Isla and the Happily Ever After (29 page)

After New Year’s, my father and I took a train to Dartmouth. I didn’t want to go, because how can I possibly say yes to them, even if I
am
accepted? But Dad wanted me to see the school in person. He’s excited that I’ve applied somewhere unexpected.

Everything was covered in a thick layer of pristine white snow. Dad had scheduled an interview for me, and the encouraging woman behind the desk showed me pamphlets of the campus in the spring and autumn. It looked even more beautiful. She was impressed with my transcripts, and she assured me that a lot of students don’t know what they want to study when they arrive, and I left the interview feeling hopeful and buoyant and alive.

I died again somewhere on the train ride home. Dartmouth is a future that I might’ve had, but I lost. It’s no longer mine. Furthermore, my ugly secret wish has been granted: a college rejected me, and my choice was made for me. I’ll stay here in Paris and attend la Sorbonne. Maybe I’ll meet someone someday, and he’ll make me forget about Josh. Maybe we’ll get married. Maybe I’ll live in France for ever.

But some things
have
changed.

Kurt’s placeholder comment has returned to haunt me.
I’ve
been replaced. While I spent a month in detention, he started talking to these two sophomores, Nikhil Devi – I cannot escape that family – and Nikhil’s best friend, Michael. Kurt had overheard them talking about the tunnels, and he discovered that they’re obsessed with them, too. He mentioned their names a few times last semester, but I was so preoccupied by my own problems that I didn’t realize they were actually
hanging out.
They kept in touch over the winter break, and now their friendship has reached the next natural level.

Nikhil and Michael are sitting at our cafeteria table.

This must be how Kurt felt when Josh ate with us. And it’s not that Nikhil and Michael are ignoring me – they don’t, just like Josh never ignored Kurt – but they’re not exactly sitting at our table because they like me. Though, okay, maybe Nikhil does seem to
like
like me, which is yet another awkward situation.

It’s weird knowing that Nikhil has spent a significant amount of time with Josh, through Rashmi. I wish that I could ask him about them. What were they like as a couple? And how did Josh and I compare?

But that would be mean. Not that I’m a good person any more.

I can’t help but think that Kurt is pulling away from me on purpose. And not just because he got tired of sitting in my backseat, but also because Josh did this same thing when he was a junior, when his friends were close to graduation. He pulled away from them. And Kurt will always be my best friend, of course he will, but things have changed. For the first time ever, Kurt wasn’t the most important person in my life. That’s hard for me to deal with. It must have been hard for Kurt, too.

And yet…he’s thriving. Which has only made it that much more clear that I’m the reason why we haven’t had any other friends. Not Kurt.
I’ve
held us back. When I disappeared, he found new people to hang out with, but I still don’t have anyone else. How do people even make friends? How does that happen?

I can’t stop thinking about risk. I took one risk in going to Kismet and another in calling Brian’s phone. Neither worked out. It takes the entire month of January for me to build up the courage to attempt another. Even though Josh is no longer an option, I still want to tackle these other problems – my lack of friends and lack of everyday courage.

It happens one evening in the cafeteria. There’s a rare conversational break between Kurt and his friends, and I pounce before I lose my nerve. “Angoulême is this weekend. You guys wanna go with me?”

Angoulême is the name of a town about three hours south-west of Paris by train, but it’s also shorthand for the largest comics festival in Europe. Its black-and-white wildcat mascot has been crunched in every advertising space not already occupied by the Olympics. It feels like a symbol of everything that I’ve lost. If Josh were still here – and if we were still together – we’d take the day trip without a second thought. I need to prove to myself that I can do it without him. And I’ve seen Nikhil and Michael reading comics, so surely this is not an unattractive offer?

“I thought you were done with leaving this city without permission,” Kurt says.

“It’s one afternoon,” I say. “The school will never know.”

Nikhil sits up eagerly. He’s tiny and excitable, a kittenish ball of energy, and he always speaks in an enthusiastic babble. “That sounds fun. Yeah, guys, let’s do it! We should totally do it.”

