What If It's Us Page 2

  “Excuse me.” A man’s voice reverberates through an intercom. “Can I have your attention?”

  I glance sidelong at Box Boy. “Is this—”

  There’s a sudden squeal of feedback and a rising piano intro.

  And then a literal fucking marching band walks in.

  A marching band.

  People flood into the post office, carrying giant drums and flutes and tubas, blasting a somewhat off-key rendition of that Bruno Mars song “Marry You.” And now dozens of people—old people, people I thought were in line to buy stamps—have launched into a choreographed dance number, with high kicks and hip thrusts and shimmying arms. Basically everyone who’s not dancing is filming this, but I’m too stunned to even grab my phone. I mean, I don’t want to read too much into things, but wow: I meet a cute boy, and five seconds later, I’m in the middle of a flash mob marriage proposal? Could this message from the universe be any clearer?

  The crowd parts, and a tattooed guy rolls in on a skateboard, skidding to a stop in front of the service desk. He’s holding a jewelry box, but instead of taking a knee, he plants his elbows on the counter and beams up at Lip Ring. “Kelsey. Babe. Will you marry me?”

  Kelsey’s black mascara tracks all the way down to her lip ring. “Yes!” She grabs his face for a tear-soaked kiss, and the crowd erupts into cheers.

  It hits me deep in my chest. It’s that New York feeling, like they talk about in musicals—that wide-open, top-volume, Technicolor joy. Here I’ve spent the whole summer moping around and missing Georgia, but it’s like someone just flipped a light switch inside of me.

  I wonder if Box Boy feels it, too. I turn toward him, already smiling, and my hand’s pressed to my heart—

  But he’s gone.

  My hand falls limply. The boy is nowhere. His box is nowhere. I peer around, scanning every single face in the post office. Maybe he got pushed aside by the flash mob. Maybe he was part of the flash mob. Maybe he had some kind of urgent appointment—so urgent he couldn’t stop to get my number. He couldn’t even say goodbye.

  I can’t believe he didn’t say goodbye.

  I thought—I don’t know, it’s stupid, but I thought we had some kind of moment. I mean, the universe basically scooped us up and delivered us to each other. That’s what just happened, right? I don’t even know how else you could interpret it.

  Except he vanished. He’s Cinderella at midnight. It’s like he never even existed. And now I’ll never know his name, or how my name sounds when he says it. I’ll never get to show him that the universe isn’t an asshole.

  Gone. Totally gone. And the disappointment hits me so hard, I almost double over.

  Until my eyes fall on the trash can.

  Okay. I’m not saying I’m going to dig through the trash. Obviously not. I’m a mess, but I’m not that messy.

  But maybe Box Boy is right. Maybe the universe is calling for plan B.

  Here’s my question: If a piece of trash never makes it into a trash can, can you even call it trash? Because let’s just imagine—and this is totally hypothetical—let’s say there’s a crumpled shipping label on the floor. Is that trash?

  What if it’s a glass slipper?

  Chapter Two

  Ben

  I’m back at the start.

  I had one job. Mail the breakup box. Not run out of the post office with the breakup box. In my defense, there was a lot going on. There was that cool and cute Arthur guy, who clearly hasn’t been burned by the universe before, because he actually thought we were supposed to meet. On the day I was trying to mail Hudson’s things back to him. I’m sure Arthur is changing his tune about the universe after that marching band broke us apart.

  I hop on the train and head back to Alphabet City to meet up with my best friend, Dylan. I live on Avenue B, Dylan lives on Avenue D. Our origin story comes down to our last names, Alejo and Boggs. He sat behind me in third grade and was nonstop tapping my shoulder to borrow everything, like pencils and loose-leaf. Same deal as we got older when he’d need my two-versions-behind-everyone-else iPhone to text his Crush of the Week after his own battery died. The only time I ever quote-unquote borrow something is when I need him to spot me some lunch money. And I say quote-unquote because it’s super rare that I can pay him back, and he doesn’t care. Dylan’s a good dude. He doesn’t care that I like guys and I don’t care that he likes girls. Shout-out to my main man the alphabet for this bromance.

