Here's to Us(What If It's Us #2)(79)

And neither do I.

“Oh yeah. Yikes,” Jessie says. “I don’t know.”

“I should say no, right?”

“Sure, unless you want to go—”

“I absolutely don’t.” My voice booms so loudly, a dog drops his stick. “I’m done. I don’t need to get tangled up in that whole group and all their weird enmeshed friendships. I just want to hang out with my people. Like you and Ethan. And I can’t wait to meet Grayson, and—oh, I’m almost at the subway, but listen, I know Grayson can’t be there, but if you still want to hang out on Friday night, let me know. I’m free. Obviously.”

“Oh, um. Actually.” Jessie hesitates. “I hope this isn’t weird, but I’m . . . hanging out with Samantha that night?”

“Oh!” I nod—always a galaxy brain move on an audio call. “Yeah, no. Okay, cool. That’s. Great.”

I stare at the screen for a full thirty seconds after we hang up.

For the whole ride home, all I can think about is my last night in New York. My first last night, when Ben and I spent the whole evening studying chemistry. I remember how his mouth twitched every time he got a question right. Has there ever been anything as beautiful as Ben Alejo’s face when he’s proud of knowing something?

He told me the difference between physical and chemical changes—didn’t even have to peek at the flash cards. Physical reactions are the no-big-deal kinds of changes, the surface stuff. But chemical reactions break bonds and forge new ones, until the composition of the substance is irrevocably changed. “For example, baking a cake,” Ben had said. “You can nope out halfway through, but you’re not getting your ingredients back. Chemical change.”

See also: Jessie’s friendship with Samantha. Dylan in my texts. And the fact that I can’t go a single subway ride without thinking about Ben, because he’s bonded himself to every cell in my brain, and I’m starting to think he’s rebuilt my heart from scratch.





Chapter Thirty-One


Ben

Friday, July 3




I’m ready to play.

It’s been a while since I’ve done an escape room. I love games, but sometimes it feels like there’s so much pressure to solve the puzzle, and I don’t like being seen as someone who isn’t smart enough. This insecurity is also why I hate Scrabble. Everyone swears I’ll dominate that game because I’m a writer, as if I know every single word in the human language. Then I freeze up and play words like “stick” and “car.” The only game of Scrabble that didn’t make me want to break things was online against Arthur senior year. We both immediately lost interest and ended up screenshotting the board so we could write in a bunch of dirty words with the Paint app.

But, you know what? I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t hate Scrabble with Mario either. I bet it would even be relaxing to play against him, because I know he doesn’t care if my biggest contribution to Scrabble is a three-letter word. Just like he won’t care if I don’t contribute in this escape room.

We’re all in the lobby, waiting for the infamous Patrick. Mario is texting away on the orange couch. Dylan is staring at the leaderboard, muttering about how there’s no way we’re going to win with Patrick on our team. I’m going through the basket of victory/defeat foam signs, excited to see how this all plays out.

“Unbelievable,” Dylan says. “This guy is so late.”

“Why’d you invite him?” Mario asks, looking up from his phone. “You seem to hate him.”

“Because I love my girlfriend and—” Dylan puts up air quotes and mockingly says, “I have to be nice to her best friend because she’s nice to mine.” He rolls his eyes and points at me. “Who couldn’t love this freckled angel?”

“For real,” Mario says.

Those words hit me differently. Is he trying to say that he loves me? I mean, do people move in with each other if they’re not in love? Do they move across the country for them if they’re not in love? I’ve got to ask myself the same question: Do I love him?

I love spending time with him, I love how much we fit together, but do I love him?

I should know this.

The escape room employee, Liam, comes from around the counter, wiping his glasses clean. “Your time starts in three minutes. Is your fourth almost here?” he asks in an English accent.

“Fantastic question, Liam. Let me call that bastard,” Dylan says.

He pulls out his phone right as a model-like guy walks in. He has black curly hair and a strong jawline and apologetic brown eyes and he’s so pale I think I can make out some sunscreen on his face; he’s like a sad vampire. “Dylan, dude, I am so sorry. I would blame the subway, but I should’ve left half an hour earlier.”

It’s Patrick.

“It’s fine,” Dylan mumbles.

“You must be Ben and Mario,” Patrick says, shaking our hands with both of his. “Dylan talks about you all the time.”

“He’s said a few things about you, too,” I say.

Patrick touches his heart. “Aw, that’s sweet.”

Mario’s loud ringtone blares. “It’s the moving company,” he says. “Un momento.”