What If It's Us Page 7

  Samantha smiles at him, like she wants to call him sweet but is holding back. “So yeah, video game apps for me. If you ever have any ideas you want me to profit off of, let me know.” She winks—it’s not a perfect wink, but it’s still charming.

  “Can you make a one hundred percent foolproof app that helps people find their soul mate?”

  “I was hoping for suggestions on something easier, like a dog-walking app with some sort of twist, but sure.”

  I really like her; it’s going to suck to see her go. Maybe I can befriend her behind Dylan’s back. A friendship affair.

  “I know it was your call, but how are you doing post-breakup?” Samantha asks. It throws me that Samantha is caught up on Hudson. Probably too soon for Dylan to fill awkward silences by telling Samantha why he broke up with Harriett. He claims it was because Harriett liked being someone’s girlfriend on Instagram more than she actually liked him. But I know it’s because Dylan just woke up and wasn’t feeling it one day. Yeah, definitely not something you tell your potential next girlfriend.

  “First relationship. First breakup. First time someone really hates me. I just wish we could be friends,” I say.

  “I’m sorry,” Samantha says.

  “It is what it is.” I down my sour strawberry lemonade in four sips, like some depressed adult throwing back shots, and I chew the ice because I paid for that too dammit.

  “I hope he comes around,” Samantha says.

  “His loss,” I say, trying to shake it off. I throw my Happy Best Friend Face back on. “So, Titanic, huh?”

  “I’ve loved it since I was a kid,” Samantha says. “Though now I want to see a favorite of Dylan’s.”

  “Transformers, hands-down,” Dylan says.

  Samantha cringes. “Maybe dinner tomorrow instead. I can take you to the seafood spot I was telling you about.”

  “Tomorrow is Friday the thirteenth,” I say.

  “Oh right! I’m not superstitious, don’t worry,” Samantha says.

  “Me either,” Dylan says. “I walk under ladders like it’s no one’s business.”

  “Yeah, like when you were eight and you broke your arm an hour later,” I say. He was so freaked out by the pain that he had a panic attack. He swore he was dying, it was so bad. But I’m a good friend and I never bring that up. I’m so glad I wasn’t around to see him fall off his bike.

  “Bad coincidence,” Dylan says.

  “Or bad luck.” I shrug. “Anyway. We have a tradition. Horror movies at House Boggs on Friday the thirteenth.” This has been running strong since eighth grade. “I’m in a Chucky mood.”

  “Why Chucky?” Samantha asks.

  “It’s awesome. It’s like Toy Story but fucked-up.”

  “I’m definitely not messing with tradition,” Samantha says. “This sounds amazing.”

  Dylan side-eyes me.

  I really don’t want to be a cockblock, but I’m pretty sentimental. And Dylan can’t blow me off for a girl he’s known for less than week, no matter how awesome she is. Back in April Hudson and I were going to watch the new X-Men movie, and it was one of the few things he was excited about after the divorce, but it released on Friday the thirteenth, so I canceled our plans like a good friend and Hudson saw it with Harriett.

  “You should hang with us,” I say. I mean it. “I’m cool being the third wheel.”

  “I feel like I’ll be the third wheel,” Samantha says.

  “Ben, find a dude and let’s make it a double date.”

  “Okay, sure, yeah, I’ll just spin around and choose someone here.”

  I turn as a joke and I make eye contact with the cute guy in the Human Torch shirt. I spin back to Dylan and Samantha with flushed cheeks. This is the universe popping up again. I want to make a move here. Because what if he’s the one who’s really supposed to fill the space that was carved out for Hudson?

  “I’m going to say hi to that guy,” I announce.

  “Ooh, which guy?” Samantha asks.

  “The dude with the laptop.” I realize there are four dudes with laptops in my line of vision. “Human Torch shirt.”

  “Go for it,” Dylan says. “Get yours. Do it! Do it!”

  Get mine. Hudson isn’t the only one who can move on. I’m not going to psych myself out. I’m walking over and going to tell him he took my table as a joke and—

  A gorgeous black girl approaches his table and she kisses him right on the lips.

  I return to Dylan and Samantha.