  When I get off the train, I stop at several trash cans, holding the breakup box over them, but I never catch that courage to actually dump the damn thing.

  I guess I didn’t expect the breakup to suck if I did the breaking up. But since Hudson’s the one who kissed somebody else, it still feels like he really ended things. Things hadn’t been right between us since his parents got divorced, but I was patient with him. Like when I let him plan my birthday and he took me to a concert of his favorite band. But I let it go because it was my first-ever concert and the Killers are awesome. Then he didn’t show up to my parents’ big anniversary lunch. I let it go again because celebrating my parents’ marriage after everything with his parents was maybe too much for him. And when we went to the movies to see a rom-com about two teen boys and he just went off about how love, even our own, could never be Hollywood-worthy, I stormed off and thought he would chase me and apologize or call my name or literally anything a boyfriend should do.

  Nothing for three days. Not until I called to ask him if we were ever going to talk again. Then he surprised me at my apartment and told me he thought we were broken up, so he kissed some random guy at a party. He desperately wanted another chance, but nope. I broke up with him. For real. Even if he thought things were over between us, he couldn’t even wait a week before moving on? Pretty hard not to feel worthless after that.

  I reach Dylan’s building and press his apartment number, and he buzzes me up immediately, which is great because I’m not about that waiting life today. I’m carrying around a box of my ex-boyfriend’s things. I’m wearing a backpack with summer homework. Today sucks.

  I yawn in the elevator. I had to get up at seven because of summer school. Yay life. The universe keeps on swinging—brass knuckles to the heart and ego.

  I step out of the elevator and let myself into Dylan’s apartment because we’re that tight. But I’m smart enough to knock on his bedroom door ever since a few months ago when I walked in and he was really going at it with himself.

  “Hand out of your pants?” I ask.

  “Unfortunately,” Dylan responds from the other side.

  I open the door. Dylan is sitting on his bed, texting away. He’s cut his hair since I saw him last night for dinner. He’s the only dude my age I know who’s rocking a beard. For the longest time I swore I was behind on the puberty game since I haven’t even grown a mustache, but Dylan’s actually the freak show here—handsome freak show.

  “Big Ben,” Dylan sings, putting down his phone. “Light of my life. He Who Is Stuck in School.” Summer school double-sucks because Dylan has been cracking jokes ever since that day I came out of the guidance counselor’s office with the bad news. He’s just lucky that no one he ever dated persuaded him to skip studying and to trust that the right grades would fall into place.

  “Hey,” I say. Cute nicknames aren’t really my thing.

  Dylan points at my chest. “That shirt is a thing of beauty, isn’t she?”

  His wardrobe consists primarily of T-shirts from indie coffee shops around the city, and he gave me this Dream & Bean shirt last night when he came over for dinner. Dylan hooks me up when his dresser gets too crowded. He doesn’t usually let go of his favorites, like Dream & Bean, but I’m not complaining.

  “I didn’t have anything clean to wear,” I say. “It’s not, like, a cool shirt.”

  “That’s hurtful, but I’m guessing you’re in a mood because you’re carrying a breakup box you were going to hand over to Hudson. What happened?”

  “He didn’t come to scho
ol today.” I put down the box.

  “Skipping day one of summer school seems like a bad start,” Dylan says.

  “Yeah, I asked Harriett if she would take it to him and she said no,” I say. “Then I was going to mail it, but Priority shipping cost too much.”

  “Why did it have to be Priority shipping?”

  “Because I want the box out of my face sooner.”

  “Regular shipping would’ve done the trick too.” Dylan raises his left eyebrow. “You couldn’t do it, could you?”

  I put down the box I should’ve mailed or thrown away or tied to an anchor and dropped into a river. “Stop seeing past my bullshit, it’s my bullshit.”

  Dylan gets up and hugs me. “Shh-shh-shh-shh.” He rubs circles into my back.

  “Your soothing voice isn’t soothing me.”

  Dylan kisses my cheek. “It’s okay, Pudding Pop.”

