Isla and the Happily Ever After

  And then…I’m there.

  I appear like a dream, and Josh is whisked into a surreal, blissful night that makes him forget his troubles. It makes him feel hope for the first time in years. There’s the page that I’ve seen before of him racing home to draw me, but then there’s a new full-page illustration of me with the garden-rose halo. I glow on the page like something sacred. Josh is on his knees at the bottom of the illustration, looking up at me, weeping, his hands clasped. The word Salvation pours from his lips.

  My own hands are trembling so hard that I can barely get to the next page.

  FRESHMAN, it says. And the story I’m familiar with begins. Most of this section is the same. It’s funny, it’s sad, it’s sweet. It’s innocent. But there are some differences. He’s added subtle brushstrokes to draw attention towards areas of the story that I know will have greater meaning later on. Things that he couldn’t have known would be so important when he drew them years ago.

  And then there’s me. Again. He’s chronologically added the panels of the first time we spoke, when he saw me reading the Sfar book in the cafeteria. He’s even added a tiny heart above his head while he speaks. And then a broken one when he thinks that I don’t like him.

  I touch the broken heart with the tip of my finger.

  The story turns familiar again, but this time the panels with Rashmi are less painful. The sadness I feel comes from remembering how much they hurt me the first time. He’s trimmed down her scenes and the excessive one-page panels. She’s still a large part of the story, as she should be, but the focus remains squarely on him. Also as it should be.

  Last summer. Kismet. A callback panel signals a return to the beginning of the story, and then it cuts back to him discovering me with Kurt the following night.

  New pages appear. Josh with his parents. There’s an increasing distance between them – now self-created, out of spite – as he simultaneously yearns to be closer. He wants them to fight for his attention. He returns to school for his senior year. When I read this in November, these pages were rough sketches. Now they’ve been lovingly inked in. It gives everything a new sense of permanence.

  And then I’m reading about his crush on me, and I’m reading about him longing for me at Oktoberfest, and I’m reading about our first date. I’m reading about him falling in love with me. I’m reading about the Treehouse and the college applications and his birthday, and we’re going to Spain, and we’re making love. He draws us beautifully. The emotions on the page are so much bigger than anything he’s drawn before.

  And then it’s a two-page spread: a single panel being ripped in half. I’m on one side, and he’s on the other. Our hands grasp at the space between. Almost touching.

  My cheeks are wet. I’m not sure how long I’ve been crying.

  The pages turn angry and wild, swirled around the election and parents, who are always present yet always absent. He grieves for our loss. He blames himself. He’s depressed, and he doesn’t know how to tell me that we won’t be seeing each other for Thanksgiving. I want to tell Josh-on-the-page that it’s okay, but I can’t. It won’t be okay.

  He fights with his parents. They want him to finish at a private school. He wants to take his GED. Neither happens. He sinks deeper into depression, and he won’t leave his room, and he draws me again and again and again. And then he draws my Christmas present. I don’t know if I can handle reading about Christmas, but it’s coming anyway.

  I pick a fight. I am cruel. I annihilate him.

  He thought we’d be together for ever. Images of New England, a wedding, children, old age crumble into the background of a dark panel in which he’s curled on the ground in the foetal position. He tries to call me. I won’t answer. His devastation turns into fury. New Year’s Eve arrives, and he sits alone in his bedroom watching television. He thinks about our first date, just like I did. Brian calls his house shortly after midnight with the urgent message that I’m waiting for him at Kismet. There’s still time to make it.

  I turn the page, fearing what I’ll find next.

  Josh chooses not to go. He wants me to suffer in the way that I’ve made him suffer. It’s awful to read, though it’s no less than I deserved. But as the days pass, Josh realizes that he’s made a mistake. And as they continue to pass, it gets harder to call me. He’s afraid that now I will have given up on him for good.

  And then…his naked figure tumbles into space.

