Chapter twenty-eight
It’s been a month. Josh never called me back. This gaping, bloody, open wound – the wound that I created – still rubs me raw. I have to keep convincing myself that I was right in the first place, that I was right to break up with him, because it’s clear that he’s realized the truth of what I’ve always feared. That what he felt for me wasn’t love, after all, but convenience.
He’s moving on.
I wish that I could move on. I’m clinging with every last fibre of my being.
At night, I lie awake in bed, pretending that his body is pressed against mine. I close my eyes and imagine the weight of his arms draped across me. Holding me tight. In class, I daydream about placing a love lock on le Pont de l’Archevêché, a bridge near Notre-Dame. Couples write their initials on padlocks and snap them onto the gates as a public declaration of their love. I ache for this sort of unbreakable, permanent connection.
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?
Is it possible that I’m worthy of being loved by someone whom I love?
My heart pounds at double its usual speed. “Either way,” I say. It sounds defensive. Like I’m making an excuse, which I suppose I am. “He needs to get his act together. The last time we talked, he still hadn’t figured out what he was going to do about school. He’s a semester away from graduation, and he’s just sitting on it. And he can’t go to New England without a degree. So, basically, he’s not going anywhere.”
Sanjita looks confused. “New England?”
I tell her about his school and everything else spills out, too. “And I thought I was getting used to the idea of la Sorbonne, but I don’t know. Back when we were dating, it sounded exciting to go someplace new. I did all this research, and Dartmouth seemed really cool, you know? Different. And when I went up there a few weeks ago, it was even better than I’d imagined. But when we broke up, it became his place again—”
“I thought you said he wasn’t going anywhere.”
“Well, I don’t know that for sure—”
“Who cares? Go to Dartmouth.”
“Yeah, but what if he thinks I want to move there for him?”
“Do you?”
“No, but—”
“So go to Dartmouth.”
I frown, and she stares at me like I’m dense. “I’m not sure what’s so difficult about this,” she says. “You got into the school that you wanted to get into. So go to it.”
Holy shit. She’s right. Is it really that simple?
Sanjita crosses her arms, smug. She knows she’s won her argument.
“You used to want to be a lawyer,” I say. “Do you still want that? Because you’re good at arguing your case.”
She grins. “What else do you need me to fix?”
“I don’t know. My sister? Can you fix her?”
“Hattie, I assume?”
“She’s relentless.” I grind une frite into its paper sleeve. “She showed up in my room the other day – unasked, of course – and immediately started rifling through all of my belongings. I told her to cut it out, but that only made her push this huge stack of books off my desk.”
“Maybe she’s just curious about you. Maybe she didn’t mean anything by it.”
I shake my head. “Hattie never does anything without purpose. She was doing it to get under my skin, and it worked. Like it always does.”
Sanjita arches an eyebrow. “I don’t know. It sounds like you’re treating her like a child so she’s responding like one.”
I can’t contain the surprise from my expression. Or the outrage.
She holds up her hands in defence. “I have three older sisters. They might as well be three mothers. I’ve been making a conscious effort not to do it to Nikhil this year.”
One of my hands clutches my necklace. “Like…how?”
“Have you ever invited her to your room? Or anywhere else, for that matter?”
There’s a long and empty silence. Sanjita correctly interprets it. “What about Gen? Do you guys ever hang out, just the two of you?”
“She lives on the other side of the Atlantic.” It comes out pricklier than intended.
“But you do, don’t you? Over the holidays.”
I think about Gen in my bedroom over Thanksgiving. And then again over Christmas. The truth washes over me in a tidal wave. It’s true. Hattie has been trying to tell me for years. I treat Gen like a friend, and I treat her like a child.
I mother her.
Hattie hasn’t been my baby sister in ages. I’ve been condescending, and I’ve never seen nor treated her like an equal. She needs me to be a confidante. A friend. And then the unexpected flip side illuminates inside of me: I need her to be mine even more.
“You should consider a double major,” I say. “Law and psychology.”
Sanjita smiles as if she’s pleased to be seen. Just like me.