  I sit down cross-legged on his bed. I’m tempted to reach for my phone to see if I’ve missed any texts from Hudson, or to check Instagram to see if he has uploaded a new selfie. But I know there won’t be any texts, and I’ve unfollowed him on every platform.

  “I don’t want to see him fail out of summer school because he’s avoiding me. He’ll get left behind if he’s absent three times.”

  “Maybe. But that’s his problem. If he doesn’t show up, you won’t have to spend the summer with him. Problem solved.”

  It wasn’t that long ago when spending my summer with Hudson was all I could think about. A summer as boyfriends in pools and parks and each other’s bedrooms while our parents were working—not exes who are in summer school because we spent more time studying each other than doing our chemistry homework.

  “Wish you were in the trenches with me,” I say. “He has his best friend, and I should have mine too.”

  “Oh man, remind me to never commit a crime with you. You’ll get caught and out me so fast.” Dylan checks his phone, like we’re not even talking, which is my least favorite thing about humans. “That class would be all drama anyway. I can’t be there with my ex, that’s not a healthy environment.”

  “I am literally in there with my ex, Dylan.”

  “No you’re not. He didn’t show up, and if he does, don’t forget you got the edge here. You won the breakup by being the Breaker Upper. It would double-suck if he broke up with you. It only single-sucks for you.”

  I’d trade my poor kingdom for a universe where single-suck heartbreak isn’t a victory. But here we are.

  Recent breakups prove that we should’ve never screwed up our friend circle by trying to date. Not to point fingers, but Dylan and Harriett started this. The four of us had a good thing going until Dylan and Harriett kissed on New Year’s Eve. I was kind of into Hudson and I was pretty sure he was into me too, but when we turned to each other that night we didn’t kiss, we just shook our heads because I knew my best friend and he knew his. This was never going to last. Maybe Hudson and I wouldn’t have been inspired to give it a shot ourselves if we hadn’t been left with a lot of alone time while Dylan and Harriett spent their weekends together.

  I miss the squad days.

  I get up and turn on the Wii because I need some shit-talking and entertainment to cheer me up. The triumphant opening of Super Smash Bros. blasts from the TV. Dylan’s top character is Luigi because he thinks Mario is overrated. I go for Zelda because she teleports and deflects projectiles and shoots fireballs from great distances, which are all optimal moves for any player looking to avoid hand-to-hand combat.

  We get the game going.

  “On the sad scale, how are you feeling today?” Dylan asks. “Opening-montage-of-Up sad? Or Nemo’s-mom-dying sad?”

  “Whoa, no. Definitely not opening-montage-of-Up sad. That shit was devastating. I’d guess I’m somewhere in between, like last-five-minutes-of-Toy-Story-3 sad. I just need time to bounce back.”

  “No doubt. Okay, I need to tell you a thing.”

  “Are you breaking up with me?” I ask. “Because not cool.”

  “Sort of,” Dylan says. He does this big dramatic pause while hammering down on one button so Luigi keeps shooting green fireballs at Zelda. “I met this girl at a coffee shop.”

  “That is the most Dylan sentence you’ve ever said.”

  “Right?” Dylan’s chuckle is very charming. “Okay, so after my doctor’s appointment yesterday I went uptown to try this coffee spot.”

  “Of course you leave an appointment for your heart condition by going straight to a coffee shop. You’re a little too on brand sometimes.”

  “The yearly ritual,” Dylan says. He has a heart condition called mitral valve prolapse, which isn’t as shitty as it sounds—at least not in Dylan’s case. I don’t know what he’d do if his doctors actually banned him from coffee. “Anyway. I walked past Kool Koffee, which I have avoided forever because you know I don’t find cutesy spellings cute, and she stepped outside to throw away some trash and I became trash for her.”

  “As you do.”

  “But I couldn’t walk in there wearing a Dream & Bean shirt.”

  “Why not?”

  “Uh. Do you walk into Burger King with a Happy Meal? No. That shit is disrespectful. Have some common sense.”

