What If It's Us
Page 30
“Finally,” Dylan says, turning away from my desk, where he was playing The Sims. I’ve just rescued my Sim from doing homework too while Dylan’s Sim lounges around playing games on the laptop. The whole thing is too meta for real me.
“Do I follow him back right now? Playing it cool seems pointless since he’s leaving at the end of the summer. No time to waste.”
“And there’s no playing it cool with someone who put up a poster with your face to find you,” Dylan says.
“Good point.”
I follow Arthur back and suddenly we have access to each other’s profiles. Like we’ve given each other keys to our lives. Harriett’s Instagram is radiant, but I see how much energy she puts into each photo. Arthur’s Instagram feels real.
There’s a photo of him eating his first slice of New York pizza.
Playbills for Aladdin and Wicked.
A mirror selfie in some lobby, and I notice it’s the day we met—hot dog tie and all.
A prom photo of Arthur and Jessie and Ethan.
A laptop decal that says WWBOD: What Would Barack Obama Do?
Arthur sitting on a stool somewhere fancy, and at first I think it’s a restaurant, but then I see photos of him on the wall. His house in Georgia is definitely way nicer than I built it up to be in my head. The idea of him visiting my apartment before he goes home for good just became a thousand times more intimidating.
Arthur sitting cross-legged in front of what looks to be his bedroom mirror stops me. Even Dylan is zooming in on his face.
“Holy blue eyes, Batman,” Dylan says.
“Holy blue eyes,” I repeat. I’ve seen them in real life, but still.
And then there’s another photo of Arthur in glasses, which is a thing, and wow. In the next ten photos I look at, I find myself staring at his lips instead of his eyes. “Is Thursday too soon to go in for the kiss?”
“Not one bit. Make your move,” Dylan says. His phone buzzes on my desk and he gets up to check it. “You’re on the timer here, Big Be—” He stares at the screen. “It’s her.”
“Samantha?!”
“Beyoncé,” Dylan says. “Of course Samantha. What do I do?”
“Open the text. Read it. Then respond with words. But not words of the ‘future wife’ variety.”
He reads the text and hands me the phone. “Okay. This is good. I think. Help me not mess this up.”
I check out the text:
Hey Dylan. I’m sorry I haven’t reached out sooner. Every time I start writing something I just assume you no longer care and then I feel stupid and say nothing. I had this anxiety with Patrick during a falling out and he was happy I wrote to him and I’m hoping you might be too. I panicked a bit over your future wife comment because my last relationship just felt very obsessive and I don’t like who I became during it or how I felt after. I think you’re good and funny and I’d like to see you again if we can keep it casual. If you’ve moved on, I’m sorry to bother you.
“Wow,” I say. “You have to respond soon. Don’t leave her hanging.”
“What should I say?”
I go through everything I know about Samantha. “Maybe invite her out to grab some seafood with her sister? So it seems less romantic?”
“That’ll land me in the friend zone.”
“Dude, she wants to see you. Texting you was clearly hard for her, but she did it anyway. You just have to take your time,” I say.
“Right. I was kidding about the future-wife thing. Half kidding.” He takes the phone back and reads over the message again.
“Can I help you with the text, please?”
Dylan shakes his head. “I got this.” He takes a deep breath and narrates: “Dear future wife . . .”
I snatch the phone.
Thursday, July 19
Our third first date is pretty low-key. No arcade games where Arthur can’t keep up. No meals I can’t pay for. Figuring it out wasn’t easy. Arthur suggested one of those disco parties where you wear headphones and dance to songs of your choice. I suggested Nintendo World, which was apparently too close to arcade games for someone—cough, cough. He suggested a painting class. I suggested rock climbing. We’ve settled on a stroll through Central Park, and I have plans for where I can kiss him.
It’s after six as we walk the same path I walked with Dylan last week. I even knocked out my homework and studied for tomorrow’s test this afternoon so I can stay out until nine. Arthur and I split a pretzel while talking about how his favorite GIF is the one of the bald eagle that tries biting Trump’s hand off, and all I can think about are all the things I want to know about him. And what that means since he’s not here for good.
“What are some of the things you have to do before you go back to Georgia?”
