes.
I should text him.
But when I look at my phone, I see two texts from Jessie.
The first one: Hey!
The second one: Wondering if you me and E can talk.
Sure what’s up, I write back.
She responds immediately. Too complicated for text. FaceTiming you, okay?
I accept the call, still lying down. Still smiling dazedly.
“Whoa. Looks like someone had a good night,” says Ethan. They’re on the floor of Jessie’s bedroom, backs pressed against her bed. And something about the familiarity of it all makes me ache: their faces, their voices, Jessie’s purple floral bedspread.
I grin. “Y’all are up late.”
“So are you,” says Jessie.
“So, what’s up? What is this complicated thing?”
“Well.” They exchange glances.
“That should be in caps, right? Complicated Thing.” I laugh.
No one else laughs.
“Wait.” I sit up. “Is this . . . an intervention?”
Jessie looks startled. “What?”
“It’s about Ben, right? I’m too obsessed with him.” I press a hand to my mouth.
They look at each other again.
“You do talk about him a lot,” says Ethan.
“Guys, I’m so sorry.”
I’m the worst friend on earth. Maybe I’m one of those guys who gets tunnel vision whenever he falls for someone. Maybe I’m just incurably self-centered.
“It’s fine.”
“No it’s not. I haven’t even asked you how you are.”
Another furtive glance. Jessie bites her lip.
“Well,” Ethan says. “I guess . . .”
But then a text from Ben pops up, obscuring half of my screen. So . . . I told my parents that your parents invited me for dinner, and my mom turned the whole thing into wanting your whole family to come have dinner at our house tomorrow—I know that’s crazy, don’t be freaked out. They just really want to meet my awesome new boyfriend.
My heart leaps into my throat. Ethan’s still talking—I think—but it barely even registers.
“Boyfriend,” I whisper.
Ethan pauses. “What?”
“Ben just called me his boyfriend.”
“When?”
“Just now. Over text.”
Jessie’s mouth falls open. “Oh, Arthur, really?”
I nod wordlessly.
“Damn,” Ethan says. “That was fast.”
Jessie nods. “Wow. Are you . . .”
But another text pops up and Jessie’s voice fades to the background. Shit. Okay. I didn’t mean to say boyfriend. Unless you want to say boyfriend. We don’t have to label it. Wow. I’m sorry. Don’t freak out.
“. . . the talk?” she finishes.
“Sorry, what?” I blink. Then I shake my head quickly. “Ugh. I’m doing it again.”
“No, you’re good,” Jessie says. “This is a big deal. Boyfriend. Wow.”
“Yeah.” I blink again. “Yeah.”
“Go respond to him!”
“When I’m done talking to you guys.”
“Arthur. Go put your boyfriend out of his misery.”
My brain feels foggy, almost waterlogged. “Boyfriend. I’m just—”
“Arthur, go!” Jessie laughs. “We’ll talk later, okay? I’m hanging up.”
I hang up, too, and tap back into my Ben texts, reading and rereading until I think I might burst.
Not freaking out, I write. See you tomorrow, boyfriend.
Then I stare at the screen of my phone for five minutes straight, smiling harder than I ever have in my life.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ben
Sunday, July 22
My boyfriend’s family is coming over for dinner. I’ve been pretty say what about this all day. I dusted the bookshelves and the TV and the space underneath the couch. I dumped out all the garbage bins. I wiped down counters and the table. I did laundry so we’ll have fresh hand towels in the bathroom. I lit four black-cherry candles that are mixing surprisingly well with the feast my parents are cooking up.
The doorbell rings as I’m setting the table.
I check the clock. If that’s Arthur and the fam, they’re early. Well, they’re on time. I should’ve known better, because this is Arthur. But damn.
“I’ll get the door,” I say.
Please don’t be them, please don’t be them . . .
“Hey!” Arthur says, holding a box of cookies. His parents are behind him with bottles of wine.
It feels a little next-level to kiss Arthur in front of his parents, so I hug him and shake their hands.
“How are you doing?” Mr. Seuss asks.
“Starving,” I say.
“It smells great,” Mrs. Seuss says.
I don’t know if she’s talking about the candles or the dinner, but it’s a win either way. “Come in,” I say. The hallway feels too tight for four people, and I’m more self-conscious of that now than ever before. No matter how much cleaning I did, there’s no pretending that the apartment isn’t way tinier than they’re used to, or that the two chairs we borrowed from my neighbor don’t stand out at the dinner table, where we’ll all be elbow to elbow shortly. “Ma, Pa. This is Mr. and Mrs. Seuss. And Arthur.”
My parents know better than to make fun of their last name considering how much shit they’ve gotten for theirs, especially my mom, whose maiden name is Almodóvar, and people pretty much made a game out of butchering how to pronounce it.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Ma says. “I’m Isabel, this is Diego.”
“Mara,” Mrs. Seuss says while shaking their hands. “Your home is lovely. Thank you for inviting us over.”
“Of course. And you, Arthur,” Ma says, her head tilting with a smile. “The legend.”
He smiles at me and back at her.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Alejo.” Not going to lie, I love the way he says our last name. It’s not a perfect pronunciation, but he’ll get there with time.