What If It's Us (What If It's Us #1)

by Becky Albertalli

There’s a boy walking toward the entrance, holding a cardboard box, and he literally stops in his tracks when the twins walk by. He looks so confused, I laugh out loud. And then he catches my eye. And then he smiles. And holy shit. I mean it. Holy mother of shit. Cutest boy ever. Maybe it’s the hair or the freckles or the pinkness of his cheeks. And I say this as someone who’s never noticed another person’s cheeks in my life. But his cheeks are worth noticing. Everything about him is worth noticing. Perfectly rumpled light brown hair. Fitted jeans, scuffed shoes, gray shirt—with the words Dream & Bean Coffee barely visible above the box he’s holding. He’s taller than me—which, okay, most guys are. He’s still looking at me. But twenty points to Gryffindor, because I manage to smile up at him. “Do you think they parked their tandem bicycle at the mustache-wax parlor?” His startled laugh is so cute, it makes me light-headed. “Definitely the mustache-wax parlor slash art gallery slash microbrewery,” he says.

There’s something about him. It’s this tug in my chest. It’s this feeling like I have to know him, like it’s inevitable. Okay, I’m about to admit something, and you’re probably going to cringe. You’re probably already cringing, but whatever. Hear me out. I believe in love at first sight. Fate, the universe, all of it. But not how you’re thinking. I don’t mean it in the our souls were split and you’re my other half forever and ever sort of way. I just think you’re meant to meet some people. I think the universe nudges them into your path.

“That’s a big package.” And . . . shit. The words tumble out. “I don’t mean package. Just. Your box. Is big.” I hold my hands apart to demonstrate. Because apparently that’s the way to prove it’s not an innuendo. By spreading my hands out dick-measuringly. Box Boy furrows his brow. “Sorry. I don’t . . . I swear I don’t usually comment on the size of other guys’ boxes.” He meets my eyes and smiles, just a little. “Nice tie,” he says. I look down at it, blushing. Of course I couldn’t have worn a normal tie today. Nope. I’m wearing one from the Dad collection. Navy blue, printed with hundreds of tiny hot dogs. “At least it’s not a romper?” I say. “Good point.” He smiles again—so of course I notice his lips. Which are shaped exactly like Emma Watson’s lips. Emma Watson’s lips. Right there on his face.

“I’m not a tourist.” “You’re not?” “Okay, I’m not technically from here, but I live here now. Just for the summer. I’m from Milton, Georgia.” “Milton, Georgia.” He smiles. I feel inexplicably frantic. Like, my limbs are weird and loose, and my head’s full of cotton. I’m probably electric bright red now. I don’t even want to know. I just need to keep talking. “I know, right? Milton. It sounds like a Jewish great-uncle.” “I wasn’t—” “I actually do have a Jewish great-uncle Milton. That’s whose apartment we’re staying in.” “Who’s we?” “You mean who do I live with in my great-uncle Milton’s apartment?” He nods, and I just look at him. Like, who does he think I live with? My boyfriend? My twenty-eight-year-old smoldering-hot boyfriend who has big gaping holes in his earlobes and maybe a tongue piercing and a tattoo of my name on his pec? On both pecs? “With my parents,” I say quickly. “My mom’s a lawyer, and her firm has an office here, so she came up at the end of April for this case she’s working on, and I totally would have come up then, but my mom was like, Nice try, Arthur, you have a month of school left. But it ended up being for the best, because I guess I thought New York was going to be one thing, and it’s really another thing, and now I’m kind of stuck here, and I miss my friends, and I miss my car, and I miss Waffle House.” “In that order?” “Well, mostly the car.” I grin. “We left it at my bubbe’s house in New Haven. She lives right by Yale, which is hopefully, hope...

“Guess that’s the universe saying I should hold on to it.” The universe. Holy shit. He’s a believer. He believes in the universe. And I don’t want to jump to conclusions or anything, but Box Boy believing in the universe is definitely a sign from the universe. “Okay.” My heartbeat quickens. “But what if the universe is actually telling you to throw his stuff away?” “That’s not how it works.” “Oh really?” “Think about it. Getting rid of the box is plan A, right? The universe isn’t going to thwart plan A just so I’ll go with another version of plan A. This is clearly the universe calling for plan B.” “And plan B is . . .” “Accepting that the universe is an asshole—” “The universe isn’t an asshole!” “It is. Trust me.” “How could you possibly know that?” “I know the universe has some fucked-up plan for this box.” “But that’s the thing!” I stare him down. “You don’t actually know. You have no idea where the universe is going with this. Maybe the whole reason you’re here is because the universe wanted you to meet me, so I could tell you to throw the box away.” He smiles. “You think the universe wanted us to meet?” “What? No! I mean, I don’t know. That’s the point. We have no way of knowing.” “Well, I guess we’ll see how it plays out.”

