What If It's Us(78)

“Barack Obama?”

“Obviously what I meant.” He disentangles our arms. “Should we walk?”

“Okay.”

Now we’re side by side, all over again. It’s sort of nice.

“What do you think Barack’s doing today to celebrate?” Ben asks.

“Oh, he’s having a party, for sure. Michelle’s organizing it, the girls are there, obviously Biden’s there, and Trudeau. And maybe Lin-Manuel Miranda? Okay, and Ben Platt, probably Tom Holland, too, and obviously Daveed Diggs and Jonathan Groff. Maybe Mark Cuban?”

“So Obama’s basically having your ideal birthday party?”

“I’d call it a universally ideal birthday party.”

Ben laughs. “I really missed you.”

“Me too.” I pause. “Where are we going?”

“Oh. I don’t know. I should have asked you if it was even okay for me to hang. I totally get if you’d rather—”

“Don’t go.”

He smiles. “Okay.”

“Want to head back to my apartment? No one’s home.”

“Oh!”

I blush. “I don’t mean—I just mean we could talk, if you want.”

“I’d like that. I think I owe you a conversation.”

I pause. “Right.”

“I mean. Ugh. Sorry, we don’t have to talk about this on your birthday.”

“No, we should. I want to.”

We cross an intersection where everyone’s honking and yelling and cussing, but somehow Ben’s silence is the loudest sound of all.

“Okay,” he says finally. “I want to try to explain the Hudson thing. Is that okay?”

I take his hand. “Yeah.”

“It’s not even about Hudson, really,” he says, threading our fingers. “It’s just me. I’m really bad at this.”

“Bad at what?”

“At relationships? At feeling like I should even be in relationships? I’m so . . .” He stares straight ahead, furrowing his brow. “I have this thing where if someone likes me, I feel like I tricked them into it. Like I can’t trust it. I’ll fuck it up somehow, like with Hudson.”

“But Hudson’s the one who fucked up. He cheated on you.”

“Well, maybe I wasn’t worth it.”

“That’s ridiculous.” I lift our twined hands. “I’m sorry, but how could anyone think you’re not worth it?”

He laughs flatly. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“Because you’re you! Ben. God. You’re funny and smart and—”

“But I’m not! I’m not smart, okay? I mean—I don’t know if you’ll be able to understand this, but a lot of school things are really hard for me. My mind doesn’t want to let that stuff stick.”

“Look.” I nod emphatically. “I get it. I mean—”

“I know, I know, but Arthur, you’re killing it in school. I know you have ADHD, and I’m not saying it’s not hard for you, but look—you’re applying to Yale. I mean, come on. You’re so smart, Arthur. It’s intimidating.”

I can’t help but grin. “I’m intimidating?”

“In that way. Only in that specific way.” He rolls his eyes, smiling slightly. “But really, Hudson and I had been a done deal for two weeks when you came along, and I’m like no, no fucking way, too soon, but the universe was like I insist, and I’m sitting there trying to resist it, because you’re leaving, and it’s pointless, and why would we even—but I don’t even know, Arthur. You’re just so . . .”

“I’m so . . . what?” I nudge him. “Go on.”

“Cute. Charming. Irresistible.” He stops suddenly, tugging me toward a Duane Reade. “Wait a second, okay? I need to run in there.”

“Should I—”

“Nope. I’ll be right back.”

And just like that, he disappears. I lean against the storefront to wait for him, pulling my phone out. There’s a missed call from Bubbe and another one from Mom, but still no birthday texts from Ethan and Jessie. Which isn’t terribly surprising, given what must be an extremely demanding makeout schedule. Not to mention the fact that they probably hate my guts now. And I probably deserve it. Hanging up on them was a dick move, but I guess some part of me was hoping for a birthday do-over. A rewind and redo.

After a minute, Ben emerges from Duane Reade with a bag he won’t show me. “Okay, where were we?” he asks. He can’t seem to stop smiling.

“You were just about to elaborate on me being irresistible.”

He takes my hand again. “You are.”

We go on walking without speaking, all the way to the end of the block.

“Hey,” he says finally, catching my eye. “Thanks for being there for me with Dylan.”

“Come on. What kind of asshole would ditch you in that moment?”

“An asshole who was justifiably mad at me for not telling him about Hudson?”

“I’m the asshole. I should have believed you when you said it was nothing.”

“You’re not an asshole,” he says.