What If It's Us Read online

  Already, she’s fishing a twenty from her purse. “Tall nonfat latte,” she mouths.

  Hashtag intern life.

  I text Ethan while waiting in line at Starbucks. Concept: a musical set in the Atlanta suburbs called . . . wait for it . . . Ha-Milton. Mic emoji. Down-arrow emoji. Boom.

  But Ethan doesn’t text back.

  Thursday, July 12

  It’s radio silence until the next morning, when Ethan texts a selfie to—surprise, surprise—the group chain. It’s him and Jessie at Waffle House holding up a bottle of chocolate syrup. You’re here in spirit, my dude! he writes.

  It just sucks. Any other summer, I’d be next to Jessie in that booth, eating hash browns and ranting about politics or Twitter or stage-to-screen adaptations. I’d give Ethan and Jessie the full, unabridged post office story, and we’d probably make a football-style Operation Hudson game plan in my notes app.

  As opposed to here, where the girls shut down every time I say the word Hudson. I swear, they’re even worse than usual today. One of the paralegals drops off a package for Namrata, and she barely even looks at it. It’s like she can’t stop typing. For a moment, I just watch her.

  “What’s that?” I ask finally.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe you should open it.”

  “I will.”

  Namrata’s fingers still on the keyboard for a moment while she reads something on her screen. Then she glances at a stack of documents, back up at her screen, and starts typing again.

  “When, though?”

  “What?”

  “When do you think you’ll open it?”

  “Let me guess.” Namrata sighs so hard, it ruffles the Shumaker documents. “You’re not going to let me work until I do.”

  “That’s probably true.”

  “Then let’s go.” She rips the package open and peers inside of it for what feels like ten minutes—but when she finally turns back toward me, she’s smiling. “Why the fuck did you buy me five pounds of candy corn?”

  “It’s actually four pounds and fourteen ounces—”

  “Of candy corn.”

  “In July,” adds Juliet.

  “Arthur, you are something else,” says Namrata. Translation: I nailed it.

  Juliet ruffles my hair. “Want to grab lunch with us?” Translation: I super nailed it.

  I’m so happy, I could sing. If the girls and I are lunch friends now, we’re probably on track for tasteful matching BFF tattoos by next week. And then they’ll introduce me to cute law school boys, cuter than Hudson, and I’ll never go home. I’ll just stay here in New York with my awesome new squad. My new best friends. I mean, who even needs Waffle House? I’ll just be here grabbing business lunch in New York fucking City, the culinary center of the universe. Ethan and Jessie can spend the rest of their lives eating at chain restaurants. From now on, I’ll only eat at farm-fresh artisan food trucks and iconic celebrity delis.

  “I’ve always wanted to try Tavern on the Green,” I say.

  “Arthur, we have thirty minutes.”

  “Sardi’s?”

  “How about Panera?”

  I gasp. “I love Panera.”

  “Yeah, I figured,” says Namrata, throwing back a fistful of candy corn.

  Five minutes later, we hit the streets, and I can’t get over how different the girls are outside the office. They’re so open. Up until today, most of my Namrata and Juliet intel came from one of three sources: eavesdropping, Instagram, and my mom. Now I know Juliet’s a dancer and Namrata’s a vegetarian, and they hated each other their whole first year of law school, but now they’re best friends and they go on runs together and eat cupcakes, and neither of them has skipped a single reading for any class ever. All this before we’re even in line at Panera.

  “I’m beyond disgusted,” Namrata’s telling Juliet. “I was like, you know what? That’s fine, don’t call them out, but guess what. I’m done spending the night there. Sorry, David, but dinosaur porn crosses a line for me.”

  Juliet moans. “Ewwww.”

  “Wait, who’s David? And why is he into dinosaur porn?”

  Okay, real talk: I hate when people drop a random name like I’m supposed to magically know it.

  “No, it’s David’s roommates,” Juliet explains.

  “And they’re not only into dinosaur porn,” adds Namrata, “but they’re actually creating their own—I’m not even kidding—dinosaur porn webcomic. Which—okay, you do you. But then they leave their sketches in the fucking living room, and I’m like, David, can I please not have to look at this picture of a T. rex getting himself off?”