My hand falls limply. The boy is nowhere. His box is nowhere. I peer around, scanning every single face in the post office. Maybe he got pushed aside by the flash mob. Maybe he was part of the flash mob. Maybe he had some kind of urgent appointment—so urgent he couldn’t stop to get my number. He couldn’t even say goodbye. I can’t believe he didn’t say goodbye. I thought—I don’t know, it’s stupid, but I thought we had some kind of moment. I mean, the universe basically scooped us up and delivered us to each other. That’s what just happened, right? I don’t even know how else you could interpret it. Except he vanished. He’s Cinderella at midnight. It’s like he never even existed. And now I’ll never know his name, or how my name sounds when he says it. I’ll never get to show him that the universe isn’t an asshole. Gone. Totally gone. And the disappointment hits me so hard, I almost double over. Until my eyes fall on the trash can. Okay. I’m not saying I’m going to dig through the trash. Obviously not. I’m a mess, but I’m not that messy. But maybe Box Boy is right. Maybe the universe is calling for plan B. Here’s my question: If a piece of trash never makes it into a trash can, can you even call it trash? Because let’s just imagine—and this is totally hypothetical—let’s say there’s a crumpled shipping label on the floor. Is that trash? What if it’s a glass slipper?

I need to strategize. Because maybe he’s off duty tomorrow. I should bring the picture, just in case. Would that be unforgivably creepy? Showing his picture to the barista? Maybe I could hang his picture on the bulletin board, like a real-life missed connection post. Like Craigslist, but old-school. I mean, coffee shops always have bulletin boards. I think. All I know is this: I refuse to miss this chance. I scramble back to my room, open my laptop, and type. Are you the boy from the post office? I feel super awkward right now, and I can’t believe I’m doing this, but here we go. We talked for a few minutes at the post office on Lexington. I was the guy in the hot dog tie. You were the guy mailing stuff back to your ex-boyfriend. I loved your laugh. Wish I’d gotten your number. Want to give me a second chance here, universe? Arthur.Seuss@gmail.com

I’m thirsty, so I get up and go to the condiment bar. While I’m pouring some complimentary water into a plastic cup, I check out this bulletin board with tons of flyers for campus internships, a Resist poster, some phone numbers, dog walker job listing, random ads and— My face. My face is on the bulletin board. The water spills over the cup and I don’t even have the common sense or decency to immediately wipe it because that’s my face on the bulletin board. What did I do? What am I wanted for? Wait. No. This isn’t some police sketch or shady security camera snapshot. My face is cropped out from that picture where I smashed a snowball in Hudson’s face. Is this from him? I almost call for Dylan, but I’m still speechless because there’s a memo too: Are you the boy from the post office? I feel super awkward right now, and I can’t believe I’m doing this, but here we go. We talked for a few minutes at the post office on Lexington. I was the guy in the hot dog tie. You were the guy mailing stuff back to your ex-boyfriend. I loved your laugh. Wish I’d gotten your number. Want to give me a second chance here, universe? Arthur.Seuss@gmail.com Um. My heart races because the universe has got to be fucking with me. I tear down the flyer from the thumbtack. That’s definitely my face. This is for me. I’m supposed to find this. I just found this. This . . . this doesn’t happen. Yeah. This doesn’t happen.

I follow him into his bedroom, which feels totally, unrecognizably different from Sunday in a way that I can only assume is due to sex vibes. I’m so nervous I’m almost shaking. I can’t wrap my head and my heart around this strange new possibility. This thing my brain’s been circling around for years. How could I ever have predicted the circumstances of this moment—this particular night, this particular place, this particular boy. I always thought it would feel larger than life, and it doesn’t, but I like that. It’s not a starlit field, but it’s better, because it’s Ben. “So.” He sits on his bed, and I settle in beside him. Then he strains sideways and slides his laptop off his nightstand. I watch as he cracks it open and scrolls through his applications. I have to admit, this is an unexpected part of the process. But maybe it’s porn. I think I’ve heard of people who do that—have sex with porn in the background. I don’t entirely see the point. It seems kind of like watching YouTube videos in a movie theater. But maybe this isn’t porn-related. Maybe this is The Wicked Wizard War–related, and he’s opening up a freshly written sex scene to inspire us. That I could get into. “Oh, here we go.” Ben scoots backward on the bed. We end up side by side, our backs pressed to the wall, and he tilts his laptop toward me. It’s . . . a computer game. “I made you a Sim,” he says shyly. “Look, that’s you.” And there I am, center screen, tousled dark hair and button-down and a bow tie. It’s ...