Josh throws himself back into his work. He wants to lose himself in it…and maybe find himself in return. But when St. Clair breaks up with Ellie, St. Clair’s new-found joy with Anna only further cements Josh in solitary misery. And by the time Josh and Rashmi break up, they both know it’s coming, and they’re both ready. They’re exhausted. Too tired to keep fighting. He begins travelling to other countries every weekend – in secret and alone – separating himself from his friends before they can do it to him.
And then it’s summer. Our summer.
My heart is hammering as I grab the last stack from the box. On the first page, he’s alone inside Kismet. And then I’m on the second, shouting his name and startling him out of a waking slumber. There’s a dreamlike tone here. It mirrors both how I acted and how he reacted. I cringe at everything I say, but the way he draws me is like a beacon of light.
There’s a flashback to our freshman year, and his brushstrokes become softer. He sees me reading Joann Sfar. He tries to talk to me, but he’s a bumbling idiot. And then I’m the one who gives him a crazy look.
The story returns to Kismet. Josh realizes that I’m flirting with him, which he finds puzzling and hilarious. But also pleasing. He walks me to my door and then hurries home to draw me again – the garden-rose-halo illustration – before falling asleep. The next night, he returns to the café and discovers me with Kurt. He curses, drags himself home, and then he’s back in DC, where he spends a miserable summer dreading his senior year.
The last few pages are loose, rough sketches of his first day of school. Hard to follow. His interactions with me are flattering, but the messy panels make it feel less concrete. Like the ideas inside of them are still subject to change.
And then…I’m out of pages. The box is empty.
Chapter twenty-three
I’m filled with too many strong emotions at once. Jealousy. Sadness. Anger. There’s certainly an acknowledgement, though it’s unreasonably begrudging, of the fearlessness it took for him to create this, but the negative thoughts keep shoving their way to the top. They sour the positive. I thought I knew my boyfriend, but it turns out that I had only an out-of-focus snapshot. Now I have the full picture.
Josh had…this entire life before me.
How can something so obvious be so shocking?
And Rashmi. I knew she’d be in there, but how could I know all of her would be in there? I didn’t want to see her. With Josh. Like that. It’s not fair that I’ve seen it, because I’ll never be able to un-see it.
I kick at my sheets. I’m thinking about rabbits. I’m thinking about too-tall French girls. I’m thinking about Josh thumbing his nose at an education that I’ve chosen to take seriously. It’s never bothered me before. Why is it bothering me now? I toss and turn for hours until I’m jolted awake – out of a restless sleep I didn’t even know I’d succumbed to – by a flying leap. An oddly fuzzy sister is bouncing up and down on my bed.
“Wake up!” Gen bounces the bed harder. “Hattie and I are already dressed and coffee’d. Those balloons won’t make fun of themselves.”
Great. Because this is exactly what today needs. A parade.
Our house is on the wrong side of Broadway to see or hear the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, but it only takes a few minutes to walk someplace where we can witness the grotesque spectacle first-hand. My sisters and I have a tradition of poking around the parade’s outskirts in the early hours of daylight.
My head is throbbing from crying all night long. “I don’t feel well.”
“You have to get up so Maman will stop bugging me about my hair.”
Her orange-red fuzz is about two inches long. It sticks out in a thick sphere around her head. “You look like a corgi,” I say. “Are you growing it back out?” But Gen is rifling through the papers on my bed. I lunge between her and the manuscript.
“Did Josh draw this?”
I snatch at the paper that’s still in her hands. “Give it!”
“Jeez, calm down. I just wanna see.” She extends her arm, holding it as far away from me as she can. “Wow. What is all of this?”
“Please.” I’m on the verge of tears.
Gen looks at me, startled. She hands it back slowly. “Sorry.”
“It’s just…it’s private. Don’t tell Hattie, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Seriously. You know how she is.”
“Yes, darling. I seriously won’t tell her about your seriously weird reaction to something I seriously don’t understand.”
I clutch my pillow against my chest. She stares at me for a long time. Finally, she stands and heads for my door. “Five minutes.”
“I’m not going. I don’t feel good.”
“It’s not optional.”
When Gen wants something, it’s impossible to stop her. I know better than to try. I place the manuscript back into the box. I’m careful not to crease the pages – any more than they’re already creased – but I don’t bother putting them in order. I shove the box back into my closet, throw on some clothes, and meet my sisters at the door.
Hattie frowns. “What’s up with you?”
“Leave her alone,” Gen says.
“Your hat clashes with your gloves,” Hattie says to me. “And they look even worse with that coat. Won’t you, like, die or something if you don’t look perfect?”
I pull down the woollen hat further over my eyes. Gen links her arm through mine and marches me outside before I can change my mind. Or my outfit. Hattie trudges behind us.
The feeling in New York in the autumn is what you’d expect elsewhere in the spring. Renewal. Locals are happy to be outside again. The subways have cooled, the humid stench of summer has passed. Celebrations and festivals are everywhere. The air is crisp, and its accompanying scarves and boots are a comforting return. I try to appreciate my surroundings. I search for yellow or orange or golden leaves, my own favourite aspect of the season, but the branches are already bare. I’m too late. Everything is dead.
Gen chatters away about her life in Massachusetts while Hattie interjects with colourful commentary. I don’t really pay attention. We cross Columbus, and the streets grow crowded with families and dancers and cheerleaders and police officers. Several marching bands are warming up – there’s a hum of brass, staccato drills on snare drums, and airy scales on woodwinds. The enormous Horton the Elephant balloon peeks out from behind a building, a street ahead, and its trunk is holding a bright pink flower.