Isla and the Happily Ever After
Page 20
“Never trust a girl because she looks innocent.” I wag the key at him, but my heart pounds faster. He said I’m cute. I turn the key, the lock thunks, and the door creaks open.
Josh squints into the darkness. “Ah. More stairs. Of course.”
“Last set, I promise.”
He follows me inside, and I gesture for him to shut the door. We’re enveloped in pitch black. “Wait here,” I whisper.
“Are you getting your axe?”
“Handcuffs.”
“Kinky. But, okay, I’ll try it.”
I laugh as I climb the final set of stairs. They’re narrow, rough, and steep, so I ascend with caution. I raise an arm above my head until my fingers hit the trapdoor. One more turn of the key, a powerful shove with the heel of my hand, and it pops open. The stairwell illuminates. I look down. Josh looks up at me, bathed in starlight and wonder.
He steps onto the rooftop balcony with silent reverence. I close the trapdoor, and we’re surrounded by a sparkling, winking cityscape.
“You can see everything from here,” he says. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak with awe. The serpentine river and crumbling cathedrals and sprawling palaces and everything, yes, everything is visible from here. The view is even better than the Pompidou’s. The City of Light pulses with life, Nuit Blanche celebrations in full swing.
“Welcome to the Treehouse.” I shine with a buoyant pride. “I’ve never had a real one, but it makes for a good substitute. The only part that requires an imagination is the tree itself.”
“I can’t believe it. This is yours?”
“My aunt’s. Tante Juliette lives in the apartment with the purple door. I used to play up here when I was a little girl, but then she gave me the key during my sophomore year. Kurt and I need somewhere…to escape.”
Josh is taking in the space, lingering on and processing each item. The balcony is square, snug, and crammed with a variety of worn objects: a wooden ladder, two mismatched cane chairs, a mossy terracotta pot holding a miniature rosebush, stacked piles of round stones, a cracked mirror with a gilt frame, a collection of pale green soda bottles, a steamer trunk with a broken lock, and the head of a white carousel horse. A low concrete wall holds everything in.
“They’re all found objects,” I explain. “We pick them up off the street. We have a rule that none of our décor” – I say this word somewhat jokingly, somewhat seriously – “can be purchased.”
Josh squats down and delicately touches the horse’s mane. “People leave things like this on the street?”
“In front of their houses. They set them out for the garbage-men to take away.”
“What about this?” He points to a chipped porcelain bowl that’s filled to the top with fresh water.
“That’s for Jacque. He’s the stray cat who sometimes hangs out with us.”
Josh shakes his head. “This…yeah. This is incredible. You must bring all of your paramours here.”
It’s a tease, but as he stands back up, I sense a real question underneath. “There’s only been one. And, no, he didn’t receive an invitation.” I bend over to remove a thick, plaid blanket from the steamer trunk. “Okay. I lied.”
“You did bring him here?”
I hold up the blanket and laugh. “No. I bought this. I didn’t find it on the street.”
Josh emits a barely discernible but clearly relieved breath of held air. It makes me smile. I lay the blanket down. We sit, facing each other with crossed legs. “So tell me about him,” he says. “Tell me who I should be jealous of.”
“Well. His name is Jacque, he’s about yea-high, and he has the most delightful little paws.”
“Come on.”
“The guy isn’t important. It’s not like I dated him for two years,” I add pointedly.
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” But after a few seconds, he nudges my knee. “Go on.”
I sigh. “His name was Sébastien. He’s French. He attends a school ten minutes away from ours. And my aunt set us up.”
“Oy.” Josh winces. “The same aunt who lives below?”
“The very one. Tante Juliette is friends with his maman, and they invited us both to brunch last winter, not telling us that the other one would also be there. It was humiliating. But, oddly enough…we clicked. We dated quietly for a few months.”
“Dated quietly?”
“We didn’t want to tell our nosy families that their plan worked.” I pause for a well-timed grin. “So we didn’t.”
“Did anyone know?”
“Of course. Kurt knew. And Sébastien’s friends.”
“So…what happened?”
My gaze lowers. “Turns out, he wasn’t a nice guy. He didn’t really like Kurt.”
“I’m sorry.” Josh winces again. “How serious were you guys? Before that?”
“You mean did we have sex.”
He’s taken aback by my bluntness. He ducks his head, abashed.
“Yes,” I say.
He tries to cover his surprise. Again. I suppose everyone at school assumes that I’m a virgin – that is, if they don’t already think I’m banging my best friend.
“But we were never serious-serious,” I explain. “I mean, when you grow up half French, it’s not like sex is this big taboo. And, yeah, you have to be careful and you need protection and blah blah blah, but it’s not that American Puritanical be-all, end-all. You know? Sébastien was the only one, though. I don’t want you to get the wrong—”
“No.” He shakes his head rapidly. “I know.”
A long pause. “How about you?”
“The same. Just the one.”
The wind picks up, and I rub my bare arms. “But you loved her.”
“I thought I did.” Josh stares out over the city. “And then I knew I didn’t, and she knew she didn’t, but we stayed together, because…I don’t know why. Maybe because we thought we should be in love. At least I did. I wanted to be in love.” He looks back at me. “Have you ever been in love?”
“No.” Yes. With you.
