What If It's Us
Page 13
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Mom’s saying into the phone. “Unless Wingate filed a brief. Okay, we’re a block away.” She pauses. “No, that’s fine, I’ll send Arthur. Be right up.”
Already, she’s fishing a twenty from her purse. “Tall nonfat latte,” she mouths.
Hashtag intern life.
I text Ethan while waiting in line at Starbucks. Concept: a musical set in the Atlanta suburbs called . . . wait for it . . . Ha-Milton. Mic emoji. Down-arrow emoji. Boom.
But Ethan doesn’t text back.
Thursday, July 12
It’s radio silence until the next morning, when Ethan texts a selfie to—surprise, surprise—the group chain. It’s him and Jessie at Waffle House holding up a bottle of chocolate syrup. You’re here in spirit, my dude! he writes.
It just sucks. Any other summer, I’d be next to Jessie in that booth, eating hash browns and ranting about politics or Twitter or stage-to-screen adaptations. I’d give Ethan and Jessie the full, unabridged post office story, and we’d probably make a football-style Operation Hudson game plan in my notes app.
As opposed to here, where the girls shut down every time I say the word Hudson. I swear, they’re even worse than usual today. One of the paralegals drops off a package for Namrata, and she barely even looks at it. It’s like she can’t stop typing. For a moment, I just watch her.
“What’s that?” I ask finally.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe you should open it.”
“I will.”
Namrata’s fingers still on the keyboard for a moment while she reads something on her screen. Then she glances at a stack of documents, back up at her screen, and starts typing again.
“When, though?”
“What?”
“When do you think you’ll open it?”
“Let me guess.” Namrata sighs so hard, it ruffles the Shumaker documents. “You’re not going to let me work until I do.”
“That’s probably true.”
“Then let’s go.” She rips the package open and peers inside of it for what feels like ten minutes—but when she finally turns back toward me, she’s smiling. “Why the fuck did you buy me five pounds of candy corn?”
“It’s actually four pounds and fourteen ounces—”
“Of candy corn.”
“In July,” adds Juliet.
“Arthur, you are something else,” says Namrata. Translation: I nailed it.
Juliet ruffles my hair. “Want to grab lunch with us?” Translation: I super nailed it.
I’m so happy, I could sing. If the girls and I are lunch friends now, we’re probably on track for tasteful matching BFF tattoos by next week. And then they’ll introduce me to cute law school boys, cuter than Hudson, and I’ll never go home. I’ll just stay here in New York with my awesome new squad. My new best friends. I mean, who even needs Waffle House? I’ll just be here grabbing business lunch in New York fucking City, the culinary center of the universe. Ethan and Jessie can spend the rest of their lives eating at chain restaurants. From now on, I’ll only eat at farm-fresh artisan food trucks and iconic celebrity delis.
“I’ve always wanted to try Tavern on the Green,” I say.
“Arthur, we have thirty minutes.”
“Sardi’s?”
“How about Panera?”
I gasp. “I love Panera.”
“Yeah, I figured,” says Namrata, throwing back a fistful of candy corn.
Five minutes later, we hit the streets, and I can’t get over how different the girls are outside the office. They’re so open. Up until today, most of my Namrata and Juliet intel came from one of three sources: eavesdropping, Instagram, and my mom. Now I know Juliet’s a dancer and Namrata’s a vegetarian, and they hated each other their whole first year of law school, but now they’re best friends and they go on runs together and eat cupcakes, and neither of them has skipped a single reading for any class ever. All this before we’re even in line at Panera.
“I’m beyond disgusted,” Namrata’s telling Juliet. “I was like, you know what? That’s fine, don’t call them out, but guess what. I’m done spending the night there. Sorry, David, but dinosaur porn crosses a line for me.”
Juliet moans. “Ewwww.”
“Wait, who’s David? And why is he into dinosaur porn?”
Okay, real talk: I hate when people drop a random name like I’m supposed to magically know it.
“No, it’s David’s roommates,” Juliet explains.
