What If It's Us(42)

“Right. I was kidding about the future-wife thing. Half kidding.” He takes the phone back and reads over the message again.

“Can I help you with the text, please?”

Dylan shakes his head. “I got this.” He takes a deep breath and narrates: “Dear future wife . . .”

I snatch the phone.

Thursday, July 19

Our third first date is pretty low-key. No arcade games where Arthur can’t keep up. No meals I can’t pay for. Figuring it out wasn’t easy. Arthur suggested one of those disco parties where you wear headphones and dance to songs of your choice. I suggested Nintendo World, which was apparently too close to arcade games for someone—cough, cough. He suggested a painting class. I suggested rock climbing. We’ve settled on a stroll through Central Park, and I have plans for where I can kiss him.

It’s after six as we walk the same path I walked with Dylan last week. I even knocked out my homework and studied for tomorrow’s test this afternoon so I can stay out until nine. Arthur and I split a pretzel while talking about how his favorite GIF is the one of the bald eagle that tries biting Trump’s hand off, and all I can think about are all the things I want to know about him. And what that means since he’s not here for good.

“What are some of the things you have to do before you go back to Georgia?”

“Win the Hamilton lottery. And I kind of want to see another show on my birthday. Visit Lady Liberty, maybe? Going to the top of the Empire State Building could be interesting.”

“It’s hell to get up there, but definitely worth the Instagram photo op. I really liked that photo of you in the hot dog tie,” I say. “A lot of photos, actually. But I didn’t want to be That Guy who likes all your old photos. That Guy isn’t cool. I hope where I’m taking you is worth the ’gram.”

The only photo we have together is from our first first date. I don’t know if I’m ready to upload a photo of a new guy to Instagram because that’s a huge statement, but it’d be nice to start having something to remember this summer by.

As we head up the stone steps to Belvedere Castle, I’m kind of wishing we’d waited a couple more hours for the sun to set for some city glow action. I really love the way lit windows pop like stars when it gets dark out. But at least Arthur will be able to appreciate the daytime view.

“Here we are,” I say. “What do you think?”

“Definitely Instagram-worthy.”

As we look over the balcony, I say, “I came here looking for you.”

“What?”

“This girl Dylan is interested in, Samantha, she tried helping me find you. And I told her everything I knew about you because she’s pretty much a social media detective, and she found a Yale meetup here and I checked it out. For you. But you weren’t here.” I inch closer to him and our elbows are touching. “I think you’re cool.”

Arthur nods and smiles, but the smile doesn’t hang out for very long. I’m not getting kiss vibes.

“You okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine. That’s really sweet,” he says. “I just . . . I saw a photo of you and Hudson at Dave & Buster’s. Did you bring him here too?”

Fucking Hudson. We’re not even friends and he’s still managing to ruin my life. “Nope. Hudson and I never came here.” I shift, our elbows no longer touching. “I brought you to Dave & Buster’s because I was nervous and that was comfortable for me. Is that why you’re upset?”

“I’m not upset,” Arthur says. It’s pretty clear he’s bothered.

“If there’s stuff you want to know, just ask me. It’s fine. Cool?” I massage his shoulder, hoping we can get this back on track. “Arthur, don’t forget that if I never dated Hudson, then I couldn’t have broken up with him. Then I wouldn’t have gone to that post office. Then I wouldn’t have met you.”

I swore that would’ve made me feel better. Except Arthur still doesn’t look happy.





Chapter Seventeen


Arthur


Stop. Talking. Arthur.

It’s like my mouth and my brain don’t even know each other. They’re not even in the same plane of reality. My mouth is the guy in the horror movie with his hand on the door. My brain’s the guy on the couch screaming, “DON’T OPEN IT.”

The Hudson door. I can’t stop opening it.

And tonight was supposed to be the night when everything clicked into place. I spent all week plotting every minute of it in my head. I was going to be funny and cool, and he’d be totally charmed. Not even charmed. He’d be straight-up enchanted. I imagined we’d end up on a bench in Central Park, sitting without an inch of space between us, and Ben would tap my arm to tell a joke or make a point, but he’d leave his hand there a moment longer than he needed to. I’d catch him staring at my profile. We’d watch all the tourists walk by, and he’d lean in close with whispered running commentary. I actually lost sleep this week imagining the heat of Ben’s breath on my ear.

And of course there would be kissing. My first kiss. Followed by the loss of my virginity in some quiet, starlit field.

But no. Not even close. Instead, it’s me bleeding out all my neuroses, looking for answers to questions I have no right to be asking. But I don’t know how to make myself stop asking them. People like me should come with a mute button.