  “Of course he’s straight,” I say.

  “Maybe he’s bi,” Dylan says. “And in an open relationship.”

  “Or my life sucks,” I say. “And maybe Hudson will be the last person who wanted me.”

  “That alien wanted you,” Dylan says.

  “Alien?” Samantha asks.

  “But I’m never going to see him again,” I say.

  “Come on, there’s got to be something about him we can try to find.”

  “What alien?” Samantha asks again.

  “I met a guy at the post office,” I say. “His name is Arthur. But I didn’t get his last name and I don’t remember giving him my name at all.”

  “Oh my god.” Samantha squeezes my arm while bouncing. “I love a mystery. My best friend, Patrick—”

  “Your best friend is a guy?” Dylan asks.

  “—calls me the Nancy Drew of social media—”

  “Is Patrick gay?”

  “—because I helped him find some girl online—”

  “Bisexual?”

  “—that he met at his brother’s graduation.”

  I ignore Dylan’s dizzying interruptions and focus on Samantha. “How did you find her?”

  “He told me everything about the graduation that I could use as keywords for Twitter searches, like the ugly beige gowns and some quotable moments from the valedictorian’s speech. But then we just went down a rabbit hole of the graduation’s hashtag on Instagram and found her. Turns out she doesn’t have Twitter.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Okay, but really, back to Patrick,” Dylan says.

  Samantha grabs Dylan by the shoulders. “Patrick is like a brother to me, creep. Good? Yay. Ben, tell me everything you know about Arthur.”

  “No point. I already did the Twitter hunt and I came up with nothing.”

  “Are you also the Nancy Drew of social media?” Samantha asks.

  I smile. It’s cool that she’s so generous—or maybe she’s really bored. Either way, I fill her in on everything I already searched for on Twitter.

  “I need more than hot dog ties and Georgia,” Samantha says. “I’m good, but come on. Why is he here for the summer?”

  “Oh, because of his mom. She’s a lawyer and she’s working a case.”

  “Do you know the firm? Or anything about the case?” Samantha pulls out her phone and takes notes on her phone. Screw the app business, she needs to become a detective.

  “No times two. But it’s a firm that also has offices back in Georgia. Milton, Georgia! Milton like his uncle who’s great,” I say.

  “Is his uncle a great guy or is he a great-uncle?”

  “Oh.” I don’t remember. I shrug.

  “There’s that summer school brain kicking in,” Dylan says.

  Samantha slaps his shoulder. “It’s okay. It won’t matter too much. Anything else?”

  I’m too hung up on thinking about Dylan’s comment. I know I’m in summer school, I wake up with that FML tightness in my chest every morning. Summer school is where I have to face my ex-boyfriend and scary future. I’m not someone like Arthur who’s dreaming about amazing colleges.

  “Yale!” I say.

  “Say what?” Dylan is super puzzled.

  “Arthur said he stopped by Yale’s campus. He’s kind of baby-faced, but he can be starting there this fall, right?”

  “This is all super helpful,” Samantha says. “I should head back behind the counter in a sec, but anything else?”

  I think abou
t all the good stuff that probably won’t be helpful. Like how awkward he was when talking about my “big package.” How he lit up when he realized I was gay too, even though I was in the middle of telling him about my breakup. His enthusiasm for the universe like it’s actually a friend of ours. Then I remember something useful.

  “He’s leaving at the end of summer,” I say. There’s no point.

  “Incentive to work faster!” Samantha is beaming like she has all the hope in the world, and I wish she would share some because there’s no way that the same universe that locks me away in summer school with my ex-boyfriend will also reunite me with a cute guy. “Okay, I have to run back.” She hugs me. She smells like espresso and scones. “It was so great meeting you, Ben. I hope I can put this puzzle together for you and find your boy. But if not, I have no doubt someone awesome will cross your path and fall for you hard.”

  “Maybe that someone has been in your life for years,” Dylan says, placing his hand on mine.

  Samantha laughs. “I knew it. I’m totally going to be the third wheel tomorrow.”

  “Fear not, future wife of mine. If you get scared tomorrow night, I’ll only tend to you.” He smiles at her.