“And they’re not only into dinosaur porn,” adds Namrata, “but they’re actually creating their own—I’m not even kidding—dinosaur porn webcomic. Which—okay, you do you. But then they leave their sketches in the fucking living room, and I’m like, David, can I please not have to look at this picture of a T. rex getting himself off?”
“But . . . T. rex arms.” Juliet looks baffled. “How?”
“Seriously, who’s David?” I ask.
Namrata looks amused. “My boyfriend.”
“You have a boyfriend?”
“They’ve been dating for six years,” Juliet says.
“What? No way.” I turn to Juliet. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“I have a girlfriend,” Juliet says.
“You’re a lesbian?”
“Next,” says the guy behind the counter.
Juliet steps up and orders a soup. Then she turns back to me and says, “Well, I’m biromantic ace, which means—”
“I know, I know. But you never mentioned it. Why don’t you guys ever tell me anything?”
“We tell you to get back to work,” says Juliet. “We tell you that a lot.”
“But you never tell me about your love lives. I’ve told you every single thing about Hudson, and I didn’t even know you had a girlfriend! And I definitely didn’t know Namrata had a boyfriend named David who draws dinosaur porn.”
“No, David’s roommates draw dinosaur porn,” Namrata interjects, drifting back from the counter. “That is a critical piece of information. Arthur, you’re up. Go order your PB and J Happy Meal.”
“Pssh. I’m getting grilled cheese. Grown-up grilled cheese.”
Namrata pats my head. “Very sophisticated.”
“Hudson,” someone says over a microphone, and I freeze. Namrata and Juliet freeze. The whole world freezes. “Hudson, your order’s ready.”
“Arthur.” Juliet presses a hand to her mouth.
“It’s not him.”
“How do you know?”
“It can’t be him. That would be too weird. Like, what are the odds?” I shake my head. “It’s some other Hudson.”
“We’re near the post office,” says Juliet. “He probably works around here or lives here or something. It’s not really that common of a name.”
“Yeah, we’re going up there,” Namrata says.
“No way. That’s shady!”
“No it’s not.” She gives me a not-so-gentle yank toward the pickup counter. Standing with his back to us is a boy in jeans and a fitted polo shirt—white, taller than me, hair totally covered by a backward baseball cap. “Is that him?”
“I don’t know.”
Already, she’s fishing a twenty from her purse. “Tall nonfat latte,” she mouths.
Hashtag intern life.
I text Ethan while waiting in line at Starbucks. Concept: a musical set in the Atlanta suburbs called . . . wait for it . . . Ha-Milton. Mic emoji. Down-arrow emoji. Boom.
But Ethan doesn’t text back.
Thursday, July 12
It’s radio silence until the next morning, when Ethan texts a selfie to—surprise, surprise—the group chain. It’s him and Jessie at Waffle House holding up a bottle of chocolate syrup. You’re here in spirit, my dude! he writes.
It just sucks. Any other summer, I’d be next to Jessie in that booth, eating hash browns and ranting about politics or Twitter or stage-to-screen adaptations. I’d give Ethan and Jessie the full, unabridged post office story, and we’d probably make a football-style Operation Hudson game plan in my notes app.
As opposed to here, where the girls shut down every time I say the word Hudson. I swear, they’re even worse than usual today. One of the paralegals drops off a package for Namrata, and she barely even looks at it. It’s like she can’t stop typing. For a moment, I just watch her.
“What’s that?” I ask finally.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe you should open it.”
“I will.”
Namrata’s fingers still on the keyboard for a moment while she reads something on her screen. Then she glances at a stack of documents, back up at her screen, and starts typing again.
“When, though?”
“What?”
“When do you think you’ll open it?”
“Let me guess.” Namrata sighs so hard, it ruffles the Shumaker documents. “You’re not going to let me work until I do.”
“That’s probably true.”
“Then let’s go.” She rips the package open and peers inside of it for what feels like ten minutes—but when she finally turns back toward me, she’s smiling. “Why the fuck did you buy me five pounds of candy corn?”
“It’s actually four pounds and fourteen ounces—”
“Of candy corn.”
“In July,” adds Juliet.
“Arthur, you are something else,” says Namrata. Translation: I nailed it.