  A completely black two-page spread. On the following page, no illustration, only my own words written in Josh’s beautiful handwriting: “SPACES…BREAKS…TO CONTEMPLATE THINGS…TO FIGURE OUT WHAT’S IMPORTANT…”

  A series of near-identical panels are next, showing an excruciating passage of time. A certain truth is settling in. That one of the most hurtful things I said to him – that he passively campaigned for his own expulsion, because he couldn’t admit to his parents that he’d made a mistake in moving to France – only hurts so much because it’s true. And that the head of school and his ex-girlfriend had been telling him that for years, but it didn’t matter until he heard the words from the person who mattered the most. Me.

  But he’s also still angry with me for invalidating his own feelings. He loves me, and I won’t let him. He decides that he has to prove it. He confesses to his parents that leaving home for Paris was a mistake, but that he’s ready for Vermont. He won’t mess it up this time. They say they’d like to believe him, but they’re concerned with his ability to see things through. An offer is put on the table. They’ll send him to Vermont if he can finish the project that means the most to him, the project that will also serve as his official portfolio for admission: this graphic memoir.

  They understand that he’s been writing about his private life – and that some of it includes them. They give him their support anyway.

  His parents are understanding and supportive about… a lot of things.

  I’m reading faster now, flipping the pages more and more quickly, as Josh throws himself back into his work. He locks himself away in his room in order to reconnect with the world. Day and night, he makes the changes and pushes ahead. Pushes through. His resolve is admirable as he forces his way through the monotonous long hours and the renewed shooting pains in his right hand to bring his vision onto the page.

  He signs up to take the GED and nails it in a weekend. He talks to St. Clair, learns of the engagement ring and the upcoming trip, and he marks the date on his calendar. But he marks it with the word Isla.

  His mother sees it. She nods.

  My heart is racing. The pages are no longer inked, they’re pencilled sketches. A month of hard work in January turns into two weeks of agonizing work in February. Doubt creeps back in. He considers cancelling his flight, but that’s when Hattie’s package arrives, and he’s overwhelmed and overjoyed, and it gives him the courage to press forward. He flies across the Atlantic. He meets his friends, and he takes them to Pizza Pellino for dinner, where he knows he’ll find Kurt and me. Because it’s Sunday.

  I have now exited Josh’s real past and entered into what he hopes is his future.

  The sketches get rougher. Kurt and I are at the restaurant, and Josh and his friends – St. Clair, Anna and Meredith – join us for dinner. Our table’s conversation is similar to what occurred earlier tonight, except that Josh is more vocal. He tells me it was important for me to meet his friends, because they’re the people that he chooses to have in his life. Not like the people at the Christmas party whom he deals with for his family’s sake. He wants me to be friends with his friends, too.

  He asks me about Dartmouth, and I tell him that I was accepted. “I knew you would be,” he whispers. We watch the proposal, glancing at each other with hope and nervousness. We split apart from the others, he walks me home, and he hands me a copy of this manuscript. He tells me to call his phone when I’m done reading it.

  I’m holding my breath. I can hardly turn the page…

  There I am. I’m reading this book by lamplight. I f
inish it, call him, and he tells me that he’s on the corner outside of my window. His hands are tucked into his pockets, and he’s shivering in the freezing February night.

  Isla-on-the-page runs outside. Josh embraces her.

  “I’m in love with you,” he says. “I’ll do anything to be with you.”

  “I’m in love with you,” Isla-on-the-page says. “I’ll wait for you.”

  I tell him that I’ll wait for him to finish his book and earn his passage to college. I tell him that we’ll meet again this summer. And then, he tells me, we’ll never be apart again.

  It’s after two in the morning when I set down the manuscript. My heart is drumming so loudly that I can’t hear myself think, and I can hardly see through my tears. I climb out of bed, pull aside the curtain, and peek out my window.

  He’s there.

