Isla and the Happily Ever After

His brow raises hopefully. “Cake?”

I smile and slide off the bed.

“You’ve already done too much,” he protests, though it’s clear he’s okay with it. “The crème brûlée. The gifts.”

I laugh. “Only one of those gifts counted.”

“But I like them equally.”

After lunch, I gave him a – poorly made, by myself – papier-mâché fox with purple crayons glued into its butt. And then I gave him his real present, original artwork by one of his favourite cartoonists. I had it shipped overseas the week we started dating, right after he offhandedly mentioned his October 24th birthday. I’ve been worried that it’s too much too soon, but he seemed genuinely delighted by both.

My birthday is in late June. I won’t be able to vote until the next election.

I’m heading towards the mini-fridge for his cake, when…something stops me. The quiet. I peer into the hall. For once, it’s empty. Nate’s door is closed. There’s not a single person in sight. A wave of recklessness washes over me. Or maybe it’s desperation, the impending separation pounding throughout my body. My hand hovers above my door handle. And then I take action.

I shut my door.

Josh swallows. We’ve been so careful to follow the rules. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“My birthday is looking much better.”

I flick off the overhead light.

“Also much darker,” he says.

I fumble towards my desk, turn on a lamp, and remove something small and round from the fridge – a glossy chocolate mousse and hazelnut cake. I light a perfect ring of candles around the edge and softly sing “Joyeux anniversaire”. It has the same tune as its English counterpart. Josh grins at my singing voice, which he’s never heard before.

“Sultry,” he says.

I can tell he approves. It’s embarrassing, but pleasing. Josh closes his eyes and all eighteen candles are extinguished in a single blow.

“You got your wish!”

Josh nods at my door. “I did.”

I swat him with our forks. He grabs them and uses them to pull me down beside him. We’re laughing as we dig into the cake, but it doesn’t take long before I’m dizzy with sugar. I fall backwards into the bed. Josh makes it a few more minutes before shoving away the platter and collapsing beside me. He groans a happy groan. I lace my fingers through his right hand, and he winces in the lamplight.

I immediately let go. “Tendinitis?”

“It’s fine.”

I give him a look.

“Okay,” he admits. “It’s kind of bad right now.”

We stare at his hand. It twitches.

“Oh-oh,” I say sadly. “Mon petit chou.”

Josh’s head shoots up in surprise. It’s the first time I’ve called him by a term of endearment. My little cabbage. It’s like calling someone “sweet pea”. His expression melts, but he looks down and away. “You still make me nervous, you know.”

“I do?”

“I feel like this…awkward giant around you. You’re like this perfect porcelain doll. Delicate and sweet and pretty.”

I smile. “I won’t break.”

Josh returns the smile. “No?”

“No. And neither will you.” I take his hand back into mine and massage his fingers gently. The tendons are so tight that they feel like cords of rope beneath his skin. He grimaces. I pause, but his expression turns weak. Pleading. I press harder, and he closes his eyes. Harder still. He moans. I rub each finger slowly, up and down, one after the other. The muscles loosen, but they never relax. They’re too overworked.

“I should do this more often. Your poor hand needs help.”

Josh cracks one eye. “I’m all right.”

“Are you kidding? At this rate, you’ll be crippled by twenty.” I continue massaging. “Have you been to a doctor?”

He takes his hand back from me. “It feels better now.”

“I’m sorry.” The rebuke stings.

But Josh gives me a teasing smile. “That’s not what I meant.” He bends over, reaches into his bag on my floor, and removes…his brush pen.

“Oh.” My shoulders sag. “You want to draw.”

“Yes. You.”

That perks me up. I try to hand him a sketchbook, but he refuses it.

“No,” he says. “I want to draw on you.”

The air is charged. I swallow. Josh notices the movement and kisses my throat. My eyes close. He trails faint kisses around my neck, over my jawline. Onto my lips. I respond with a deeper kiss, harder, starved for his taste. A hand slides across my bare legs, touching the line where my skirt meets my thighs. The other hand tugs on the bottom of my sweater. A question.

Our eyes open. His pupils are dark and dilated.

I don’t drop his gaze as I pull off the sweater. Underneath, I’m wearing a silk camisole. I reach down to take it off, too, but he places a hand on my arm to stop me.

“I want to start here,” he says.

Josh pulls me to my feet. His head tilts as he studies his canvas – my milky white skin. I don’t blush. He moves in. The tip of his brush touches my shoulder first. His strokes are long and careful, delicate and swift. My eyes close. The ink sweeps smoothly across my skin. The brush tickles the top of my chest, my neck, my arms, my hands. My feet, my calves, and the back of my knees. My thighs.

My breath catches.

“There,” he whispers.

I open my eyes before a full-length mirror. I’m covered in garden roses, spinning compasses, falling leaves, desert islands, Joshua trees, and intricate geometric patterns. It’s beautiful. I’m beautiful. I turn to him in wonder, and he holds out the pen.

“Your turn,” he says.

My stomach clenches. “You know I can’t draw.”

“That’s not true. Everyone can draw.”

I shake my head, gesturing down my body. “Not like this.”

Josh removes his shirt. Heavenly gods. He’s so gorgeous I could weep.

“I don’t know where to begin,” I say.

He clasps my hand around his pen, and he kisses one side of my mouth. And then the other. “I’ll get you started.” Together, we draw a simple heart over his real heart. I laugh, which makes him laugh. “See?” he says. “It’s easy.”

So…I draw.

My lines are not as confident, and my illustrations are not as recognizable. I decide to stick with circles and swirls. Josh watches me work. I cover his chest, his neck, his back, his arms, his fingers. His abdomen.