  “My common sense is telling me to make new friends.”

  “I just didn’t want to be disrespectful.”

  “You just disrespected me.”

  “I’m talking about her.”

  “Of course you are. Wait. Is that why you gave me this shirt last night?”

  “Yes. I panicked.”

  “You’re so weird. Go on.”

  “I braved Kool Koffee today dressed appropriately . . .” Dylan gestures at his solid blue T-shirt. Nice and neutral. “. . . and she was humming an Elliott Smith song while making someone’s espresso, and I was done. Overdone. Big Ben, in a single moment, I gained a future wife and an unlimited supply of coffee.”

  It’s really hard to be happy for someone finding romance when I’ve clearly just taken a loss in the same department, but it’s Dylan. “I can’t wait to meet my future sister-in-law.”

  “You remember that BuzzFeed post with the Harry Potter wedding? Samantha and I will do something coffee-themed. Everyone will wear barista aprons. Toasting with mugs. My face drawn in everyone’s espresso.”

  “You are too much.”

  “One downside though.”

  “She has a downside already?”

  “She’s a huge supporter of Kool Koffee because they donate some portions to charities, and she thinks serious coffee drinkers should be better about where they’re buying coffee. I mean, I’m not ready to be monogamous with Kool Koffee.”

  “Did she actually ask you to do that?”

  “No, but . . . she asked without asking. And when the One comes along, there are things we must sacrifice.”

  “There’s no way you’re quitting Dream & Bean coffee.”

  “Oh hell no. I’m quitting drinking it in front of Samantha. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt.”

  “Only you could make drinking coffee sound nefarious.”

  “Anyway. I added other coffee shop shirts into your drawer so I don’t get tempted.”

  I check out the shirts because maybe there’s actually a winner in here. And yeah, I have a drawer in his bedroom and he has one in mine. We’ve slept over at each other’s places enough that it makes sense. When I was first getting cool with the coming-out thing in school, I always felt super self-conscious in gym, like everyone thought I would try and check them out. It’s really dope having a bro like Dylan who is super cool changing in front of me and me changing in front of him. I hope I don’t lose his awesomeness again like I have every time he meets the One.

  “Wait. Why didn’t you tell me about seeing Samantha last night when you came over?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Dylan says. Like that’s a satisfying answer. Like I’m about to just go “Okay, cool,” and go back to kicking his ass in Super Smash.

&
nbsp; “You never tell me when you first get a crush,” I say.

  “Name one time.”

  “Gabriella and Heather and Natalia and—”

  “I said one time.”

  “—and Harriett. It’s just weird. We tell each other everything.”

  Dylan nods. “Not trying to jinx myself, I guess. You know how my dad always goes on about how he knew he would marry my mom when they met in freshman year? I’m getting those same vibes from Samantha.”

  I act like I haven’t heard Dylan say this before, most recently with Harriett, who he broke up with in March, but I let it go. Maybe it will work this time. We keep playing as Dylan goes on and on about which hot beverage he and Samantha should name their firstborn after, and I refuse to be Uncle Ben to any child named Cider.

  I’m a little jealous Dylan is in this phase of his new romance, where it feels like anything is possible. Like how Samantha could actually be the love of his life. Like when I thought Hudson was going to be mine. How I couldn’t wait to wake up to his face—his beautiful lazy eye, the little bump on his nose, his suggestive dark eyebrows that don’t match his short auburn hair. The way he changed my worldviews, like whenever he had to push back at idiots in school who got at him because of his effeminate mannerisms; he really helped me forget my own idiocy on what I thought a man was supposed to look like. And those nerves before we had sex for the first time in March, not knowing if it was going to be good or not. Spoiler: it was awesome.

  Maybe I can kick so much ass this week at school that the teachers will realize I don’t actually need to be stuck taking classes for the next month and I’ll be Hudson-free.

  Though I got to be real, I would’ve probably ended up in summer school even if Hudson was never in the picture. I’m not super tight with school.

  “You’ll always be my number one, Big Ben,” Dylan says. “Until Baby Cider is born.”