  I drop the curtain, and it swings back into place. I pick it up and look outside again. He’s still there. He’s on the corner with his head ducked underneath his coat, shivering. The snow is falling like crazy. It covers him as if he were a mere postbox or bicycle or tree. He doesn’t see me. I yank on my boots, grab my key, and race down the hall. I throw open the door, and he must hear me running, because he turns the corner just as I reach it.

  “You forgot to call,” he says.

  I throw open my arms. He pulls me into him, and we kiss, and his lips are cold, and I think he’s crying, and I’m definitely crying, and I pull back to say, “I am so in love with you, Joshua Wasserstein. Of course I’ll wait for you.”

  Chapter thirty-three

  His voice is a whisper. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  I shut my door with precision silence. “I’m not on a final warning, and you’ve already been expelled. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “I don’t know.” Josh is genuinely worried. “Maybe it could go on your permanent record and keep Dartmouth from accepting you?”

  I smile. “My parents have already sent them the first tuition cheque.”

  His knees weaken. And then rest of his body follows. I guide him onto the edge of my bed. “Do you mean?” he says. “Are you…?”

  “I’m going to Dartmouth.”

  Josh’s head drops into his hands. His whole body shakes. I sit beside him and press my head against his shoulder. Because I can again. He lifts his head, and his eyes shine with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m just…really overwhelmed right now.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I love you. I’ve always loved you, Isla.”

  “I know.” I take his freezing hands and rub them between mine, trying to warm them. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. I doubted myself, and that made me doubt you. But you weren’t the problem. You were never the problem. I should have trusted you, but I didn’t, because I couldn’t trust myself.”

  “But you do now? Trust yourself?”

  “I’m…getting there. I’m beginning to think that maybe it’s okay to be a blank canvas. Maybe it’s okay that my future is unknown. And maybe,” I say with another smile, “it’s okay to be inspired by the people who do know their future.”

  “It goes both ways, you know.”

  I link his icicle fingers through mine. “What does?”

  “Artists are inspired by blank canvases.”

  My smile grows wider.

  “A blank canvas,” Josh continues, “has unlimited possibilities.”

  I close my eyes, lean over, and kiss his cold lips. “Thank you.”

  His shivering grows more severe.

  I jump to my feet. “Oh, mon petit chou.” I pull out his arms from his snow-soaked coat. “I can’t believe you were waiting out there this whole time.”

  His teeth chatter. “I-I would have waited all night.”

  I hang up his coat inside my shower and return for his shirt. “This, too.” I tug it off, over his head. His skin is pale. Almost lavender-coloured. “And these.” I remove his shoes and socks, but his pants prove to be a challenge. They’re practically frozen to his legs. When they finally release, I topple over backwards.

  He smiles through his shivers. “Not…quite…how I imagined…undressing with you again.”

  I hang up his shirt and pants beside his coat to dry. Over my head, his socks and boxers go flying onto the shower floor. I laugh. He’s wrapped himself up inside my quilt, and only his face is peeking out.

  “This doesn’t mean you can take advantage of me,” he says.

  I laugh again.

  Josh sweeps out a hand across the surface of my bed as a gesture for me to sit beside him, but the quilt catches on the manuscript. It knocks over on to the floor in a loud, crashing, never-ending nightmare. We freeze in horror. We listen for Nate. Nothing.

  We smile at the miracle that has been granted to us.

  I sit beside him. He scoots in towards me, but I pull back my head. “Don’t you want to know what I thought about your book first?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.” He laughs nervously. “Do I?”

  “You know it’s good. You know it’s really, really good.”

  His face disappears as his entire body slumps into the mound of blankets. “You can’t even begin to imagine how relieved I am to hear you say that.”

  “I’ve always known you’re brilliant. And you’ve just proved it to the world.”

  A hand pokes out from underneath the quilt. I squeeze it. “For what it’s worth?” he says. “You’d make a great editor someday. Everything you yelled at me was true.”

