What If It's Us(40)

“What?”

“Oh, and I ordered us truffle fries. Is that okay? They’re like twelve bucks, which is ridiculous, but I’ll totally chip in—”

“No,” I say, and it comes out sharp. I exhale. “I mean, yes. Fries are great. But wait. You don’t think that’s Ansel?”

“I mean, maybe?”

Suddenly, the waiter appears, setting a pale pink mixed drink in front of Ben. Ben looks up at him, confused. “Oh. Um, I didn’t order this.”

“The gentleman in the blue shirt sent this over for you.”

I gasp. “What?”

“Awesome,” says Ben. He takes a sip, and then turns to smile at Ansel.

I gape at Ben. “You’re going to drink that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because.” I shake my head. “Why is Ansel Elgort buying you drinks?”

“That’s not—”

I cut him off. “Shit—okay. He’s coming over.”

“Hey,” Ansel says, pressing his hands on the edge of our table. He turns to Ben. “Jesse, right?”

Oh.

Oh.

I laugh. “Oh wow, I’m sorry. Okay, Jessie’s actually my—”

“Yup, I’m Jesse! Thanks for the drink.”

I stare at Ben, dumbfounded, but he shoots me a tiny smile.

“Sure. Hey. I’d love to get your number.”

Ansel Elgort. Asking for Ben’s number. During our date. What the actual fuck?

“Did you just buy my underage date an alcoholic beverage and then ask for his number?” I ask Ansel loudly.

His eyebrows jump. “Underage?”

“Yes, Ansel, he’s seventeen.”

“Ansel? Dude, my name is Jake.”

For a moment, we just stare at each other.

“You’re not . . .” I trail off, cheeks burning. “I’m . . . gonna shut up now.”

“Good call,” says Jake, already retreating to his table.

I sink deeper into my chair, while Ben gulps down his drink. “I think that went well,” he says, grinning. World’s cutest asshole.

I cover my face with both hands. “That was so—”

“Sir, I’ll need to see your ID.”

I peek through my hands. It’s an older guy, wearing a tie. And he’s talking to Ben. My heart leaps into my throat.

“Oh. Um.” Ben looks startled. “I think I left it—”

“He’s seventeen,” I interject.

Ben shoots me a look.

“Please don’t call the police.” My voice cracks. “Please. God. I can’t go to jail. I can’t—my mom’s an attorney. Please.” I fling down a twenty and grab Ben’s hand. “We’re leaving now. I’m so sorry, sir. I’m incredibly sorry.”

“Bye, Ansel,” calls Ben.

I drag him out the door.

“I can’t believe how fast you just sold me out,” Ben says. “Wow.”

“I can’t believe you let a random guy named Jake buy you a drink!”

“I did.” Ben smiles proudly.

“You almost got us arrested.”

“No way. I just rescued us from those thirty-dollar hamburgers,” he says. “And now look at us. Two-dollar hot dogs. Amazing.”

And even I have to admit it: street vendor hot dogs make a perfect dinner. It helps that Ben has a pretty cute hot dog technique. He pulls the bun up around it like a cardigan, takes a tiny bite, readjusts the bun, and starts all over again.

“How are you eating that without ketchup?”

Ben smiles. “Blame Dylan. He told me I’m forbidden, especially on dates.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I don’t either.” He shrugs. “But he says, and I quote, ‘Ketchup breath is both a dealbreaker and a relationship ruiner.’”

I open my mouth to say something, but all I get is air. No words whatsoever.

Because if Ben’s thinking about ketchup breath, I’m pretty sure he’s thinking about kissing.

Specifically: kissing me.

I watch him put this together. His neck and cheeks go pink.

“We’ll keep it in mind for our next do-over,” he says quickly. “Third do-over will be the charm. Nothing too pricey next time, okay?”

“Yeah. And we won’t order garlic fries.”

“I thought they were truffle fries.”

“Right.”

He smiles. Then he loops his arm around my shoulder, and I’m so happy, I can barely breathe. Even though it’s just a shoulder thing. People on the street probably think we’re just bros. Just two bros eating hot dogs with their arms around each other.

“Okay, so truffles,” Ben says. “Since when do truffles not involve chocolate?” He slides his arm off my shoulders and takes out his phone. “I’m looking this up.”

“Looking what up?”

“What . . . are . . . truffles?” he says, typing.

“They’re some kind of seed, right?”

“Nope. Fungus.” He holds up his phone. “See?”

“What? No way.” I lean in closer. Our arms are brushing. “I really thought they were seeds.”