  “But . . . T. rex arms.” Juliet looks baffled. “How?”

  “Seriously, who’s David?” I ask.

  Namrata looks amused. “My boyfriend.”

  “You have a boyfriend?”

  “They’ve been dating for six years,” Juliet says.

  “What? No way.” I turn to Juliet. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “I have a girlfriend,” Juliet says.

  “You’re a lesbian?”

  “Next,” says the guy behind the counter.

  Juliet steps up and orders a soup. Then she turns back to me and says, “Well, I’m biromantic ace, which means—”

  “I know, I know. But you never mentioned it. Why don’t you guys ever tell me anything?”

  “We tell you to get back to work,” says Juliet. “We tell you that a lot.”

  “But you never tell me about your love lives. I’ve told you every single thing about Hudson, and I didn’t even know you had a girlfriend! And I definitely didn’t know Namrata had a boyfriend named David who draws dinosaur porn.”

  “No, David’s roommates draw dinosaur porn,” Namrata interjects, drifting back from the counter. “That is a critical piece of information. Arthur, you’re up. Go order your PB and J Happy Meal.”

  “Pssh. I’m getting grilled cheese. Grown-up grilled cheese.”

  Namrata pats my head. “Very sophisticated.”

  “Hudson,” someone says over a microphone, and I freeze. Namrata and Juliet freeze. The whole world freezes. “Hudson, your order’s ready.”

  “Arthur.” Juliet presses a hand to her mouth.

  “It’s not him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It can’t be him. That would be too weird. Like, what are the odds?” I shake my head. “It’s some other Hudson.”

  “We’re near the post office,” says Juliet. “He probably works around here or lives here or something. It’s not really that common of a name.”

  “Yeah, we’re going up there,” Namrata says.

  “No way. That’s shady!”

  “No it’s not.” She gives me a not-so-gentle yank toward the pickup counter. Standing with his back to us is a boy in jeans and a fitted polo shirt—white, taller than me, hair totally covered by a backward baseball cap. “Is that him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “YO, HUDSON,” Namrata says loudly.

  My heart stops.

  And the boy turns around, looking slightly apprehensive. “Do I know you?” he asks Namrata.

  It’s not him.

  It’s not Hudson. Well, apparently it is Hudson, or at least he answers to Hudson, but he’s not my Hudson, if my Hudson’s even a Hudson in the first place. My head’s kind of swirling. This Hudson isn’t terrible-looking. He’s got really nice cheekbones and incredible eyebrows. He’s staring at us now, looking bewildered, and I’m absolutely pissing-my-pants mortified.

  “Hudson. From band camp?” Namrata asks smoothly.

  “I didn’t go to band camp.”

  “Oh well. Must be someone else.”

  “Someone else named Hudson?” he asks.

  Namrata doesn’t even bat an eye. “Yup, Hudson Panini.”

  Hudson Panini. Did Namrata seriously just pull a fictional camp friend out of her ass and name him Hudson Panini?

  “Oh wow. Way more epic than Hudson Robinson.”<
br />
  “I’m afraid so.” Namrata grabs my hand. “But enjoy your bread bowl, Hudson Robinson.”

  “I ordered a panini,” Hudson says faintly.

  But by then, we’re halfway back to the table.

  Juliet’s on us immediately. “How’d it go?”

  “I’m going to murder Namrata,” I inform her.

  Namrata snorts. “Excuse me?”

  “HUDSON PANINI?”

  “I saw a panini.”

  “Genius,” says Juliet.

  I sink back into my chair. “That was so humiliating.”

  “Whatever. You were being a wimpy little butt,” says Namrata. “You weren’t even going to talk to him.”

  “That wasn’t even him! It was the wrong guy.”

  “Well, obviously. He didn’t recognize you at all.”

  Juliet leans back in her chair. “So it was a totally different Hudson?”

  “Or it’s the ex-boyfriend,” Namrata says casually. “In which case, you’re welcome. I just got you his last name.”

  “Wait,” I murmur.

  But the rest of my words evaporate.

  Because maybe Namrata’s wrong. But maybe she’s not wrong.

