What If It's Us

Okay, real talk: I hate when people drop a random name like I’m supposed to magically know it.

I just think you’re meant to meet some people. I think the universe nudges them into your path.

What If It’s You and What If It’s Me?

“I love you, Arthur,” I say.

Arthur turns to me. “Te amo . . . too, Ben.”

when the elevator door closes, we’re kissing. When it opens again, we’re kissing. I kiss him while I root in my pocket for my keys, and I kiss him in the doorway, and I kiss him in our foyer. We shove the bags on the dining room table, and we kiss beneath Uncle Milton’s horses. You’d think I’d be tired of kissing right now. You’d think I’d get distracted, but I’ve never been more focused in my whole entire life.

When I get his hand next, I keep him close and I don’t want to let go.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

I smile back. “Infinite do-overs.”

“I like that,” he says. “It sounds like us.”

I meet a cute boy, and five seconds later, I’m in the middle of a flash mob marriage proposal? Could this message from the universe be any clearer?

“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.

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.

Even on random Monday afternoons in July. Even at the post office.