Juliet ruffles my hair. “Want to grab lunch with us?” Translation: I super nailed it.
I’m so happy, I could sing. If the girls and I are lunch friends now, we’re probably on track for tasteful matching BFF tattoos by next week. And then they’ll introduce me to cute law school boys, cuter than Hudson, and I’ll never go home. I’ll just stay here in New York with my awesome new squad. My new best friends. I mean, who even needs Waffle House? I’ll just be here grabbing business lunch in New York fucking City, the culinary center of the universe. Ethan and Jessie can spend the rest of their lives eating at chain restaurants. From now on, I’ll only eat at farm-fresh artisan food trucks and iconic celebrity delis.
“I’ve always wanted to try Tavern on the Green,” I say.
“Arthur, we have thirty minutes.”
“Sardi’s?”
“How about Panera?”
I gasp. “I love Panera.”
“Yeah, I figured,” says Namrata, throwing back a fistful of candy corn.
Five minutes later, we hit the streets, and I can’t get over how different the girls are outside the office. They’re so open. Up until today, most of my Namrata and Juliet intel came from one of three sources: eavesdropping, Instagram, and my mom. Now I know Juliet’s a dancer and Namrata’s a vegetarian, and they hated each other their whole first year of law school, but now they’re best friends and they go on runs together and eat cupcakes, and neither of them has skipped a single reading for any class ever. All this before we’re even in line at Panera.
“I’m beyond disgusted,” Namrata’s telling Juliet. “I was like, you know what? That’s fine, don’t call them out, but guess what. I’m done spending the night there. Sorry, David, but dinosaur porn crosses a line for me.”
Juliet moans. “Ewwww.”
“Wait, who’s David? And why is he into dinosaur porn?”
Okay, real talk: I hate when people drop a random name like I’m supposed to magically know it.
“No, it’s David’s roommates,” Juliet explains.
“And they’re not only into dinosaur porn,” adds Namrata, “but they’re actually creating their own—I’m not even kidding—dinosaur porn webcomic. Which—okay, you do you. But then they leave their sketches in the fucking living room, and I’m like, David, can I please not have to look at this picture of a T. rex getting himself off?”
“But . . . T. rex arms.” Juliet looks baffled. “How?”
“Seriously, who’s David?” I ask.
Namrata looks amused. “My boyfriend.”
“You have a boyfriend?”
“They’ve been dating for six years,” Juliet says.
“What? No way.” I turn to Juliet. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“I have a girlfriend,” Juliet says.
“You’re a lesbian?”
“Next,” says the guy behind the counter.
Juliet steps up and orders a soup. Then she turns back to me and says, “Well, I’m biromantic ace, which means—”
“I know, I know. But you never mentioned it. Why don’t you guys ever tell me anything?”
“We tell you to get back to work,” says Juliet. “We tell you that a lot.”
“But you never tell me about your love lives. I’ve told you every single thing about Hudson, and I didn’t even know you had a girlfriend! And I definitely didn’t know Namrata had a boyfriend named David who draws dinosaur porn.”
“No, David’s roommates draw dinosaur porn,” Namrata interjects, drifting back from the counter. “That is a critical piece of information. Arthur, you’re up. Go order your PB and J Happy Meal.”
“Pssh. I’m getting grilled cheese. Grown-up grilled cheese.”
Namrata pats my head. “Very sophisticated.”
“Hudson,” someone says over a microphone, and I freeze. Namrata and Juliet freeze. The whole world freezes. “Hudson, your order’s ready.”
“Arthur.” Juliet presses a hand to her mouth.
“It’s not him.”
“How do you know?”
“It can’t be him. That would be too weird. Like, what are the odds?” I shake my head. “It’s some other Hudson.”
“We’re near the post office,” says Juliet. “He probably works around here or lives here or something. It’s not really that common of a name.”
“Yeah, we’re going up there,” Namrata says.
“No way. That’s shady!”
“No it’s not.” She gives me a not-so-gentle yank toward the pickup counter. Standing with his back to us is a boy in jeans and a fitted polo shirt—white, taller than me, hair totally covered by a backward baseball cap. “Is that him?”
“I don’t know.”