  Samantha isn’t smiling back. She stares at the floor and scratches her head.

  I catch the moment Dylan realizes he’s really overshot it with the flirting—that maybe Samantha isn’t about marriage talk after two days.

  “I’ll catch you guys later.” She goes behind the counter, puts on her hat, and gets back to work.

  “Oh no,” he says.

  “It’s okay.”

  “It was just a joke.”

  “Give her some space. She’s working. You can talk later.”

  Dylan leads the way out. “Is it that bad? Really?”

  He turns around a few more times, like maybe he’s trying to see if she’s paying attention to him walking out. Maybe he’s getting one last look at her.

  Chapter Nine

  Arthur

  Okay. Fuck Google.

  No, seriously, fuck Google. And fuck Kate Hudson and Chris Robinson. Fuck them for getting married and fuck them for getting divorced and fuck them in general. Because do you know what pops up when you google Hudson Robinson? Spoiler: it’s not the boy from Panera.

  I sink backward onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling. I feel wired and on edge, and my room feels even smaller than usual. Sometimes New York feels like a full-body corset.

  Five seconds later, my phone starts vibrating. And it’s Ethan.

  I stare at the screen. Six weeks of ignoring my texts, and now he’s FaceTiming me out of nowhere. Which isn’t a big deal or anything. It’s just unexpected.

  I press accept.

  “Arthur!” says Jessie. They’re mushed up together on Ethan’s basement couch. Otherwise known as the group text in video form. But it’s fine. I mean, it’s great. Ethan and Jessie are great, and I love them, and their timing is actually kind of perfect.

  I smile. “Hey! Just who I needed to talk to.”

  They glance at each other so fast it barely registers. But then Jessie says, “Oh really? What’s up?”

  “I found Hudson.”

  “Excuse me. WHAT?”

  “But it’s not him,” I say quickly. “It’s not the post office guy. But I think maybe it’s the boyfriend?”

  “Ex-boyfriend.” Ethan points his finger. “You’re the boyfriend.”

  “Pshh. I wish.”

  “Soon-to-be-boyfriend,” says Jessie. “Wow. How did you find him?”

  I tell them about Panera and the panini and the last name and the eyebrows, but when I finish, Jessie looks perplexed. “Wait, how do you know it’s not just some random guy named Hudson?”

  “Because . . .” My stomach sinks. Suddenly, Juliet’s logic seems specious at best. “I don’t know. Is it that common of a name?”

  “Devon Sawa named his baby Hudson.”

  “Of course you know that.” Ethan nudges Jessie sideways.

  “Anyway, nothing’s coming up on Google or Facebook or Instagram or Tumblr or Snapchat or Twitter or literally anywhere, and I hate this.”

  Jessie’s expression softens. “You really like this guy, huh?”

  I groan. “I don’t even know him. I met him for five minutes. Why am I still thinking about him?”

  “Because he’s hot,” suggests Ethan.

  “I just don’t understand. Why would the universe introduce me to this boy and then take him away from me five seconds later?”

  “Maybe the universe will send him back to you,” Ethan says. “Slightly used, though. A little wear and tear. Mostly good condition.”

  Jessie’s silent for a moment, chewing her lip.

  “Maybe the universe wants to make you work for it,” she says finally.

  “I am working for it! I just spent an hour googling some random dude who likes paninis and didn’t go to band camp.”

  “Hmm,” says Jessie. She stands, suddenly out of frame.

  “Wait, where are you going?”

  “I have an idea.”

  I look at Ethan, and he shrugs. Jessie’s footsteps thud across the floor.

  So now it’s just Ethan and me, and we’re totally silent. He can barely meet my eyes.

  “So this is . . .”

  “Yup.” He blinks.

  “Everything good?”

  “Totally good.”

  “Okay. Great.”

  “Yup.” He presses his lips together and stares at his lap. “So how are M&M?”

  Otherwise known as Michael and Mara Seuss. Who I’m pretty sure are on the express train to divorce town.

  “Great!” I say. “Perfect!”

