What If It's Us
Page 64
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.
My heart twists every time I look at him. The way his hair curls around his ears. The way it brushes the nape of his neck.
“I have a question,” I say softly.
“You have a whole stack of questions.”
“This one’s not about chemistry.”
“Oh.” He rolls onto his back and looks up at me. “Okay.”
So I just let it spill out. “I know you don’t like making plans for the future, but we’re almost seniors—”
“Unless I’m still a junior. Again.”
“You’re going to pass.” I tug his hand up to my chest, lacing our fingers together.
“But what if I don’t?”
“You will. You’re going to ace the crap out of this test.”
He laughs shortly. “I’m not in summer school because I ace tests.”
“Ben. Come on. We’ve got this.” I shift closer. “I’m going to teach you all my mnemonic devices—”
“Those don’t actually work.”
“Try me. First nine elements of the periodic table. Go.”
“Um. Hydrogen . . .”
“Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, fluorine,” I say. “Happy Hudson loves boners but can never overcome flaccidity. I made that one just for you.”
He laughs. “Wow.”
“And if it’s not true, I don’t want to know.”
“Arthur, you are so fucking cute.” He kisses me lightly on the mouth. “Don’t go.”
“I don’t want to.” Then I disentangle our hands and reach for an index card and a pen, because fuck it. I have to ask him.
I write. Deep breath. And then I hold up the card.
“‘What about the United States?’” Ben reads.
“No, us. You and me. What about US? The caps are for emphasis.” He’s grinning. I grin back and swat him in the arm. “Shut up. You know what I’m asking.”
“I mean . . . I don’t know.” His eyes find mine. “Can I be real with you?”
“You should always be real with me.”
“Okay.” He pauses. For a minute, his eyes catch mine, but then he squeezes them shut. “I think we have to let go.”
“Let go?”
And there’s this silence—the kind that rearranges your organs.
I press both palms to my chest. “Like . . . we break up?”
“I don’t know.” He sighs. “I guess I’m scared.”
He takes my hand and tugs me closer, until we’re both horizontal. And for a moment we just lie there, our faces a breath apart on the pillow.
“Scared of what?” I ask finally.
“I don’t know.” He squeezes my hand. “That I’ll hold you back from meeting other guys. That I’ll lose you, even as a friend. I’m so scared of that.”
“But you won’t.”
“You never know.” He starts to smile, but it falters—and when he speaks again, his voice is so soft. “I’m scared I’ll break your heart.”
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.
My heart twists every time I look at him. The way his hair curls around his ears. The way it brushes the nape of his neck.
“I have a question,” I say softly.
“You have a whole stack of questions.”
“This one’s not about chemistry.”
“Oh.” He rolls onto his back and looks up at me. “Okay.”
So I just let it spill out. “I know you don’t like making plans for the future, but we’re almost seniors—”
“Unless I’m still a junior. Again.”
“You’re going to pass.” I tug his hand up to my chest, lacing our fingers together.
“But what if I don’t?”
“You will. You’re going to ace the crap out of this test.”
He laughs shortly. “I’m not in summer school because I ace tests.”
“Ben. Come on. We’ve got this.” I shift closer. “I’m going to teach you all my mnemonic devices—”
“Those don’t actually work.”
“Try me. First nine elements of the periodic table. Go.”
“Um. Hydrogen . . .”
“Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, fluorine,” I say. “Happy Hudson loves boners but can never overcome flaccidity. I made that one just for you.”
He laughs. “Wow.”
“And if it’s not true, I don’t want to know.”
“Arthur, you are so fucking cute.” He kisses me lightly on the mouth. “Don’t go.”
“I don’t want to.” Then I disentangle our hands and reach for an index card and a pen, because fuck it. I have to ask him.
I write. Deep breath. And then I hold up the card.
“‘What about the United States?’” Ben reads.
“No, us. You and me. What about US? The caps are for emphasis.” He’s grinning. I grin back and swat him in the arm. “Shut up. You know what I’m asking.”
“I mean . . . I don’t know.” His eyes find mine. “Can I be real with you?”
“You should always be real with me.”
“Okay.” He pauses. For a minute, his eyes catch mine, but then he squeezes them shut. “I think we have to let go.”
“Let go?”
And there’s this silence—the kind that rearranges your organs.
I press both palms to my chest. “Like . . . we break up?”
“I don’t know.” He sighs. “I guess I’m scared.”
He takes my hand and tugs me closer, until we’re both horizontal. And for a moment we just lie there, our faces a breath apart on the pillow.
“Scared of what?” I ask finally.
“I don’t know.” He squeezes my hand. “That I’ll hold you back from meeting other guys. That I’ll lose you, even as a friend. I’m so scared of that.”
“But you won’t.”
“You never know.” He starts to smile, but it falters—and when he speaks again, his voice is so soft. “I’m scared I’ll break your heart.”
