Isla and the Happily Ever After

We sink into the blanket.

Our fingers are in each other’s hair, and his breath is in the hollow of my neck, and I wish the world would swallow us here, whole, in this moment. And that’s when it hits me that this – this – is falling in love.

Chapter eleven

We kiss on the stairs, on the streets of the Right Bank, on the bridge over the Seine, on the streets of the Left Bank. We kiss until our mouths are sore and our lips are numb. It’s so intense that I don’t realize my feet are blistered until we’re only a few blocks away from the dorm. I pop off my heels on the steps of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont, a church across from the Panthéon, and release a pained hiss of relief.

“Blisters and a bloody nose.” Josh sits down beside me. “This went well.”

I smile and kiss him again.

“Those shoes are insane,” he says.

I wiggle my red feet. “Maybe they were a bit much.”

“Your footwear tends to run on the exceedingly tall side. You know we all know you’re short, right? It’s not, like, a secret.”

“Hush.”

“I like that you’re tiny. I like that I could carry you around in my pocket.”

I shove his arm with my shoulder. “I said hush.”

“And if we ever vacation together, you can sit on my lap to save airfare.”

I shove him harder, and he laughs. He tries to push me back, but I’m faster, and he tumbles against the steps. He laughs even harder. I do, too. “You deserve that,” I say.

“And now I’ll pay my penance.” Josh jumps to the ground and faces his backside towards me. “Get on.”

“What?”

“You can’t walk in those shoes, and the streets are covered in broken glass.”

“I’m sorry. Are you offering me a piggyback ride?”

He sighs in fake exasperation. “Will you just get on already?”

“Just because I’m short doesn’t mean that I don’t weigh anything.”

“Just because I’m skinny doesn’t mean that I can’t carry someone short. You’re what, five one?”

“Yeah.” I’m surprised that he guessed it exactly. “What are you?”

“Six one. So there.”

“Freak.”

He grins at me over his shoulder. “Get on.”

I stand, my heels in hand. “Okay. You asked for it.”

Josh squats down, and I climb on. It’s like trying to mount a thoroughbred. He hops in a way that bounces me up higher, above his waist, and I settle into him. My arms wrap around his shoulders. His hands rest above my dress, holding on to my lower thighs.

“Ah, I see. This was all a clever ruse.”

He heads towards our dormitory. “A ruse?”

“To get under my dress on our first date.”

The back of his neck instantly warms. “I promise it wasn’t.”

“Mm-hm.”

His neck grows even hotter. I breathe in his scent deeply, delirious with happiness. In the distance, Paris is still celebrating, but our own neighbourhood is quiet – the only sound, his footfalls. “You know my friend St. Clair?” he says after a few minutes. “He’s only a few inches taller than you, and his girlfriend, Anna? She’s taller than he is.”

“Kurt only likes tall girls. Maybe it’s made me paranoid that all guys might prefer partners closer to their own mouth height.” It feels strange to confess this aloud.

“I’d like to point out that we’ve had zero problem reaching each other’s mouths.” There’s a smile in his voice. I smile back against his neck.

Josh walks the next few blocks in silence. Unfortunately, it’s not actually comfortable to sit like this, and – judging by his laboured breath – it’s not comfortable to carry me, either. But he gallantly piggybacks me all the way to our dorm, through the empty lobby, and straight to my door. The dismount is awkward, and we’re both in at least moderate pain, but it doesn’t matter. Our lips find each other again. He’s out of breath, but he pushes me against my door until it bursts open. We collapse into the room.

Kurt blinks at us from my bed. “You really do need to fix that door.”

Sunday is Josh’s only detention-free day, and he texts me right as I’m waking up. I’m glad we remembered to exchange numbers. I squeeze my phone and roll over in bed.

“Watch it,” Kurt mumbles.

“He says good morning.”

“It’s the afternoon. Tell him he’s wrong.”

I text Josh a good morning in return and suggest that he ask for next Saturday off, too. After all, that’s his Sabbath. Winking smiley face. He texts me back a long line of exclamation points followed by a WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT??

I hug Kurt. “He likes me. He liiiiiiikes me.”

“Duh.” But he settles into my hug. “I’ve missed this.”

“Me, too.”

Last night we cheated on the rules. Nate was out for Nuit Blanche so Kurt decided to stay in. Which worked out perfectly, because it meant that I got to rehash every detail of every second of my date. Until I was told to shut up.

His eyes widen. “Half of your nose is purple.”

I scramble out of bed and lunge towards the mirror. Damn. I gently prod my nose, wince at the tenderness, and sigh. “At least it’s proof that yesterday really happened?”

But Kurt is already thinking about today. “I have a history essay due tomorrow, and you need to study for that calculus test. Do you want to work here or in my room?” And then he grins. His room is disgusting, and I refuse to hang out in it. Tidiness – in his bedroom, in his school bag, in his appearance – is never on Kurt’s agenda.

I lean in closer to my reflection. “I don’t know. Josh and I didn’t make plans, but it seemed kinda understood that we’d hang out.”

Kurt clambers off my bed and puts on his hoodie. “That sucks.”

“You suck.”

“I’m about to bring you breakfast. I’m so far from sucking that you can’t even handle it.” And he slams my door shut behind him. I wait for it to pop open, but – for once – it doesn’t. He kicks it back open. We laugh.

“Back in ten,” he says.

Every Sunday, we have fresh baguettes from the boulangerie two streets over. I remove a jar of Nutella, a knife, and two antique jade mugs from their designated drawer and turn on the electric kettle. A heaping spoonful of instant coffee mix – Kurt’s favourite, unpalatable American brand – is added to each cup. And then I return to the mirror. My nose resembles a small eggplant. Even with a thick layer of concealer, the proof of our date will last for at least a week.