Here's to Us(What If It's Us #2)(97)

As everyone laughs, Samantha included, she snatches the mic. “Tell them the real reason or I’ll walk away.”

“You already vowed to love me!”

“Dylan . . .”

“Fiiine.” He squeezes his hand around the key hanging from her neck. “This is the key to our dorm room, aka our first home together. And I told you I want to share more homes with you.”

My hand shoots to my mouth with how sweet that is.

“Great, now everyone knows how sweet I am,” Dylan says.

“It’s humanizing,” Samantha says as she brushes his cheek.

Dylan turns to the officiant. “For the love of God, can we kiss now?”

The officiant laughs as he wraps up the ceremony. Patrick and I give our best friends the rings. Dylan’s is a simple band and Samantha’s gold ring comes from her grandmother.

“Now?” Dylan asks, dying to kiss Samantha.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the officiant says. “You may now kiss—”

Dylan wastes no more time as he kisses the girl he once called his future wife.

My best friend is married.

I’ve never clapped so hard in my life. Through teary eyes, I watch Dylan bow while holding Samantha’s hand. Together, they walk down the aisle with all their family and friends cheering them on.

And I find Arthur turning to look at me like his eyes have been away from mine for too long. I’m so happy he’s back in my life, and I’m ready for do-over after do-over to become the best us we’ve always known we could be.

I once wondered if we were a love story or a story about love.

I now know the answer.





Chapter Forty


Arthur

Saturday, July 11




The only thing better than Ben beneath a canopy is the part where he walks straight to me when the ceremony’s over. And the part where he kisses me with such casual certainty, I almost melt into the neatly mowed grass.

It’s still so thrilling and strange—these quick, offhand kisses in front of grandparents and caterers and Dylan’s hot uncle Julian. I’ve been out for so long, I don’t even think about how much I hold back in some spaces. But the truth is, fifteen-year-old me barely dared to dream about kissing a boyfriend in public. I’m pretty sure thirteen-year-old me thought two guys kissing at a wedding was a thing that only happened in strangers’ photos.

Ben takes both my hands, threading our fingers together. “So. Like. How good was the best man?”

“The best. Best best man. Couldn’t take my eyes off him. Was there even a groom?”

“Wouldn’t know,” Ben says. “I was too busy checking out some guy wearing a hot dog tie.”

I smile up at him. “Special occasion, right?”

I swear, my molecules rearrange when he’s near me. The air between us feels so thick, I could poke a hole straight through it. He leans in to kiss me again—I don’t even know how I’m still standing upright.

“Ow ow owwwwwwww!” Dylan howls into megaphone hands.

Ben and I break apart, flustered and smiling.

“Now, I don’t want to interrupt—”

“Dylan!” I catch him in a full-on bear hug. “Mazel tov! How do you feel?”

“I feel like taking some naughty pics, is how I feel,” Dylan says.

Ben mouths the word “wow.” “That sounds like more of an after-wedding activity.”



“Au contraire, my Best Ben. You’re indispensable,” he says, adjusting Ben’s tie and giving him a firm pat on the shoulder. “Photographer’s orders. And,” he adds, waggling his eyebrows at me, “boyfriends definitely allowed.”

Boyfriend—my stomach does cartwheels when he says it. That’s how Dylan introduced me to his parents this morning, too. Ben’s boyfriend. I’m trying so hard to keep my cool about it, since Ben and I haven’t technically discussed it yet. But I can’t help but notice that Ben didn’t object either time.

He takes my hand. “Come with me?”

Like it’s even a question. We trail behind Dylan, past three floral-decked tables and a makeshift dance floor strung with twinkle lights. There’s a tree-lined alcove at the edge of the O’Malley property, where a woman in all black is snapping pictures of Samantha with various combinations of relatives. When she sees us, her practiced photo smile breaks into a full-beaming grin.

Samantha as a bride is still the weirdest concept, but there’s no denying she wears it well. She’s so beautiful, even I’m a little bit spellbound. Her dress looks like something straight out of a Jane Austen adaptation—high-waisted and flowy, with ivory lace and cap sleeves. Maternity chic, she’d called it this morning, tugging the fabric tight around her belly to show us just how fucking oblivious we’ve been for weeks.

The photographer pulls Dylan into the tableau, in between Samantha and her grandma. I lean in closer to Ben to watch her bustle around, snapping a million pictures from every angle, periodically pausing to add or remove another O’Malley relative.

“I keep thinking about how these are Dylan’s wedding pictures,” Ben says, smiling faintly. “Like, we’re witnessing the creation of an image that’s going to be passed along to their grandchildren.”