Here's to Us(What If It's Us #2)(87)

“Oh.” Ben does a few quick blinks. “Wow.”

“No pressure though,” I say quickly. “I know you have a ton going on, with the packing and the wedding, and—plus, you don’t have to decide now. Or at all. Just. If you want to, you can.”

“I mean, it sounds amazing. I need to figure out what I have going on this week—”

My cheeks flood with heat. “Seriously, don’t even worry about it.”

“This is such an amazing gift. Just. Thank you.”

“No problemo!” I say, immediately cringing. “Wow, I did not just say that. Whatever you thought you heard . . .”

He laughs. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Me too.” I exhale. “Which is so ridiculous, because I don’t even really live here. Literally, what’s the difference, right?”

“No, I get it,” he says, and my eyes start to prickle.

I stand abruptly. “Anyway, I’ll let you finish packing.”

“You’re fine! Hang out as long as you want.”

I stare at his face, trying to memorize all its details. I know I’ll see him again at the wedding, and maybe the play. But Ben’s face has always looked a little different when it’s just us. “I should—I’ll see you soon.”

He jumps up to hug me. “Okay, well. Thank you so much. For just—yeah.”

I nod into his shoulder, barely capable of speaking.

The door shuts behind me, and I can hardly catch my breath for a minute. I don’t know what I even expected. A big final-act kiss? A scorching rejection? It’s the kind of thing that makes sense in movies, but it falls apart when it’s real, when it’s Ben, when his bedroom floor is covered with moving boxes. When he’s telling me to hang out as long as I want to, but not begging me to stay.

I wonder how many love stories end like this—with an ambiguously long hug and a million things left unsaid.

I reach the staircase, staring down blurrily like I’m peering over a cliff. My phone buzzes a few times in my pocket, and I pull it out to find a whole long thread of texts from Ben. The first one’s just a word: I’m— Followed by a series of screenshots, each one zooming closer and closer on Emmett’s handwritten Yours.

Yours. My breath catches.

He texts again. EM IS MINE???

His. Emmett’s. Not mine. Not ever. Unless—

I’m barely aware of my feet springing me back into the hallway, barely hear my own knuckles on the wood of Ben’s door.

Ben opens it, smiling. “What’d you forget?”

I step past him into the apartment. “Okay, listen,” I say. “I’m not trying to make things weird, and I don’t want to fuck things up for you. I don’t even know how this goes, because I can’t—I can’t imagine saying this to you, but I also can’t imagine walking out that door without saying it.” I turn to look at him, finally, and my lips are trembling. “Ben, I’m so fucking sorry.”

He laughs, looking taken aback. “Why?”

I start to cover my face with my hands, but I stop myself, clasping them under my chin. “I’m not making any sense.”

“Literally none.”

I laugh, a little breathlessly. “Right. I just have to—fuck. They make this look so easy, and I’m—” I hold my hands up, and they’re shaking.

“Okay, you’re scaring me a little.”

“I’m still in love with you,” I blurt.

Ben’s lips fall open. “Oh—”

“And I know I’m not supposed to be, and I promise I’m not standing here waiting for you to say it back to me. I know that’s not . . . going to happen, but it’s fine.” I try to smile. “And I want you to know that I’m happy for you and Mario.” I stop. “I mean. Sort of.” I stop again. “Okay, you know what? Fuck that. I’m not.”

Ben lets out a quick, surprised laugh.

“Look, I want you to be happy. But not with him, because he’s—I mean, he’s great.” A tear slides down my cheek. “I actually really like him. But I want you to be with me.” I press my hands against my chest, against my thudding heart. “And he’s not me.”

“Arthur—”

“Wait, let me just say the rest really quickly, before I—just. I just need to say it, okay? I don’t want to wake up in two years and have to tell the next guy I’m not”—my voice cracks—“I’m not in love with him. Because he’s not you. And I know this is the part where I’m supposed to list out all the quirky reasons—like, oh, I love how fucking intense you get about video games—”

“It’s not really the games,” Ben says. “I just don’t like—”

“Losing. I know.” I give a choked, tearful laugh. “I’m just—I’m so bad at this. How am I so bad at this? You know what I did last night? I watched every love confession scene I could find, and every single one of them reminded me of you. All of them. Notting Hill. Crazy Rich Asians. Ten Things I Hate About You—Ben, I cried watching the end of the Kissing Booth sequel, because for me, it’s always you. You’re the point of every story.”

A tear rolls down Ben’s cheek, and he swipes it away with his fingers.