Michael grins at him with a full mouth of braces. “I wonder why
you
want to go.”

“It’s because he wants to bone Isla,” Kurt says.

“
Kurt
.” I’m mortified.

“Yeah.” Michael rolls his eyes. “I know.”

“Oh.” Kurt sinks. They may be friends, but they don’t have each other’s rhythms down yet. And then he immediately perks back up, because he still has the upper hand on information. “It won’t happen. She’s still hung up on Josh.”

“Kurt, I’m sitting right here.” I try to give Nikhil an apologetic wince, but he stares determinedly at his food tray. His dark brown skin has taken on a pinky-red undertone. Crushes are so awful. I wonder if they suck worse for the crush-er or the crush-ee. I consider my three years of watching Josh from afar. Yeah, definitely the crush-er.

Poor Nikhil.

Poor me.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Michael says. He speaks with a shrewd authority that’s belied by his ungroomed, sticky-uppy hair. “Saturday is the only day Arnaud can take us underground.”

“Who’s Arnaud?” I ask.

Kurt stabs a roasted potato with his fork. “Our first connection. Michael found him. He works at the sewer system museum.”

“There’s a sewer system museum?” On the upside, at least this means there are still things for me to learn about Paris. Since I’ll be here for a while. If Kurt stays interested in this stuff, I suppose someday I’ll be crawling around underground, too. It doesn’t sound so bad. Cramped and dirty, yes. But it’d be an adventure. I suppose.

“Yes, of course,” Kurt says. As if all cities have sewer museums. “Why don’t you come with us this weekend instead?”

I imagine drainage and mud and darkness. And then I imagine a train and the open countryside and a sleepy town filled with comic books.

Yeah. I’ll make friends another day.

That night, there’s a letter waiting for me. I stare into my mailbox, afraid to pick it up. I want it to be from him. I want it to be from him so badly.

My arm trembles as I reach inside and pull it out.

It’s not from him.

The blow to my chest is as strong as ever. I’m still not any closer to being over Josh. Not even a centimetre closer, not even a millimetre. People say that the only thing that heals heartbreak is time. But how much time will it take?

The return address comes into focus, and I’m hit with a second shock
wave. I shred open the envelope, right there in the hall, and rip out the letter. My head reels. I read the first sentence again, but the words haven’t changed. It’s a different kind of heartbreak.
On behalf of the faculty and staff, it is with great pleasure that I inform you of your admission to Dartmouth College.

The streets of Angoulême overflow with red balloons and swarms of happy readers. But their excitement can’t stop the rain. Why does it rain every time I travel? This time, I don’t wait to buy an umbrella. I haven’t seen the last one since Barcelona. Josh must have it. Or maybe we left it in the park. Umbrellas are so small and sad and easy to forget.

I wander through the town, the venues, the comics museum. Festivals like this aren’t as crazed as their American counterparts – and there are far fewer people in costume – but the Europeans in attendance are still showing less restraint than usual. I try to get caught up in their enthusiasm, and occasionally it works. Like when I discover a new-to-me author-illustrator who writes about a split life between China and America. It’s only after I purchase two volumes that I realize how much Josh would like her work, too. And the fact that I can’t share it with him makes my heart hurt all over again.

It gets worse when I find myself faced with a large display featuring only titles by Joann Sfar. And then even worse when I discover one of Josh’s favourite artists in the flesh, and I have to talk myself out of getting a book signed for him. It feels selfish, so I talk myself back into it, thinking I’ll just have something signed. No personalization. If I ever see him again, he can have it. But the moment the cartoonist asks, I blurt, “‘To Josh’, please.” And before I can correct my mistake, my ex-boyfriend’s name – at least I can say
that word
now – has been inked onto the front page beside an illustration of a rose.

Of all things. A rose.

I can’t win.

Back in Paris, the posters for the Olympics make me wonder if I should buy a ticket to Chambéry next month. But the thought of another crowded train, another crowded town, all of those crowded hotels…ugh. No.

That’s how I’m feeling about everything these days: ugh. No.