  Maybe Hudson Robinson—backward-cap-wearing, eyebrow-god Hudson Robinson—is Box Boy’s ex. I bet he’s been too depressed to wash his hair since the breakup, which is why he’s wearing the hat. Holy shit.

  Hudson Robinson. I’m not a stalker or anything. It’s not like I’m going to show up on his doorstep. But everyone’s on the internet somewhere, right?

  I mean, maybe I was actually fated to meet the boy from the post office. Maybe I’m fated to find him again. And maybe—just maybe—I’m supposed to find him by following the boy who brought him to the post office in the first place.

  Hudson Robinson, I type. And then I click enter.

  Chapter Eight

  Ben

  Class was rough and the last thing I really want to be doing is meeting Dylan’s future temporary girlfriend, but I rush downtown anyway as if getting far enough away from school can help me forget about how much it hurts to be excluded from all the laughs Hudson and Harriett share at the beginning and end of class. I get off the train and Dylan is outside a pharmacy holding a Dream & Bean thermos and a bouquet of flowers.

  “You have Murderer Face going on right now,” Dylan says. “Guilty Murderer Face. Maybe we can turn that frown upside down before you meet Samantha. Happy Best Friend Face, if you need any suggestions.” Dylan winks.

  I will play along with Happy Best Friend Face because it’s Dylan. But it really is getting exhausting getting to know all of his girlfriends, bonding with them, and losing their friendship pretty quickly after Dylan cuts ties with them.

  “You got it. What’s going on with the roses?” I ask.

  “Samantha mentioned roses are her favorite flower while we were watching Titanic,” Dylan says, beaming, like it’s a superhuman trait to remember something that was said less than twenty-four hours ago.

  “You guys hung out?”

  “Over FaceTime last night.”

  “You were on FaceTime the whole time? Isn’t that movie over three hours long?”

  Dylan nods. “It took us over four hours to get through it. We kept pausing to talk.”

  “That’s impressive,” I say. I mean it. Especially considering how much sleep he lost the night before because Samantha hadn’t texted him back about Elliott Smith. It turns out she just hadn’t had a chance to listen to the songs yet. And she loved them all. “Did you like it?”

  “I thought the ship was going to sink a lot sooner, if you catch my drift.”

  “You were bored until the ship started sinking—”

  “I was bored until the ship started sinking, yes.”

  Dylan has some serious pep in his step as we rush to the coffee shop. He’s dodging people left and right, and I can barely hear him go on about how there was room for Jack and Rose on that floating door or how they could’ve at least taken turns. Dylan stops at the corner.

  “Okay. How do I look?”

  He’s got bags under his eyes and he’s wearing a Kool Koffee T-shirt, which feels super extra, but otherwise good. Except: “Might want to toss the Dream & Bean cup.”

  Dylan tosses the thermos at me like it’s a grenade and we pass it back and forth before I finally throw it in my backpack.

  “You’re ridiculous,” I say as we walk inside Kool Koffee. The coffee shop smells like pretentious writers who would hate the stuff I write.

  Samantha is behind the counter in all her glory. She stops taking someone’s order and waves. Her dark curls are flattened by a khaki cap, and her blue-green eyes are beaming at Dylan. And boom, bright white teeth when she smiles over a customer’s shoulder. I’m certain that I’m 100 percent gay because if I was even 1 percent bisexual I would be crushing hard on Samantha for looks and high energy alone. Dylan watches Samantha as if she were glowing, and I wonder when I went dim for Hudson. If I ever really glowed for him at all.

  Oh shit. One free table left. “I’m grabbing that table,” I say.

  Dylan wrenches me back. “You have to order. Also, I’m nervous I’ll say something stupid.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “I almost walked in here with coffee from the enemy.”

  I stay put.

  I have my Happy Best Friend Face on, even when some hopeful novelist-looking type our age takes the last available table, opening his laptop to write the Next Harry Potter before I can. He’s cool to look at, at least. Bright eyes, dark brown skin, Caesar cut, a shirt with the Human Torch on it. If I were ballsier, sort of like that Arthur dude or Dylan with Samantha, I would make the first move. I’d sit across from him, say what’s up, chat about writing, find out if he’s into guys, call him pretty, pray he calls me pretty back, get his phone number, fall in love. But I’m not ballsy, so I don’t.