“Win the Hamilton lottery. And I kind of want to see another show on my birthday. Visit Lady Liberty, maybe? Going to the top of the Empire State Building could be interesting.”
“It’s hell to get up there, but definitely worth the Instagram photo op. I really liked that photo of you in the hot dog tie,” I say. “A lot of photos, actually. But I didn’t want to be That Guy who likes all your old photos. That Guy isn’t cool. I hope where I’m taking you is worth the ’gram.”
The only photo we have together is from our first first date. I don’t know if I’m ready to upload a photo of a new guy to Instagram because that’s a huge statement, but it’d be nice to start having something to remember this summer by.
As we head up the stone steps to Belvedere Castle, I’m kind of wishing we’d waited a couple more hours for the sun to set for some city glow action. I really love the way lit windows pop like stars when it gets dark out. But at least Arthur will be able to appreciate the daytime view.
“Here we are,” I say. “What do you think?”
“Definitely Instagram-worthy.”
As we look over the balcony, I say, “I came here looking for you.”
“What?”
“This girl Dylan is interested in, Samantha, she tried helping me find you. And I told her everything I knew about you because she’s pretty much a social media detective, and she found a Yale meetup here and I checked it out. For you. But you weren’t here.” I inch closer to him and our elbows are touching. “I think you’re cool.”
Arthur nods and smiles, but the smile doesn’t hang out for very long. I’m not getting kiss vibes.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine. That’s really sweet,” he says. “I just . . . I saw a photo of you and Hudson at Dave & Buster’s. Did you bring him here too?”
Fucking Hudson. We’re not even friends and he’s still managing to ruin my life. “Nope. Hudson and I never came here.” I shift, our elbows no longer touching. “I brought you to Dave & Buster’s because I was nervous and that was comfortable for me. Is that why you’re upset?”
“I’m not upset,” Arthur says. It’s pretty clear he’s bothered.
“If there’s stuff you want to know, just ask me. It’s fine. Cool?” I massage his shoulder, hoping we can get this back on track. “Arthur, don’t forget that if I never dated Hudson, then I couldn’t have broken up with him. Then I wouldn’t have gone to that post office. Then I wouldn’t have met you.”
“Do I follow him back right now? Playing it cool seems pointless since he’s leaving at the end of the summer. No time to waste.”
“And there’s no playing it cool with someone who put up a poster with your face to find you,” Dylan says.
“Good point.”
I follow Arthur back and suddenly we have access to each other’s profiles. Like we’ve given each other keys to our lives. Harriett’s Instagram is radiant, but I see how much energy she puts into each photo. Arthur’s Instagram feels real.
There’s a photo of him eating his first slice of New York pizza.
Playbills for Aladdin and Wicked.
A mirror selfie in some lobby, and I notice it’s the day we met—hot dog tie and all.
A prom photo of Arthur and Jessie and Ethan.
A laptop decal that says WWBOD: What Would Barack Obama Do?
Arthur sitting on a stool somewhere fancy, and at first I think it’s a restaurant, but then I see photos of him on the wall. His house in Georgia is definitely way nicer than I built it up to be in my head. The idea of him visiting my apartment before he goes home for good just became a thousand times more intimidating.
Arthur sitting cross-legged in front of what looks to be his bedroom mirror stops me. Even Dylan is zooming in on his face.
“Holy blue eyes, Batman,” Dylan says.
“Holy blue eyes,” I repeat. I’ve seen them in real life, but still.
And then there’s another photo of Arthur in glasses, which is a thing, and wow. In the next ten photos I look at, I find myself staring at his lips instead of his eyes. “Is Thursday too soon to go in for the kiss?”
“Not one bit. Make your move,” Dylan says. His phone buzzes on my desk and he gets up to check it. “You’re on the timer here, Big Be—” He stares at the screen. “It’s her.”
“Samantha?!”
“Beyoncé,” Dylan says. “Of course Samantha. What do I do?”
“Open the text. Read it. Then respond with words. But not words of the ‘future wife’ variety.”
He reads the text and hands me the phone. “Okay. This is good. I think. Help me not mess this up.”
