What If It's Us(64)

“Next stop, First Avenue,” says the intercom.

Almost there!!!!!! I text Ben.

He writes back. Outside the station! Told you I wouldn’t be late. Smiley face. Also six exclamation points, is that a relationship milestone?

It means we’re letting our punctuation balls hang out!!!!!! OKAY I’M HERE, coming up See you now!!!!!!, he writes back.

And there he is, in his headphones and Iceman T-shirt, leaning against a fence outside the station. His face brightens when he sees me, which makes my stomach feel fizzy. All I want to do is kiss him on the lips. Just a hello kiss, nothing tongue-y. But I hug him instead and he breathes in my hair, and that’s pretty amazing, too.

“It’s weird that you’re here.”

“I was here five days ago,” I remind him.

“But not here.” He gestures vaguely at the subway. “And our parents were there. It’s different.” His cheeks flush. And if I wasn’t thinking parent-free thoughts before, I’m definitely thinking them now.

“I’ll carry your bag,” Ben says.

“It’s pretty heavy.”

“I’m pretty strong,” he says, smiling, so I smile back and let him take it. “Oof. What’s in here?”

“Mostly my laptop.”

Also six boxes of condoms. Not that I plan to have thirty-six rounds of sex. But if sex happens, I need options, including glow-in-the-dark options.

We set off down the sidewalk. “So this is the East Village. I guess you probably came through here on Sunday.”

“Well, our Lyft driver didn’t really give us the grand tour.”

“Well then. You are totally not in luck.”

“I’m not?”

“Empty apartment. Cute boyfriend wearing cute work clothes.” He bites back a smile. “I’m probably not going to be the world’s most thorough tour guide.”

“Understandable.” I grin back.

But here’s the funny thing: he kind of is the world’s most thorough tour guide. He’s not exactly taking the long route, but he has a story for everything we pass. Like his school, which he calls his Real School, as opposed to summer school at Belleza High in Midtown. Or the beauty store where he and Dylan cut off chunks of their hair with nail scissors so they could hold them up against the boxes of dye and finally know the truth of their own hair colors (Dylan: Chocolate Lava, Ben: Honey Brown). Or the bagel shop that sells cups of ice cream that you eat with tiny wooden paddles. Or how scared he got the day eight-year-old Dylan broke his arm and had a panic attack. I just soak it all in. I’ve never seen Ben so animated. I really love this side of him. I love seeing his neighborhood through his eyes, the way his memories occupy every block.

“Now we’re in Alphabet City,” he says.

“I can’t believe Alphabet City is a real thing. It sounds like it’s from Sesame Street.”

Our hands keep brushing as we walk. “That show was almost named after my street,” he says, smiling. “They were going to call it 123 Avenue B.”

“You live on Avenue B?”

“And you’re staying in Apartment A. I think the universe is mocking us.”

“Or high-fiving us,” I say, high-fiving him. Except even when the high five is over, we go on holding hands. Just for half a block, maybe.

By the time we reach his building, my heart’s slamming all over my rib cage.

There’s no doorman and no elevator, but there’s a big empty stairwell leading to an empty apartment. And as soon as the door shuts, he cups my face in his hands, tracing his thumbs along my cheekbones. But he doesn’t kiss me right away. He just looks at me, smiling faintly.

“I have something to show you,” he says, sliding my bag off his shoulder.

“What kind of something?”

“Something awesome.”

“Is it something I’ve seen before?”

“I don’t know.” He smiles so sweetly, it makes my heart flip. “It’s in my room.”

“Oh.”

“So . . . should we . . .”

“Sure. Yup. Yeah.”

I follow him into his bedroom, which feels totally, unrecognizably different from Sunday in a way that I can only assume is due to sex vibes. I’m so nervous I’m almost shaking. I can’t wrap my head and my heart around this strange new possibility. This thing my brain’s been circling around for years. How could I ever have predicted the circumstances of this moment—this particular night, this particular place, this particular boy. I always thought it would feel larger than life, and it doesn’t, but I like that. It’s not a starlit field, but it’s better, because it’s Ben.

“So.” He sits on his bed, and I settle in beside him. Then he strains sideways and slides his laptop off his nightstand. I watch as he cracks it open and scrolls through his applications. I have to admit, this is an unexpected part of the process. But maybe it’s porn. I think I’ve heard of people who do that—have sex with porn in the background. I don’t entirely see the point. It seems kind of like watching YouTube videos in a movie theater. But maybe this isn’t porn-related. Maybe this is The Wicked Wizard War–related, and he’s opening up a freshly written sex scene to inspire us. That I could get into.

“Oh, here we go.” Ben scoots backward on the bed. We end up side by side, our backs pressed to the wall, and he tilts his laptop toward me.