What If It's Us
Page 65

I don’t speak. If I do, I think I’ll cry.
“I don’t want to.” His voice cracks. “But I might. Relationships are so hard. Maybe it’s just me. I don’t know. But I couldn’t make it work with Hudson, even when he was right in front of my face.”
I feel my eyes start to brim. “I wish I could stay.”
“Yeah, me too.” He wipes his cheek with the heel of his hand and smiles wetly. “I’m going to miss you so fucking much.”
“I miss you already.”
The next tear slides all the way down his cheek. “Well, we have one more day.”
“The grand finale. Or intermission. Because we’re going to keep in touch, right?”
“Are you kidding?” he says. “I plan to know you forever.”
I drink him in: rumpled hair, brown eyes, shiny, tear-streaked cheeks. “I love you,” I say. “I’m really glad the universe made us happen.”
“Arthur, the universe just got the ball rolling,” he says. “We made us happen.”
Tuesday, August 7
Ben wakes me with a FaceTime on my last morning in New York.
“Hey, I’m kidnapping you.”
“Wait—what?” I yawn. “Where are you?” He’s clearly outside, but his face is so close to the camera, I can’t make out what’s behind him.
“You’ll find out. Your first instruction: let me know when you’re at the subway. And then I’ll text your next instruction. Okay?”
As soon as we hang up, I scramble out of bed. I don’t bother with contacts or actual clothes. Glasses, T-shirt, and gym shorts for the win. I find Mom pacing around the living room, on the phone with the movers—the ones Ben couldn’t believe we hired when we aren’t even moving furniture. But I’m glad we did, because guess who’s not lugging boxes onto the elevator right now. Guess who’s not loading up a U-Haul. Guess who’s already at the subway by six forty-five in the morning.
I’m here!!
Good. Now take the 2, transfer at 42nd St, and take the 7 to Grand Central
Are you taking me to the office? Side-eye emoji.
He sends me an Aladdin GIF. Do you trust me?
Eye-roll emoji. Heart-eyes emoji.
Of course, the 2 train’s packed with commuters, and the 7’s even worse. I’m on my way to say goodbye to a boy I’m head over heels for. I’ll wake up tomorrow in a city where I didn’t have my first kiss, in a bed where I didn’t lose my virginity.
I’ll wake up single.
But to everyone around me, it’s just a regular workday. Headphones and pantsuits and scrolling through phones. It boggles the mind.
I text Ben from Grand Central. Okay, now what?
He texts me a picture of a street map, where he’s clumsily traced my route in red. I don’t even have to read the street names. WHY ARE YOU SENDING ME TO WORK BEN ALEJO??? I ask.
He texts me a thinker emoji.
This better not be about the Shumaker files. Side-eye, side-eye, side-eye.
But somehow, I can’t stop grinning. I’m the worst New Yorker ever. I’m floating through the intersections, smiling at strangers, totally captive to my own triple-knotted stomach. Maybe when I get there, Ben will be waiting naked in the conference room. Or maybe a literary agent works in this building, and I’ll find Ben signing a contract for a book deal with movie rights, and the movie’s filming in Atlanta, because things always film in Atlanta, and they’ll need Ben there for filming, so—
“Doctor!” says Morrie. He sips a cup of coffee with one hand and extends the other one toward me—but he’s not going for a fist bump. “I’m supposed to give you this,” he says.
He hands me an envelope with my name on it, but when I start tearing into it, he snatches it back. “You have to find all four. See?” Morrie flips the envelope over, and sure enough, in Ben’s messy handwriting, there’s a message.
#1 out of 4. Find them all and read in order.
NO PEEKING, ARTHUR.
“Okay . . .” I glance at the letter again and back up at Morrie. “Where are the others?”
“You have to find them,” says Morrie, shrugging. And then he turns his cup around.
It’s from Dream & Bean.
My mouth falls open. “Is that a clue?”
“I don’t know. Is it?”
Two blocks to Dream & Bean. I don’t think my feet touch the ground the whole way there. I don’t even know what I expect to find. An envelope, I guess? A whole bunch of envelopes, swarming around Harry Potter–style?
But when I push through the door, there’s no flying stationery. No magic. Just a whole bunch of anonymous New Yorkers lining up for their jolt of caffeine.
A bunch of anonymous New Yorkers . . . and Juliet and Namrata.
“What are you guys doing here?”
“Keeping you on task, as usual.” Namrata points her chin toward the bulletin board. “Go get him, kid.”
“My next clue!”
Right away I see the envelope. It’s in the exact spot once occupied by my poster. #2/4, it says. Arturo, you got this!!!!
I stack it under the first envelope, hugging them both to my chest. Then I text Ben. Treasure hunt, huh??
He writes back immediately with a shrugging-guy emoji.
Where do I go next?
Hmm, if only there were someone you could ask . . . Thinker emoji.
Ohhhhhh, I write—and sure enough, when I look up from my phone, the girls are watching me with matching amused smiles. My heart flips in my chest. I drift back to their table.
“Here’s your clue,” Juliet says, holding up her phone. “I don’t really get it.”
It’s a picture. Of a rat.
“Got it!” I make a break for the door—but then I skid to a stop. “Wait.”
“Wait what?” asks Juliet.
“Wow. Oh my God. I’m leaving. This is . . . goodbye.”
“No it’s not,” says Namrata. “Your Shumaker docs are a hot mess. I’ll be calling you with questions every day for a month.”
I hug her. “Good.”
“But we’ll miss your face,” says Juliet.
“A little,” Namrata says.
“A lot,” says Juliet.
I hug them both again and take off running—until I reach the corner and hail the first taxi I see. I don’t care if it’s just a few blocks: I’m not fucking around with time today. I stare out the back-seat window, practically jumping out of my skin. When the driver pulls up to the karaoke place at last, I fling money at him and burst out the door.
And there’s Dylan on the sidewalk, holding his phone, a pair of headphones, and a giant thermos of coffee. He visibly starts when he sees me. “Shit. Seussical, you’re early. Okay, take these.” He shoves the headphones over my ears and does this giant, gaping yawn. “Fucking Benosaur. It’s too early—okay, wait, we’re on mute. Hold up.” He taps his phone screen. “And . . . you good?”
“So . . . reggae?” I start to ask—but then a moment later, I place it. Not just any reggae. It’s Ziggy Marley. “Is this—”
“A song about an aardvark?” says Dylan. “Absolutely.”
Arthur Read, my bespectacled alter ego. King of the yellow V-neck. The fist that launched a thousand memes.
Dylan looks pensive. “I’m not the only one wondering what it would look like if a rat and an aardvark mated, right?”