  This is painful—and there’s no sign of Jessie. I’m sorry, but she needs to pull the plug on this mess right now. Ethan’s still gazing somewhere above the webcam. Would he notice if I texted her? Just a quick SOS. And maybe a tiny threat that if she doesn’t come back this second, I will ruin her. I will track down the video love confession she recorded for Ansel Elgort in eighth grade, and, God help me, I’ll find a way to break into the projection room at Regal Avalon. If she thinks this won’t be the most memorable screening ever of Mission: Impossible 6, she’s—

  “Hey!” she says breathlessly, sliding back next to Ethan on the couch. “I think I found Hudson.”

  “Wait . . . what?”

  “Mmhmm. Oh my god. I’m just—Arthur, I’m so proud of myself right now, you don’t even know. This is—like, this is actually happening. Are you ready?”

  I nod slowly.

  “Are you okay? You don’t look okay.” She laughs.

  “Neither do you.” I pause. “Are you sure it’s him?”

  “I mean, you’ll have to look at his picture and tell me.”

  “There’s a picture?” My stomach twists.

  “Don’t ever underestimate my internet creepiness.”

  “I never do,” says Ethan.

  “Shut up. So I had a stroke of inspiration. I was thinking about the whole story with Namrata, and I was like, you know what? I’m searching for Hudson Panini.”

  “Um—”

  “No, hear me out. So I go to Twitter, and I literally type in Hudson panini—and the first thing that comes up is a guy named @HudsonLikeRiver. So right away, I’ve got chills, because that’s exactly what you said, remember? Hudson, like the river.” She points at me, smiling. “Anyway, this guy HudsonLikeRiver has a tweet from 11:44 in the morning today, and it says craving a panini lol.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “Arthur, he was craving a panini today, thirty minutes before you ran into him ordering a panini. And his name is Hudson!”

  “But how do we know he’s the Hudson? Is he from New York?”

  Jessie leans forward, grinning. “I’m not done. Anyway, I check his bio, and it’s super vague, and all of his tweets are vague, too—and they’re bad, they’re bad tweets. Not even funny-bad. And his picture is a bitmoji. So I’m like, fuck. But then I get t
he idea to check Instagram, because people usually just use the same handle, right? And sure enough. Boom. @HudsonLikeRiver. Public profile, fifty zillion pictures, amazing eyebrows. He’s from New York. Art, I’m freaking out.”

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “You have to go check it right now,” she says. “We’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  She ends the call, and I just sit there, shell-shocked. A boy named Hudson. From New York. With great eyebrows. Who was publicly craving a panini for lunch today. Box Boy would be following him on Instagram, right? At least they’d be tagged in pictures together. Which kind of makes my stomach churn, but whatever.

  Deep cleansing breath. I pull up Instagram and type in the handle.

  Hudson like river. @HudsonLikeRiver

  And I’m there.

  Text from Jessie: Is it him??

  I can’t even form a reply. God. It’s him. Hudson. Clarendon-filtered, wearing that backward baseball hat. Selfie upon selfie.

  But I have to stay calm. Just because he’s Hudson Robinson, random panini boy, doesn’t mean he’s Hudson from the address label. It doesn’t mean anything. For one thing, Box Boy is nowhere. Not a single picture of him in Hudson’s entire feed.

  I click through them anyway, starting with the most recent—which is—I’m not even kidding—a picture of his fucking panini. The next one’s a selfie with some girl, adorably named @HarriettThePie, and then a peace sign selfie with the hashtag MovingOn.

  Moving on.

  It’s from the day I met Box Boy—which doesn’t necessarily mean anything. There are lots of ways a person can move on. Hudson could have changed jobs. He could have gotten a haircut. He could have moved on from bread bowls to paninis.

  But the comments. One particular comment.

  @HarriettThePie: You’re going to be fine without him, my beautiful friend. <3

  Him.

  Hudson doesn’t need him.

  I take a screenshot of the picture and Harriett’s comment, and I text it to Jessie and Ethan. It’s him.

  Holy. Shit, writes Jessie.

  Whoa, nice work, Ethan chimes in. Followed by three detective emojis, two white boys and a brown girl. As if Ethan—world’s most underachieving online creeper—had anything to do with this breakthrough.