What If It's Us(72)

The good news is that Charizard can really fucking dance.

But wow. I haven’t had an actual conversation in days. Dad’s in Atlanta for a job interview, and Mom’s been working late every single day. And of course, I’m “out sick” again. Hopefully forever. It doesn’t even feel like a lie at this point.

Mom walks in around eight, perching beside me on the arm of the couch. “Honey, how are you feeling?”

I force a cough, but it morphs into a choke halfway through.

“So . . . not good?”

“Not good,” I confirm.

She presses a hand to my forehead. “No fever, though. We’ll keep an eye on it.” She smooths my hair. “You going to be okay this weekend? I hate leaving you alone on your birthday.”

“It’s fine.”

I mean, here’s the thing: my birthday’s Saturday. Mom’s driving upstate tomorrow morning for a bunch of depositions and meetings. She’s not coming back until Monday, and Dad’s not back until Monday either, so I’ll be spending my seventeenth birthday alone in Uncle Milton’s apartment. Of course, the worst part is knowing it could have been the most epic birthday ever. This could have been a fucking honeymoon weekend with Ben. No parents. Apartment wide open. Just me and thirty-six condoms and my beautiful sweet boyfriend. Otherwise known as my asshole ex-boyfriend.

“I’m giving Namrata and Juliet your number, okay? I’ll have them check in on you.”

I shrug.

We’re both silent. Mom clears her throat. “So, do you want to talk about—”

“Nope.”

I mean, what would I even say? Too bad I won’t be losing my virginity while you’re gone, Mom, because Ben broke my fucking heart, and now I’m single and alone. Here, have six boxes of condoms. I’ll literally never need them.

“Well, if you change your mind . . . ,” she says, pursing her lips. Here we go. “I don’t know, Arthur. Your dad and I are just so worried about you—”

“Okay, you don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“The whole parental unity game. Your dad and I. Come on.”

“Sweetie, I—”

“You know what’s awesome? The way everyone—every single one of you—just walks around lying to me. All the time. Because, oh, it’s Arthur, and he can’t handle our scary big secrets.” I thrust my palms up. “You guys want to get a divorce? Fine. Just fucking tell me.”

Mom’s mouth falls open. “Divorce?”

“Come on.”

“Arthur, what? Your dad and I are fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

She peers at me strangely. “How long have you been stressing about this?”

“Since forever! You’ve been fighting nonstop all summer.”

“Sweetie, no. It’s just been kind of a tough time, with your dad being out of work and—”

“Oh, believe me, I’m up-to-date. You need to learn how to have quieter fights.”

It’s like someone sucked all the air from the room. I stare at my hands. I swear I can hear my heartbeat.

“Okay, why don’t we call your dad?”

“Right now?” I groan, covering my face.

She presses the phone to her ear and stands, murmuring something under her breath, but I don’t even try to eavesdrop. I’m tired of caring about this. I’m tired of trying. That’s what I need to do: stop giving a shit and stop trying. Just like my parents stopped trying with each other.

Just like Ben stopped trying with me.

Ben, who texted me once. Literally once. And there you have it. That’s how hard he was willing to fight for me. But why would he fight? Why would he fight for a boy who’s moving back to Georgia when he’s had Hudson sitting two feet away from him all summer? And yeah, I know he can’t control that. But he lied about it. Every single day. Every word he’s ever said. He never even mailed the box.

Mom steps back into the living room and hands me her phone. “Here’s Dad. He’s on speaker.”

“Hi,” I say flatly.

“So, who told you we’re getting divorced?”

He sounds amused, which is annoying.

“Uh, well, seeing as you can’t even go five minutes without being assholes to each other, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist—”

“Wow.” Mom sits back down on the couch and hooks her arm around me. “Don’t hold back.”

Dad laughs. “Kiddo, we’re not getting divorced.”

“You can tell me! Just be honest.”

“We are being honest!” Mom shakes her head. “Arthur, we’ve always argued. That’s just us. We’re not perfect. Relationships are messy. You and Ben haven’t been a hundred percent smooth sailing—”

“This isn’t about Ben!”

“Art, I’m just saying, things get stressful. You mess up, you say the wrong thing, you get on each other’s nerves—”

“But you guys are married. You should have your shit together.”

Mom does this choked little laugh—and when I glance up at her, she’s grinning full force at Dad’s name on the phone screen. So, that’s a little disorienting—it’s like catching Valjean and Javert holding hands. But maybe my parents really are a Saturday-night-on-the-sofa kind of couple. And an arguing-over-stupid-shit kind of couple. Maybe they’re both.