What If It's Us(3)

“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, hopefully my future school. Fingers crossed.” It’s like I can’t stop talking. “I guess you probably don’t need my life story.”

“I don’t mind.” Box Boy pauses, balancing the box on his hip. “Want to get on line?”

I nod, falling into step behind him. He shifts sideways to face me, but the box looms between us. He hasn’t stuck the shipping label on yet. It’s sitting on top of the package. I try to sneak a peek at the address, but his handwriting sucks, and I can’t read upside down.

He catches me looking. “Are you really nosy or something?” He’s watching me through narrowed eyes.

“Oh.” I swallow. “Kind of. Yeah.”

That makes him smile. “It’s not that interesting. It’s leftovers from a breakup.”

“Leftovers?”

“Books, gifts, Harry Potter wand. Everything I don’t want to look at anymore.”

“You don’t want to look at a Harry Potter wand?”

“I don’t want to look at anything my ex-boyfriend gave me.”

Ex-boyfriend.

Which means Box Boy dates guys.

And okay. Wow. This doesn’t happen to me. It just doesn’t. But maybe the universe works differently in New York.

Box Boy dates guys.

I’M A GUY.

“That’s really cool,” I say. Perfectly casual. But then he looks at me funny, and my hand flies to my mouth. “Not cool. God. No. Breakups aren’t cool. I’m just—I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“He’s not dead.”

“Oh, right. Yeah. I’m gonna . . .” I exhale, hand resting for a moment on the retractable line barrier.

Box Boy smiles tightly. “Right. So you’re one of those guys who gets weird around gay dudes.”

“What?” I yelp. “No. Not at all.”

“Yeah.” He rolls his eyes, glancing over my shoulder.

“I’m not,” I say quickly. “Listen. I’m gay.”

And the whole world stops. My tongue feels thick and heavy.

I guess I don’t say those words out loud all that often. I’m gay. My parents know, Ethan and Jessie know, and I kind of randomly told the summer associates at Mom’s firm. But I’m not a person who goes around announcing it at the post office.

Except apparently, I kind of am.

“Oh. For real?” Box Boy asks.

“For real.” It comes out breathless. It’s weird—now I want to prove it. I want some gay ID card to whip out like a cop badge. Or I could demonstrate in other ways. God. I would happily demonstrate.

Box Boy smiles, his shoulders relaxing. “Cool.”

And holy shit. This is actually happening. I can hardly catch my breath. It’s like the universe willed this moment into existence.

A voice booms from behind the counter. “You on line or not?” I look up to see a woman with a lip ring raining down the stink-eye. No fucks given by this postal employee. “Yo, Freckles. Let’s go.”

Box Boy shoots me a halting glance before stepping up to the counter. Already, there’s a line stretching out behind me. And okay—I’m not eavesdropping on Box Boy. Not exactly. It’s more like my ears are drawn to his voice. His arms are crossed, shoulders tense.

“Twenty-six fifty for Priority,” says Lip Ring.

“Twenty-six fifty? Like twenty-six dollars?”

“No. Like twenty-six fifty.”

Box Boy shakes his head. “That’s a lot.”

“That’s what we got. Take it or leave it.”

For a moment, Box Boy just stands there. Then he takes the box back, hugging it to his chest. “Sorry.”

“Next,” says Lip Ring. She beckons to me, but I swerve out of line.

Box Boy blinks. “How is it twenty-six fifty to send a package?”

“I don’t know. That’s messed up.”

“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.”