But when I push through the door, there’s no flying stationery. No magic. Just a whole bunch of anonymous New Yorkers lining up for their jolt of caffeine.

A bunch of anonymous New Yorkers . . . and Juliet and Namrata.

“What are you guys doing here?”

“Keeping you on task, as usual.” Namrata points her chin toward the bulletin board. “Go get him, kid.”

“My next clue!”

Right away I see the envelope. It’s in the exact spot once occupied by my poster. #2/4, it says. Arturo, you got this!!!!

I stack it under the first envelope, hugging them both to my chest. Then I text Ben. Treasure hunt, huh??

He writes back immediately with a shrugging-guy emoji.

Where do I go next?

Hmm, if only there were someone you could ask . . . Thinker emoji.

Ohhhhhh, I write—and sure enough, when I look up from my phone, the girls are watching me with matching amused smiles. My heart flips in my chest. I drift back to their table.

“Here’s your clue,” Juliet says, holding up her phone. “I don’t really get it.”

It’s a picture. Of a rat.

“Got it!” I make a break for the door—but then I skid to a stop. “Wait.”

“Wait what?” asks Juliet.

“Wow. Oh my God. I’m leaving. This is . . . goodbye.”

“No it’s not,” says Namrata. “Your Shumaker docs are a hot mess. I’ll be calling you with questions every day for a month.”

I hug her. “Good.”

“But we’ll miss your face,” says Juliet.

“A little,” Namrata says.

“A lot,” says Juliet.

I hug them both again and take off running—until I reach the corner and hail the first taxi I see. I don’t care if it’s just a few blocks: I’m not fucking around with time today. I stare out the back-seat window, practically jumping out of my skin. When the driver pulls up to the karaoke place at last, I fling money at him and burst out the door.

And there’s Dylan on the sidewalk, holding his phone, a pair of headphones, and a giant thermos of coffee. He visibly starts when he sees me. “Shit. Seussical, you’re early. Okay, take these.” He shoves the headphones over my ears and does this giant, gaping yawn. “Fucking Benosaur. It’s too early—okay, wait, we’re on mute. Hold up.” He taps his phone screen. “And . . . you good?”

“So . . . reggae?” I start to ask—but then a moment later, I place it. Not just any reggae. It’s Ziggy Marley. “Is this—”

“A song about an aardvark?” says Dylan. “Absolutely.”

Arthur Read, my bespectacled alter ego. King of the yellow V-neck. The fist that launched a thousand memes.

Dylan looks pensive. “I’m not the only one wondering what it would look like if a rat and an aardvark mated, right?”

“Mmm. You might be.”

“Arthur!” I look up to find Samantha turning the corner. She jogs toward us, immediately crushing me in a hug. “You’re early! Your next clues aren’t here yet, but they’re coming in, like, one second.”

“Clues, plural?”

“Definitely plural.”

“You done with my headphones, Seussical?” Dylan plucks them off my head before I can answer. “Hey, don’t look now . . .”

And right away, I see them. They’re crossing the street, walking toward us, their steps perfectly synchronized. But they’re not wearing rompers this time. They’re wearing lederhosen.

“Holy. Shit,” I murmur.

“I . . .”

“So this is Wilhelm, and this is Alistair,” Samantha says. “And they’re here to escort you to your last stop.”

I can’t stop staring. The handlebar mustaches. The man buns. The way they’re even more identical up close. They’re each holding an envelope with Ben’s handwriting.

“How did he . . . find you?” I ask.

Wilhelm smiles, mustache twitching. “Craigslist.”

“I’m just.”

Holy shit. Ben put up a missed connection. For me. Well, for the twins. But I’m the reason he did it. Me.

“We check Craigslist every day,” says Alistair. “We’ve had thirty-six missed connections since we moved here.”

“Is that . . . a good thing?” asks Dylan.

“It’s a very good thing,” says Wilhelm. “Open the envelopes.”

“In order,” Samantha reminds me.

Ben’s handwriting. Four sentences.

Arthur, I know you’re the one with the grand gestures and no chill.

But the truth is, no one deserves a grand gesture more than you.

I’m not as creative as you, but this is me going the extra mile.

And making you walk an extra mile. I love you.

My eyes prickle with tears—I feel so achy and happy and strange. The next thing I know, the twins are herding me back uptown. It doesn’t even feel real. If it weren’t for my rioting heart, I’d swear I’d left my body. The twins keep asking me chatty questions about music and movies and Ben, but I can barely form words. It’s hard to be a fully functioning Arthur when your heart lives in four envelopes.

I try to catch my breath. Be normal. Make conversation. “So do you guys live in, uh, Brooklyn?”

“Nah, Upper West Side. Well, we used to live on the Upper West Side, but we just moved back in with our parents on Long Island.”

“We’re writing a webcomic,” says Wilhelm.

“About dinosaurs,” adds Alistair.

I stop short. “Of course you are.”

Wilhelm points up the street. “Look, we’re almost there.”

I follow his gaze. And without a doubt, I know.

I break off from them at full speed, weaving around strollers, shoving between couples, clutching the envelopes to my chest. I’m sure I look ridiculous, or at least ridiculously determined. I didn’t even know I could run this fast. I’m a five-foot-six southerner in glasses, and I’m the fastest fucking dude in New York.

I see its awning from a full block away—its white stone exterior gleams in the sun.

United States Post Office.

And there’s Ben, leaning next to the doorway, balancing a cardboard box on his knee.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Ben

We’re back at the start.

Arthur walks into the post office, and wow. His face is winning the game. Like always. It doesn’t matter if he’s just reading chemistry trivia off index cards or eating a hot dog or embarrassed because his parents are talking about his childhood or even now, looking tired and wearing glasses. My heart is running wild, which wasn’t the case when we first met. It should’ve been love at first sight like all the great stories, but I wasn’t ready yet. And that’s okay. We still got somewhere great. The worst story would’ve been never finding each other again, or never meeting in the first place.

I put down the box as he hugs me.

“How’d I do?” I ask. Mapping out memory lane seemed like an epic way to close out this summer.

“Best curtain call ever,” Arthur says. “I really don’t want this to be over.”

“Me either. Super me either.”

“I want a time machine. Go back and do everything right. Literally everything would’ve been different if I had just gotten your name. I would’ve just followed you on Instagram and taken it from there.”

“The universe knew that was too easy and outsmarted us.” I kiss his forehead. “Everything means so much more because of all the hoops we jumped through, right?”

I don’t know if we’re a love story or a story about love. But I know whatever we are that it’s great because we kept jumping through the hoops in the first place.

“I still want the time machine,” Arthur says. “So we can jump ahead. I want to leave right now and see where we end up.”

“Won’t fight you there,” I say.

He looks down at the box. “That better not be what I think it is. Don’t bring this full circle with my very own breakup box.”

“It’s not.” I pick up the box. “It’s a best friend box.”