Here's to Us(What If It's Us #2)(51)

The whole way there, I’m barely aware of my own two feet on the ground. Because—

God, I love you.

Love.

It’s such an imprecise word. That’s the problem. Love means too many things. Jacob loves Taj for tracking down a bunch of budget spreadsheets. I love chocolate and Hamilton and my parents and Bubbe. I mean, it’s pretty absurd when you really think about it, right? Here I am, floundering under the weight of the big do-I-love-Mikey question, when I wouldn’t even blink if it was anyone else in my life. Do I love Ethan and Jessie? Of course! And I love my Wesleyan friends. I love Musa. It’s not even a question. So how come it feels like one when I try to apply the concept to Mikey?

I mean, I love Mikey in the regular way. Obviously. It’s just the rest of it that’s foggy.

I’m so distracted, I don’t even see Emmett stepping out of the dressing room bathroom until I crash into him head-on.

I stare at him, my jaw going slack. Emmett Kester.

I just full-on collided with a person whose face is literally on a Times Square billboard. Sure, he’s a little off to the side, kind of tucked behind Maya Erskine and Busy Philipps. But that’s because he’s going to be in a TV show! With Maya Erskine! And Busy Philipps! And these days you can’t even google him without tripping over another Out and Proud Bicons list or Twenty Queer Black Stars Under Thirty.

“I’m—so sorry,” I choke. “I wasn’t—”

“Hey. You’re fine.” He gives my arm a reassuring quick pat. “Arthur, right? I’m Em.”

Emmett—Emmett Kester knows my name. He wants me to call him Em. And now we’re just hanging out in the dressing room like a couple of dressing room bros, and there’s absolutely no way this is real. I was still weeks away from working up the nerve to talk to the actors. Now we’re on nickname terms?

“Hi! Yes! Sorry, I’m not usually such a disaster—” I pause, just long enough to spiral through a hyperspeed greatest hits montage, beginning with the time I complimented Ben on the size of his package. “Oh, and I’m Arthur! Really nice to officially meet you, Ben—Em.”

My heart crash-lands somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Undo. Back arrow. Delete.

Emmett just smiles. “Nice to meet you, too. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

After he leaves, I just stare at myself in the dressing room mirror, hands pressed to my scalding cheeks. I look like a little Jewish sunburned Macaulay Culkin.

I can’t believe I called him Ben.

I take a few deep cleansing breaths and pull out my phone. Two notifications—two Ben texts. I tap straight into our text chain, scanning for the last text I sent him. It’s from almost thirty minutes ago. You know what you should do??

Ben’s reply, a few minutes later: ??

And a few minutes after that: the suspense!!



I scroll back down to reread the unsent message I’d been typing, about Patricio and Sir Sabre and Duke Dill, and it’s so painfully try-hard, I can’t even get to the end without cringing. I slam my finger down hard on the delete button.

Sorry, got pulled into work! I write, pausing for just a second over the exclamation point. But I think it’s fine. Maybe even good. Nicely restrained, not too apologetic, nothing forced. I know it doesn’t exactly alleviate the suspense (the suspense!!), but maybe leaving a little mystery isn’t such a bad thing.

Lol it’s okay, he writes back.

I guess it feels almost like a game with Ben sometimes, where the more I put in, the more I lose. I’m always the one who texts first and replies faster, and just about every text conversation we’ve ever had ends with me. Not just this summer. It’s been like this for two years. I’ve been losing for two years.

Maybe I should just not reply. Quit while I’m ahead, for once.

But no. This isn’t it. We’re just starting to get our friendship back on track, and that’s not a thing I’m willing to lose again. Plus, with Dylan’s alleged weirdness, he clearly needs a friend more than ever.

I tap into our text chain again, filling the window with the kind of unfiltered sincerity I’m always trying to hold back these days. At least with Ben, I hold back. But this time, I press send before I can talk myself out of it.

Okay so I was going to make some joke about Dylan and his weird one-way rivalry with Patrick, but seriously I know you’re worried about him and I just want you to know I’m up for listening if you ever really want to sit down and talk about it

Or stand up and talk about it? I add. Or stand on one foot and talk about it?

Ben writes back right away. Thanks, yeah, that’s really nice of you, may take you up on that

You should! I feel my mouth tugging up at the corners. Name a date and I’ll put it on the calendar, it’ll be like scheduling therapy with a wildly incompetent therapist What a compelling offer lol, Ben writes back—and just as I’m about to shoot back a clown emoji, he adds: okay what are you up to this coming Wednesday?

I stare at my screen for a moment, feeling like I just chugged a full bottle of chocolate liqueur. But I blink away the thought and start typing. Nothing, just work! Should be getting out around six Cool, you’re pretty close to me, right? Want me to meet you outside and we can figure out where to go from there?

Best plan ever, I write.