A motorcycle passes on the road below. We listen until its guttural roar fades away. Josh glances at me, and then he double-takes. “You’re shivering.”
Josh squints into the darkness. “Ah. More stairs. Of course.”
“Last set, I promise.”
He follows me inside, and I gesture for him to shut the door. We’re enveloped in pitch black. “Wait here,” I whisper.
“Are you getting your axe?”
“Handcuffs.”
“Kinky. But, okay, I’ll try it.”
I laugh as I climb the final set of stairs. They’re narrow, rough, and steep, so I ascend with caution. I raise an arm above my head until my fingers hit the trapdoor. One more turn of the key, a powerful shove with the heel of my hand, and it pops open. The stairwell illuminates. I look down. Josh looks up at me, bathed in starlight and wonder.
He steps onto the rooftop balcony with silent reverence. I close the trapdoor, and we’re surrounded by a sparkling, winking cityscape.
“You can see everything from here,” he says. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak with awe. The serpentine river and crumbling cathedrals and sprawling palaces and everything, yes, everything is visible from here. The view is even better than the Pompidou’s. The City of Light pulses with life, Nuit Blanche celebrations in full swing.
“Welcome to the Treehouse.” I shine with a buoyant pride. “I’ve never had a real one, but it makes for a good substitute. The only part that requires an imagination is the tree itself.”
“I can’t believe it. This is yours?”
“My aunt’s. Tante Juliette lives in the apartment with the purple door. I used to play up here when I was a little girl, but then she gave me the key during my sophomore year. Kurt and I need somewhere…to escape.”
Josh is taking in the space, lingering on and processing each item. The balcony is square, snug, and crammed with a variety of worn objects: a wooden ladder, two mismatched cane chairs, a mossy terracotta pot holding a miniature rosebush, stacked piles of round stones, a cracked mirror with a gilt frame, a collection of pale green soda bottles, a steamer trunk with a broken lock, and the head of a white carousel horse. A low concrete wall holds everything in.
“They’re all found objects,” I explain. “We pick them up off the street. We have a rule that none of our décor” – I say this word somewhat jokingly, somewhat seriously – “can be purchased.”
Josh squats down and delicately touches the horse’s mane. “People leave things like this on the street?”
“In front of their houses. They set them out for the garbage-men to take away.”
“What about this?” He points to a chipped porcelain bowl that’s filled to the top with fresh water.
“That’s for Jacque. He’s the stray cat who sometimes hangs out with us.”
Josh shakes his head. “This…yeah. This is incredible. You must bring all of your paramours here.”
It’s a tease, but as he stands back up, I sense a real question underneath. “There’s only been one. And, no, he didn’t receive an invitation.” I bend over to remove a thick, plaid blanket from the steamer trunk. “Okay. I lied.”
“You did bring him here?”
I hold up the blanket and laugh. “No. I bought this. I didn’t find it on the street.”
Josh emits a barely discernible but clearly relieved breath of held air. It makes me smile. I lay the blanket down. We sit, facing each other with crossed legs. “So tell me about him,” he says. “Tell me who I should be jealous of.”
“Well. His name is Jacque, he’s about yea-high, and he has the most delightful little paws.”
“Come on.”
“The guy isn’t important. It’s not like I dated him for two years,” I add pointedly.
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” But after a few seconds, he nudges my knee. “Go on.”
I sigh. “His name was Sébastien. He’s French. He attends a school ten minutes away from ours. And my aunt set us up.”
“Oy.” Josh winces. “The same aunt who lives below?”
“The very one. Tante Juliette is friends with his maman, and they invited us both to brunch last winter, not telling us that the other one would also be there. It was humiliating. But, oddly enough…we clicked. We dated quietly for a few months.”
“Dated quietly?”
“We didn’t want to tell our nosy families that their plan worked.” I pause for a well-timed grin. “So we didn’t.”
“Did anyone know?”
“Of course. Kurt knew. And Sébastien’s friends.”
“So…what happened?”
My gaze lowers. “Turns out, he wasn’t a nice guy. He didn’t really like Kurt.”
“I’m sorry.” Josh winces again. “How serious were you guys? Before that?”
“You mean did we have sex.”
He’s taken aback by my bluntness. He ducks his head, abashed.
“Yes,” I say.
He tries to cover his surprise. Again. I suppose everyone at school assumes that I’m a virgin – that is, if they don’t already think I’m banging my best friend.
“But we were never serious-serious,” I explain. “I mean, when you grow up half French, it’s not like sex is this big taboo. And, yeah, you have to be careful and you need protection and blah blah blah, but it’s not that American Puritanical be-all, end-all. You know? Sébastien was the only one, though. I don’t want you to get the wrong—”
“No.” He shakes his head rapidly. “I know.”
A long pause. “How about you?”
“The same. Just the one.”
The wind picks up, and I rub my bare arms. “But you loved her.”
“I thought I did.” Josh stares out over the city. “And then I knew I didn’t, and she knew she didn’t, but we stayed together, because…I don’t know why. Maybe because we thought we should be in love. At least I did. I wanted to be in love.” He looks back at me. “Have you ever been in love?”
“No.” Yes. With you.
A motorcycle passes on the road below. We listen until its guttural roar fades away. Josh glances at me, and then he double-takes. “You’re shivering.”