  We reach the front of the line and Samantha reaches over the counter, almost knocking over a spinner of impulse-buy cookies. “I’m a hugger,” she says. She’s undersold herself because she’s not simply a hugger, she’s a damn good hugger. “So nice to meet you, Ben.”

  “You too, Samantha. Samantha, right? Not Sam? Not Sammy?”

  “Only my mom calls me Sammy. Weirds me out whenever anyone else does. Thanks for asking,” Samantha says. She turns to Dylan. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” he says. “How you doing?”

  “Good. Busy.” She smiles at the roses. “You’re sweet. Unless those aren’t for me, then I’m spitting in your coffee.”

  “All yours,” Dylan says.

  Samantha picks up a cup, writes Dylan’s name inside a heart, and gets his spit-free large coffee started. “What can I get you, Ben?”

  “I don’t know. A strawberry lemonade, I guess.” Sugar FTW.

  “Small, medium, large?”

  I look at the prices on the menu. “Small. Definitely small.” Holy shit, $3.50 for a small cup of half ice, half juice? I could go on an adventure with a $2.75 single ride MetroCard with change to spare. Buy a gallon of orange juice. Three packs of Skittles and five Swedish Fish at the corner store.

  “You got it,” Samantha says. She draws a smiley face under my name. “I’ll be free in a couple minutes. Let me just close out this line.”

  We wait at the end of the bar. I take another peek at the dude in the Human Torch shirt. He’s wearing headphones now and I wonder what he’s listening to. Hudson liked a lot of classics. I’m more into whatever is trending that month. I don’t seek out new songs, but if it’s catchy, I’m set. It’d be cool to date someone who liked the same stuff I did. We wouldn’t clash during road trips to see life outside the city. We could share earphones and vibe to the same song while relaxing somewhere quiet.

  A girl gets up from her corner table, wiping it down with napkins, and before I can charge to see if she’s leaving, two vultures—excuse me, dudes in suits on their lunch break—swarm in and take the table.

  “You sh
ould’ve let me get the table,” I say.

  “Isn’t she awesome?” Dylan asks.

  “Yup,” I say automatically.

  Samantha comes out from behind the counter, singing our names. “Here you go.” She walks to the standing bar. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Dylan wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say. “Me either, obviously.”

  “Beats going home and doing homework, right?” Dylan says.

  I just nod.

  I don’t really want anyone knowing I’m in summer school. It was embarrassing enough sitting in homeroom toward the end of the school year when I wasn’t handed my report card and had to go meet with the guidance counselor. Everyone in homeroom knew it meant I was getting the go-to-summer-school-or-repeat-eleventh-grade-in-a-different-school chat. I should’ve gone that second route. I would have my summer and be Hudson-free in September and beyond too.

  Samantha takes a sip from her iced quad nonfat one-pump mocha with whip. I think she can tell talking about summer school is awkward and touchy for me. I wish my best friend was as quick on this front. “I love working here, but I sort of miss my freedom too. But I want to work in business one day, and my mom said it’s best to work at every stage possible before climbing the ranks so I never turn into some monster expecting masterful work from employees making just enough to get by.”

  “What kind of business?” I ask.

  “I would love to start my own app games. I have this one idea. It’s like Frogger, but instead of heavy-traffic streets, it takes place on the sidewalks of New York. You die if you get hit with someone’s shopping cart and you lose points if you cross a tourist’s path while they’re taking photos. Stuff like that.”

  “I would play the hell out of that and dominate the leaderboards,” I say. “Dylan was practically playing a real-life version of it on our way over here.”

  “What? I didn’t want to miss the start of her break,” Dylan says. He’s sheepish about it, which is not a word I would usually tag on Dylan. It’s kind of adorable how every minute counts for him. The classic honeymoon stage where everyone feels like they’re riding a unicorn on floating rainbows while drinking Skittle smoothies. But eventually you realize the unicorn was just a horse in costume and now you have cavities.