The city remains as cold as ever. A few days after Angoulême, I pop into one of the Latin Quarter’s identical gyro joints, seeking warmth in the form of hot
frites
. Or French fries, which should really be called Belgian fries, if America wants to get correct about it.

Ohmygod. No wonder I don’t have any friends.

The restaurant is empty. I sit in the back with the second volume of the Chinese-American split-life autobiography. I haven’t been able to put it down. Much of it is depressingly, satisfyingly familiar.

The door
dings,
and another customer enters the restaurant.

Sanjita looks as startled to see me as I am to see her. She waves, uncertain. I return the gesture. She also purchases a sleeve of
frites,
and I’m thankful that she’s the one who has to make the decision: leave or join me. The restaurant is too small, and we have too much of a history, for her to sit alone.

She’s hesitant. Fearful. She joins me anyway.

“It’s freezing out there,” she says.

I’m surprised by how grateful I am for her company. “I know. I wish it’d hurry up and snow already.”

“Me, too. It feels wrong for it to be this cold without it.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause. It’s the kind that follows any general statement about the weather, the kind that’s filled with everything we
aren’t
saying. I’m trying to come up with another neutral topic when she asks, “How’s Josh doing?”

The blood drains from my face.

Sanjita doesn’t notice. She pokes at her fries. “I felt so bad for you guys when he had to leave.”

This unexpected moment of compassion tugs on my heart. “I…don’t know how he’s doing. I think he’s okay. We broke up last month.”

“You
did
?” She raises her head in surprise. “But you were perfect for each other.”

The floor dips. “You thought so?”

“Of course. And you’d been in love with him for, like, ever. That must have been crazy when you actually started dating him.”

The relief I feel at being understood – really and truly understood – is profound. The emptiness inside of me transforms into an instant flood of emotion. “It
was
crazy. It was amazing. It was…the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Sanjita scoots forward, and her dangly gold earrings sway. “So what went wrong?”

“I liked him – I
loved
him – but I don’t think he loved me the same way in return.”

Her shoulders fall. “He broke up with you.”

“No. I broke up with him.”

She winces. “Oh.
Ouch.
”

“I know.”

But her frown only grows. “I don’t get it. You guys were glued to each other. I
saw
the way he looked at you. He never looked at Rashmi like that.”

My heart stops. I could never ask Nikhil, but…Sanjita.

“Wh-what were they like as couple? Your sister and Josh?”

She shrugs, and her long earrings sway again. “I don’t know. They bickered constantly. I think they were more similar, more stubborn and determined, than they realized. It was why they sort of worked together, but why it never could’ve lasted. There was no balance.”

Josh and I had balance. Didn’t we?

“Not like she ever told
me
anything.” Sanjita scowls. “But, from the outside, it seemed like they’d both be better off with partners who were softer. Like you.”

I’m not sure I like that word.
Softer.

She sees my expression and shakes her head. “Not, like,
weak
soft. I meant…someone who’d give them the space they need to flourish. Who wouldn’t try to change them. Who’d support them – even when they were being dumbasses – but who’d be ready to guide them back when they needed it.”

“And…you think that’s me?”

“Are you kidding? You’re the most patient and forgiving person I know.”

A strange thing is happening. Something deep inside of me recognizes her words as true. I
am
patient and forgiving.

Just not with myself.

She looks away from me again, re-hiding her face, and I know she’s thinking about Kurt. About how she tested me for months. About how I wanted to be friends with them both, but how she forced me to choose anyway. I can see her shame. She clears her throat, pushing herself back into the present. “So why don’t you think Josh loved you?”

“I felt like I was…a nice distraction. He was so unhappy here, you know?”

“Phones are distracting. The internet is distracting. The way he looked at you? He wasn’t distracted. He was
consumed.
”

I get the sense that she’s being extra nice to me to make up for the past without having to say she’s sorry. It feels cowardly. But it also appears as if she believes what she’s saying. It’s simultaneously my greatest fear
and
my greatest hope. Is it possible, after all of this second-guessing, that Josh really did love me as much as I loved him? Is it possible that he saw something in me that I have trouble seeing in myself?