Here's to Us(What If It's Us #2)(86)

I’ve barely stepped into this moment, and I already miss it.

“This fucking weather,” he says.

I’m too tongue-tied to speak. We’re practically out of the park by the time I cough up even the most inane of all questions. “How’s the packing going?”

“Fine, I guess? Could be worse.” Ben switches hands on the umbrella handle for a second to scratch an itch. “I’m not packing up my whole room or anything. And Mario’s uncle’s guest house is furnished, so it’s just whatever clothes and stuff I want to bring with me.”

“Better bring something for the red carpet.”

Ben laughs. “I think that’s getting a little ahead of things.”

“Well, it’s what you deserve.”

“Thanks, Arthur.”

We wipe our feet on the mat outside Ben’s apartment, and he dumps the umbrella in a stand near the door. “My parents are at work,” he says. In a different universe, I think, that could be an invitation.

He taps his phone, and music drifts from a speaker in what sounds like his room. But it’s not until he opens his bedroom door that I recognize it. I look up at him, smiling. “Is that my Broadway playlist?”

“Got to soak in all the New York while I still can.”

Ben’s bedroom is a war zone of strewn clothing and books and a few half-packed cardboard boxes.

Box Boy, I remember, my heart panging sharply.

Ben surveys the chaos. “Sorry about all of this.” He crosses the room, swiping a black garment bag off his bed and looping its hanger through his window blinds. Then he sits back down on the bed, scooting to make space.

I hesitate. “Do you want help with any of this? I don’t want to throw you off your packing game.”

“Oh, it’s fine. I can take a break.”

I settle in beside him, glancing up at the zippered bag now hanging from his window. “Is that the Bloomingdale’s suit?”

“My Best Man gift from Dylan and Samantha. I don’t know how I didn’t see it. Like, in retrospect, why on earth would Dylan drag me to Bloomingdale’s, have me try on an expensive-ass suit, and bring in a sales consultant to get the fit right?”

I laugh. “Because it’s Dylan, and he does stuff like that?”

“I know.” Ben’s face clouds over. “I still can’t believe the timing. I’m moving across the country, and now he’s having a baby.”

“But the baby’s not due until December, right? Maybe you could come back for a few weeks?”

“As long as I can find cheap tickets.” He smiles, a little nervously. “It’ll be my first time on a plane.”

“I forgot you hadn’t been on one.”

“I’m, like, already scared of flying.”

“Oh no! Don’t be. It’s weird—for most of it, you barely feel like you’re moving. You’ll get used to it pretty quickly.” I pause. “And you’ll be with Mario, right?”

“I guess so? He’ll probably want to spend Christmas here if he can, so . . .”

“That will help.”

“Yeah.” He scoots back to the wall, tucks his legs up, and sighs. “Okay, honest question. Am I the biggest asshole for leaving?”

“Wait—why?”

“I mean, how often does your best friend have his first kid?”

“Once? Unless all his other kids are do-over first kids?”

Ben’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Okay, stop being morbid. First first kid is alive and healthy. And you”—I prod his arm—“need to stop rereading that YA book where everyone dies at the end.”

He tips his palms up. “It’s a good book.”

“And you’re not an asshole,” I add. “You shouldn’t have to put your life on hold for Dylan’s.”

“Yeah. No, you’re right. I’m being weird.” He stares at his knees without blinking.

“Let me grab your present,” I say when the silence is a little too unbearable. I reach for my messenger bag.

“You really didn’t have to get me anything.”

“It’s small. You’ll see.” I root around inside the bag for a moment, managing to slide the envelope out of my work binder without even undoing the clasp. It’s a regular white business-sized envelope—sealed and, thankfully, dry.

“Should I open it now?”

I nod, and he carefully pries it open, revealing a tiny full-color picture on photo-sized cardstock. Along the side, styled like a ticket, are the words: Play It Again: Dress Rehearsal, Admit One. “Oh, awesome!” Ben says.

“Turn it over.”

He flips it, eyes widening as he reads the handwritten words out loud. “‘Ben, Hope to see you Thursday! Yours, Em Kester.’” Ben turns to me, gaping. “WHAT?”

“Surprise!”

“Arthur! Fuck. This is incredible.” He flips it back over to study the ticket. “I’m—wow. I didn’t even know they made tickets for dress rehearsal.”

“They don’t. I mean, they do, but just for the final dress rehearsal, and you’ll be gone by then. But Jacob said you could come to this one. And I made the ticket so Emmett would have something to sign.” I pause, heart pounding. “If you do want to come, I’m pretty sure I can introduce you to Em afterward.”