What If It's Us(89)

Hudson slides the box closer to him. “That means a lot, Ben. Thanks.” He taps the box. Deep breath. “So what are you going to do about Arthur?”

“I’m not sure. I get that it doesn’t make sense because he leaves tomorrow, but . . . I think there’s something more to us. I should head out and go see him.”

“You should definitely do that.”

I look into Hudson’s eyes, and I know he’s not only rooting for my love, but he’s aching for the heartbreak that may be coming my way.

I hail Dylan and Harriett back over. We tell them we’re all good. No jokes are cracked. They don’t ask questions about us just like we don’t ask if they really just talked about Samantha or if the conversation revolved around them. Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean we’re entitled to one another’s private moments.

I open up my arms and we come together. If I’m being honest, the group hug feels a little forced. But maybe that’s not a bad thing. We’re fighting to be close again, and that’s beautiful. Maybe one day it’ll feel easy again. We can start slow by following each other on Instagram again and keeping the group chat thread alive. We can plan hangouts instead of the good old days where we would just show up at each other’s apartments. We can fall back in place, or somewhere close enough to where we were before. This summer with more do-overs than I can count gives me hope that the four of us will figure it out.





Chapter Thirty-Seven


Arthur


I don’t want to go home.

I’m on my stomach on this too-small bed in Ben’s too-small room with its warm, gooey air and index cards everywhere, and I’m literally reading a chemistry textbook. Chemistry, the most molecularly shitty of all subjects, and I don’t mean that ionically.

I really wish I could stop time.

Ben flops onto his stomach beside me, pressing his hands to his face. “I can’t believe we’re spending your last night studying for my fucking exam.”

“I love studying with you for your fucking exam.”

“I’d rather forget the exam part and go straight to—”

I clap my hand over his mouth. “Don’t say ‘fucking.’ Don’t you dare.”

His laugh is muffled. “Why not?”

“Because.” I let my hand drift to his cheek. “It’s the least romantic sex word ever.”

“But what about ‘coitus’?”

“Okay, that’s another strong contender.”

“‘Fornicate.’ ‘Copulate.’ ‘Sexual congress.’”

“That one sounds like a political-themed porn.”

Ben bursts out laughing.

“Starring Mitch McConnell and Paul Ryan.”

“Thank you so much for that mental image, Arthur.”

“And the sequel: Congressional Cock-us.”

“I hate you.” He kisses me, and I just gaze at his face. I’m pretty sure I’d be happy devoting the rest of my life to kissing each and every Ben freckle. I’m pretty sure he can tell.

I cup his cheeks in my hands. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Question. In sodium chloride, which element has the negative charge?”

“Chloride.”

“Yup!”

He smiles self-consciously.

“Next question. How does adding salt change the freezing and boiling points of water?”

“The freezing point decreases and the boiling point increases.”

“How are you so good at these?”

“I mean, I have to impress my Yale-major boyfriend.”

I laugh and kiss his cheek. “You can’t major in Yale.”

“You’ll be the first.”

“Yeah, about that.” My heartbeat quickens. “I had an interesting conversation today with Namrata and Juliet.”

“Oh yeah?”

“About NYU. Excellent school. Excellent theater program.”

“You’re majoring in theater?”

“No, but I want to know famous actors before they’re famous. Oh, and Namrata’s boyfriend is going to talk to me about Columbia.”

“I . . . okay.”

“I just mean”—I shoot him a tentative smile—“maybe this doesn’t have to be my last night in New York.”

Ben doesn’t smile back. He doesn’t say a word.

“Okay, wow, your expression right now. I’m freaking you out. I’m so sorry. I’m just going to—”

“Arthur, no. You’re not freaking me out, but listen.” He rubs his forehead. “You can’t plan your future around me.”

And just like that, my words evaporate. My heart’s thudding so quickly, it’s almost painful.

Ben’s eyebrows furrow. “Arthur?”

“What?” I clear my throat. “Right. Sorry. Next question.”

“You okay?”

I ignore him. “Is silver chloride soluble in water?”

“Um. No.”

“How about silver nitrate?”

“Yes.”

“Not bad, Alejo,” I say, and Ben buries his face in his pillow—but I catch a flicker of a tiny, proud smile first. This boy.