  I look away from him in shame. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “No. I am. I’m sorry about so many things. And I’m especially sorry for…using your ex-girlfriend to fuel my own stupid insecurities. I want you to know that I don’t love this” – I gesture towards his manuscript, scattered across my hardwood – “because there’s less of her in it. Or more of me. I want you to know that I love it because it has you in it – the good parts and the ugly parts. I love you. I love all of you.”

  He grips my hand harder. “Thank you.”

  “The praise is a long time coming.” I rub my thumb against his index finger. “And I have so much more of it to give.”

  “Tomorrow. Right now, I only want you.”

  But my heart grows heavy again. “You mean today. Did you find out when your train leaves?”

  “Isla.” He looks surprised. Like I should already know this. “I never bought a ticket.”

  My breath catches. “What?”

  “I’m not going to the Olympics. I came here for you.”

  “Does…does that mean you’re staying?”

  He scoots in closer. “Two weeks. Through the end of the games, if you’ll have me. But then I’m stuck in DC until June.”

  “Yes. Yes, I’ll have you!”

  Josh smiles impishly. “Oh, you will?”

  I shove him through the blankets. He topples over onto his side, laughing, pulling me down with him. He stares into my eyes. His smile fades. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  I rub my arms against the chill. “I’ve missed you.”

  “You’re cold.” He holds open the quilt. “Come here.”

  I scoot forward into the blankets and sheets and pillows. Into him. The quilt falls against my back, enveloping me against his body. I press my cheek against his bare chest. He tightens his grip around me. We lie very, very still. The world is silent except for the steady beat of our hearts. After several minutes, I look up at him.

  Josh stares back. His heartbeat quickens.

  I slide upward until our noses are pressed against each other. I kiss the corner of his mouth, and I feel him smile as he kisses the corner of mine. His fingers trail down my back as he unzips my dress. He pulls it all the way down, past my ankles, and lets it drop onto the floor. He removes my bra and then my underwear.

  He removes my compass necklace last.

  Our kisses are soft. Teasing. Restrained. Our skin is clammy, and then warm, and then hot. Our kis
ses grow longer. Our breathing gets faster. I fumble for a condom. He presses against me, and it feels so good, so intense that I cry out. He meets my gaze to make sure that everything is all right, everything is more than all right, and my hips arch against him in response. His eyes close in rapture, and he’s guiding my body, and we’re finding our rhythm, and we’re together again, at last.

  We can’t say the words enough.

  I love you.

  They’re a chant through the night as we move together slowly. Then quickly. Slowly. Then quickly. We don’t fall asleep until the break of dawn. Josh’s body curls around mine. Our hands clasp together over my heart. We’re still in this position when my alarm rattles us awake an hour later. I roll over and turn it off, groaning with deep annoyance, and then roll back into him. I resettle against his chest. I sigh happily.

  He moves my tentacle arms away from his body. “Mm, no you don’t,” he mumbles.

  I give a tiny whimper.

  “School,” he says.

  “But you’re here. That’s not fair.”

  He hugs me, despite himself. “I have to pick up my suitcase. It’s still in Meredith’s room at the hostel. And I wanna say goodbye to everyone before they leave.”

  “Can’t I do that with you?”

  Josh nuzzles his nose against my cheek. “I’ll be here when you return.”

  “I fixed my door. You’ll need a key.”

  “I’ll take good care of it.”

  “What if I won’t give it to you?”

  “Then I’ll break the door again.”

  “This dormitory makes me feel so safe.”

  He smiles and pushes me from the bed. “Gooooooooo.”

  I force him to get ready with me. The building is loud and active now, so we can move around without tiptoeing. We shower and brush our teeth and dry our hair, and everything seems twice the miracle that it did in Barcelona. Because this time we know it can’t be taken away from us. This will be our future.

  His clothes are still wet, so I dry his pants with my hair dryer and give him back the T-shirt that he gave me over Thanksgiving. It’s tucked inside one of my pillows. When he sees it, he looks sad and happy and amazed. “I thought you probably threw this away. I still sleep with the scarf you gave me.”