Becky Albertalli

swear to God, that kid will whore himself out completely for a cheap laugh.

She’s quiet for several seconds, and then: “I don’t have a right to be mad.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This is your thing, Simon.”

“But you’re entitled to your emotions,”

I smile back. “I’m one of the cute guys who gets you tongue-tied?”

He squeezes the steering wheel.

“You’re the cute guy.”

I could do it again, I would have blackmailed you into being my friend and left it at that.

From what I can tell, that’s the whole point of New York: being cool.

I’m not cool.

Fucking tourists.

I’m not even a tourist. I somewhat live here, at least for the summer.

whoever invented copy machines is this close to getting their ass kicked? By you? By a five-foot-six Jewish kid with ADHD and the rage of a tornado? That kind of day? Yeah.

Except.

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.

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.

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

Ex-boyfriend.

Which means Box Boy dates guys.