I check out the text:
Hey Dylan. I’m sorry I haven’t reached out sooner. Every time I start writing something I just assume you no longer care and then I feel stupid and say nothing. I had this anxiety with Patrick during a falling out and he was happy I wrote to him and I’m hoping you might be too. I panicked a bit over your future wife comment because my last relationship just felt very obsessive and I don’t like who I became during it or how I felt after. I think you’re good and funny and I’d like to see you again if we can keep it casual. If you’ve moved on, I’m sorry to bother you.
“Wow,” I say. “You have to respond soon. Don’t leave her hanging.”
“What should I say?”
I go through everything I know about Samantha. “Maybe invite her out to grab some seafood with her sister? So it seems less romantic?”
“That’ll land me in the friend zone.”
“Dude, she wants to see you. Texting you was clearly hard for her, but she did it anyway. You just have to take your time,” I say.
“Right. I was kidding about the future-wife thing. Half kidding.” He takes the phone back and reads over the message again.
“Can I help you with the text, please?”
Dylan shakes his head. “I got this.” He takes a deep breath and narrates: “Dear future wife . . .”
I snatch the phone.
Thursday, July 19
Our third first date is pretty low-key. No arcade games where Arthur can’t keep up. No meals I can’t pay for. Figuring it out wasn’t easy. Arthur suggested one of those disco parties where you wear headphones and dance to songs of your choice. I suggested Nintendo World, which was apparently too close to arcade games for someone—cough, cough. He suggested a painting class. I suggested rock climbing. We’ve settled on a stroll through Central Park, and I have plans for where I can kiss him.
It’s after six as we walk the same path I walked with Dylan last week. I even knocked out my homework and studied for tomorrow’s test this afternoon so I can stay out until nine. Arthur and I split a pretzel while talking about how his favorite GIF is the one of the bald eagle that tries biting Trump’s hand off, and all I can think about are all the things I want to know about him. And what that means since he’s not here for good.
“What are some of the things you have to do before you go back to Georgia?”
“Win the Hamilton lottery. And I kind of want to see another show on my birthday. Visit Lady Liberty, maybe? Going to the top of the Empire State Building could be interesting.”
“It’s hell to get up there, but definitely worth the Instagram photo op. I really liked that photo of you in the hot dog tie,” I say. “A lot of photos, actually. But I didn’t want to be That Guy who likes all your old photos. That Guy isn’t cool. I hope where I’m taking you is worth the ’gram.”
The only photo we have together is from our first first date. I don’t know if I’m ready to upload a photo of a new guy to Instagram because that’s a huge statement, but it’d be nice to start having something to remember this summer by.
As we head up the stone steps to Belvedere Castle, I’m kind of wishing we’d waited a couple more hours for the sun to set for some city glow action. I really love the way lit windows pop like stars when it gets dark out. But at least Arthur will be able to appreciate the daytime view.
“Here we are,” I say. “What do you think?”
“Definitely Instagram-worthy.”
As we look over the balcony, I say, “I came here looking for you.”
“What?”
“This girl Dylan is interested in, Samantha, she tried helping me find you. And I told her everything I knew about you because she’s pretty much a social media detective, and she found a Yale meetup here and I checked it out. For you. But you weren’t here.” I inch closer to him and our elbows are touching. “I think you’re cool.”
Arthur nods and smiles, but the smile doesn’t hang out for very long. I’m not getting kiss vibes.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine. That’s really sweet,” he says. “I just . . . I saw a photo of you and Hudson at Dave & Buster’s. Did you bring him here too?”
Fucking Hudson. We’re not even friends and he’s still managing to ruin my life. “Nope. Hudson and I never came here.” I shift, our elbows no longer touching. “I brought you to Dave & Buster’s because I was nervous and that was comfortable for me. Is that why you’re upset?”
“I’m not upset,” Arthur says. It’s pretty clear he’s bothered.
“If there’s stuff you want to know, just ask me. It’s fine. Cool?” I massage his shoulder, hoping we can get this back on track. “Arthur, don’t forget that if I never dated Hudson, then I couldn’t have broken up with him. Then I wouldn’t have gone to that post office. Then I wouldn’t have met you.”
