What If It's Us(48)

“Sure.”

Somehow we’re at Macy’s, which is wild—because this isn’t just Macy’s. It’s the Macy’s, straight out of my TV screen. It’s like meeting a celebrity. We snag a little round table outside. I watch Ben peek at his phone, smile, roll his eyes, and shove it back in his pocket without responding.

“Dylan?” I ask.

“Yup.”

“I really liked him. And Samantha. Your friends are great.”

“Yeah, they’re cool. They liked you, too. Like . . . a lot.”

I nod without speaking, because if I speak, I’ll unleash the millions of questions I’m dying to ask. Like, what do they like about me and tell me in detail and was this a test and did I pass? And do you like me a lot, too?

“So tell me more about Ethan and Jessie.” Ben leans forward, onto his elbows. “They sound cool.”

“They’re . . .” I trail off. “Well, we grew up on the same cul-de-sac. We were like a nerd gang.” I pull out my phone. “Here, I’ll show you some exclusive, not-really-new footage of them.”

“Okay.” He scoots his chair beside me, and I’m suddenly aware of everything. My heartbeat and the sound of my breathing and an itch on my elbow. I swipe quickly through my albums. “So, here’s me and Jess, and that’s my car.”

Ben’s quiet for a moment. “Jessie’s cute.”

And she is, though I never really think about that. She’s just Jessie. Short and pudgy, with a Cupid’s bow mouth. Jessie’s mom is Jordanian, kind of pale, and her dad’s black—whereas Jessie’s skin is sort of in between. In the picture, she’s smiling, just barely. I’m wearing sunglasses and my hair’s a little overgrown and unruly. I went through a lazy hair period sophomore year. It wasn’t pretty.

Of course, in the first picture I find of Ethan, he’s shirtless. He’s leaning back on his hands at the edge of a pool, feet underwater, and his hair’s wet, which makes it look jet-black. His eyes are wide open and his mouth is an O. He used to make that face in pictures.

“Still not picturing how Ethan’s a tiny, nerdy guy,” Ben says.

“I swear, he used to be!” I laugh shortly. “Now I’m the last tiny nerd standing.”

“I guess so.” Ben smiles. Then he reaches for my hand under the table. “That’s not a bad thing. I like tiny nerds.”

“You do?”

He laces our fingers together and shrugs. And I’m dead. I am actually dead. There’s no other way to explain it. I’m sitting in fucking Herald Square, holding hands with the cutest boy I’ve ever met, and I’m dead. I’m the deadest zombie ghost vampire who ever died. And now my mouth isn’t working. It’s like I’m stunned into silence. That never happens. I just need to— I kick back into gear. “So that’s Ethan. Still nerdy, no longer tiny. He was really good at puberty.”

“Apparently.” Ben laughs. “Did you guys ever . . .”

“No,” I say quickly. “No no no no no. He’s straight. And he has no game. None of us have any game. We’re kind of like three celibate stepsiblings.”

“As opposed to stepsiblings who have sex with each other?” Ben’s smile sets my whole body into overdrive. Like, I’m pretty sure there’s a little Olympic gymnastics team practicing their floor routines in my stomach.

“I can’t figure out if you like me,” I blurt.

He laughs. “What?”

“I don’t know.” I laugh too, but my heart’s pounding. “It’s just. The whole time at karaoke, you seemed sort of . . . withdrawn, I guess? Like you didn’t want to be there—”

“Karaoke’s not really my thing.”

“Yeah, but I keep thinking about how if you really liked me, it would be your thing. Not karaoke in particular, I don’t care about that. But I think I’d find anything fun if I was with you. Even weird, violent arcade games where I can’t turn around to look at you or a zombie will eat part of my body.”

“Well, that’s what zombies do,” Ben says.

“I know.”

“But I get what you’re saying.” He furrows his brow. “I’m being a shitty date.”

“No you’re not!”

He tugs my hand. “Come on, let’s walk. I can’t sit here.”

“Why not?”

“Because you being honest makes me want to be honest, but I can’t do that if I’m looking at you.”

“Oh.” My stomach twists. “Should I be worried?”

“Worried?”

“I feel like I’m about to get dumped. Not that we’re in a relationship. Oy. I’m sorry. I’m so . . .” I exhale. “Why am I so awful at this?”

“At what?”

“At this.” I lift our threaded hands. “At being with you and being a normal human being with, like, minimally functional conversational skills. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I’m just so new to all of this, and here you’ve already kissed people and probably had sex, and you had this whole other relationship before me. I don’t know if I can live up to that.”