“Really?” His smile will still be wonderful on FaceTime, but it won’t be the same.

“Really. But don’t tell Dylan. He doesn’t believe in multiple best friends, and he might hire someone to make you go missing.”

“Noted. What’s inside?”

“Just some things so you always remember our summer.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t need this box to remember.”

“Fine. I guess I’ll keep this very sexy scene between Ben-Jamin and King Arturo on the back of a Central Park postcard—”

“—I want the box.”

“—And the packaged cookie from Levain Bakery that was supposed to be one hundred percent for you.”

“I said I want the box!”

I’m going to miss him and his no-chill energy so much. “There’s also a touristy magnet with my name. I’m keeping the one with yours.” I take a deep breath in his silence. “And I framed the photo Dylan took of us with your birthday cake. I have one in my room too.”

Arthur is tearing up. “Thanks for this. For everything. This morning. This summer. I know I’m a lot, and you’ve been so cool about it.”

I laugh a little. “We’re the worst. I mean, we’re the best. But we’re the worst. You always think you’re too much, and I feel like I’m not enough.”

“I will say it a hundred more times, but you are more than enough.”

“I’m starting to believe you.”

We get to the clerk’s window and I kiss Arthur’s name on the box before handing it over. The clerk gives me a what-the-hell look because he doesn’t know what Arthur and I have gone through in the past few weeks to be back here right now.

Once the box is off on its way, so are we.

This time when I leave the post office, I’m holding Arthur’s hand. We stop underneath the metallic lettering of the post office.

“One last pic to hold us over,” Arthur says, pulling out his phone.

I close my eyes and kiss his cheek while he takes the picture. When I look at the picture, Arthur has this Hamilton-ticket-lottery-winning smile.

That smile is gone when I look up at him. “I can’t believe I’m actually leaving.”

“Me either.”

There couldn’t be a worse morning to have to say goodbye to Arthur. We’re walking to school, where I have to pass an exam that will determine my future. Like things aren’t complicated enough. But I’m feeling okay. Sad and nervous, but hopeful. I bet I’ll be the only person laughing in the classroom since Arthur’s ridiculous but super-helpful mnemonic devices will lead me to victory.

“I’m not ready,” I say outside my school.

He’s crying. “Me either.”

“Arthur, you know I would try if I thought we could beat the world, right?”

“I know. We never let anything stand in our way before, but this is . . .”

“Next-level. I can’t lose you forever. You can’t be someone I just knew for one summer. I have to know you every summer.”

“You will,” Arthur promises.

We press our foreheads together and he wipes away my tears.

“I should get in there,” I say, holding on to him like I’m hanging over the side of a building and he’s the ledge.

“I should catch my flight,” Arthur says through tears.

“Okay, King Arturo.”

“Okay, Ben-Jamin.”

He leans in. Our last kiss. I stay pressed against him because this is it, this is all we have to get us through the coming days when we can’t hold hands or kiss or wake up next to each other. I try pulling away, but I’m sucked back into him. It’s not enough and it’s never going to be enough, so I slowly count down from ten in my head and at zero we’re done.

“I’m about to walk away,” Arthur says. “I can’t turn around once I get moving. But you shouldn’t be standing here and watching me in case I cheat. Just run into the school. Okay?” He takes a step back.

I nod.

“I love you, Ben.”

“Te amo too, Arthur.”

Our fingers unlock and that’s it. Arthur somehow finds the strength to turn away, and I feel emptier with each rapid footstep he takes. He gets to the end of the block and he stops. Long enough that I’m expecting him to spin a one-eighty and run back for one more kiss. But he keeps on moving. It’s for the best. I run up the steps into school and my phone buzzes. It’s Arthur texting me the picture of me kissing him in front of the post office. One picture sparks summer memories and I don’t feel empty. I feel like I’m breathing in hope.

The universe wouldn’t get us together for just one summer, right?

Epilogue

What If It’s You and What If It’s Me?

Arthur

Fifteen Months Later

Middletown, Connecticut

Ethan’s not picking up.

I feel ridiculous, scrunched up against the wall, two halls down from Mikey’s dorm room. I’m supposed to be at a party, living that College Arthur life. But College Arthur and college parties don’t mix well. It’s more than two months into freshman year, so I can officially say that. I mean, I keep trying anyway, mostly for the Life Experience, but also because I highly doubt Lin-Manuel Miranda stayed in his dorm all night watching YouTube and throwing away his shot. But parties make me nervous, which makes me talk too much, and then everyone thinks I’m drunk, which I’m not, because let’s be real: no one’s ready to meet Drunk Arthur, not even me.

Anyway, I told Mikey I’d be there, so I’m here. Or at least I was here, until I saw Ethan’s Instagram Story. Now I’m the best friend, reporting for duty.

I try texting. You okay my dude?

Nothing. Five minutes later, still nothing, not even an ellipsis, and I feel a little sick about it. When Jessie broke the news to me yesterday, she made it sound like it was mutual. I’ve talked to her twice since then, and she seems okay—sad, but okay. But Ethan won’t answer my calls. He’s barely responding to my texts.

I rest my head on the cinder-block wall, shutting my eyes. I mean, I’m sure Ethan’s fine. Maybe he’s ignoring my texts because he already met an awesome new girl who can sing and play piano and looks like Anna Kendrick. Maybe she is Anna Kendrick. Though you just know Ethan would blurt out that he likes the original cast soundtrack of The Last Five Years better than the film, which, duh, but how rude is it to say that to Anna Kendrick? So obviously she’ll dump him, which means he’s double-dumped, which means we’re back where we started, but worse.

Guess I better call again.

I’m sent straight to voice mail. For a minute, I just stare at my phone, only half listening to the Radiohead song drifting out of someone’s dorm room. I hate how helpless I feel. And not the romantic kind of helpless. Not the Eliza Schuyler kind. It’s more like the feeling you get watching the end of Titanic. You want to reach into your screen and tip the boat back upright. You want to fix the unfixable.

A text from Mikey: Hey, where’d you go?

I should text him back. Actually, I should just suck it up and go back to the party. It’s not even the intimidating kind of party. It’s mostly just a cappella people sitting on Mikey’s bed and drinking. College is like that—at least Wesleyan’s like that. It’s like the nerds rose to power, kicked out all the popular kids, and stole their weed and alcohol. Which isn’t to say everything’s about smoking and drinking here. A lot of people just sit around talking or gaming or making art, and they’re sometimes naked, and I kind of love that. Not the nudity in particular. But I love that give-no-shits mentality. Also Wesleyan has the cutest boys, far cuter than a certain other Connecticut school that shall remain nameless until I name them. I’m not even bitter that Yale waitlisted me. That’s how cute the boys are here. Case in point: Mikey, with his bleached hair and wire-framed glasses and above-average kissing ability. I’d say he’s the third-best kisser out of the six boys I’ve kissed. Second best was this guy I met when I visited Jessie at Brown. First best was Ben.

Ben. That’s who I should FaceTime. He knows breakups, and more importantly, he knows Ethan. And most importantly, I’m wearing a button-down shirt and a cardigan and glasses, and I’m kind of feeling myself tonight. Also, a few weeks ago, Ben drunk-texted me to say I look hot in my glasses. So there’s that.