I laugh. “Sorry. Sunday night is pizza night.”
He deflates. “Damn.”
“Join us.”
Josh plops down beside me on the bed. “That’s…actually kinda weird. My friends and I used to have pizza on Sunday nights, too.”
“I know. I used to see you guys at our restaurant.”
“Seriously? Pizza Pellino?”
I nod. It wasn’t a coincidence.
“Hey.” Josh grows uneasy. “About Kurt. About your bed.” He bounces twice to demonstrate where he found the subject change.
“Yeah. He sleeps in it.”
I’ve correctly identified his question and given him the wrong answer. He tries to act as if it doesn’t matter, but his expression resembles what mine must have looked like when I realized I was surrounded by the likeness of his ex-girlfriend. “We’ve slept in the same beds our entire lives,” I say. “There’s nothing sexual about it. I promise.”
“That’s not how I’d feel lying beside you.” But before I can enjoy this thrilling and perfect response, an even more alarming question has popped into his head. “Have you ever woken up and seen…you know. In the morning?”
“If you expect me to answer that, you have to say it.”
“I am not saying it.”
I pause. “Fine. Yes.”
Josh baulks.
“But it’s not like it’s, ugh, aimed at me or anything. And it’s not like we sleep naked. I mean, we’ve been friends for ever, so, yeah, we’ve seen stuff, but—”
“Has he seen you naked?” he blurts. And then he notices my expression and instantly regrets it. “Sorry. That’s none of my business.”
I’m opening my mouth to agree when I’m struck by a startling new truth. The situation has changed. Or maybe it’s about to change. “No,” I say. “It is your business. If you want it to be.”
“I do.”
I swallow. “Me, too.”
His brow lifts.
“Does this…does this mean you want to be my boyfriend?” My question sounds both immature and momentous. But Josh doesn’t flinch.
“Yes,” he says. “I want.”
Chapter thirteen
Josh is my boyfriend.
Josh is my boyfriend.
It’s a miracle that after only a single weekend, we are a real-life, not-just-in-my-dreams couple. Every morning, he arrives at my door before Kurt so that we can have a few minutes alone before breakfast. And then he joins us in the cafeteria. I think, maybe, he needed reassurance that he wouldn’t be sitting at an empty table. It’s strange to realize that Josh – detached Josh, composed Josh – worries about these things, too.
It might even explain the detachment.
We’re inseparable until our schedules split apart in fifth period. But we reunite after school, and I walk him to detention. If Kurt is the expert of roads less travelled, Josh is the expert of rooms long forgotten. All day long, he sneaks me into spaces that are cramped and hidden and neglected, and we kiss through the darkness until the warning bells ring.
I work on homework while he’s in detention, and when it ends, we all have dinner in the cafeteria. And then we re-separate from Kurt. We leave campus for the privacy that our dormitory no longer allows. It means that I usually visit the Treehouse twice – once with Kurt in the afternoon and once with Josh in the evening. We spend our nights in liplocks, sweet and earnest, while fumbling sublimely around things less innocent.
When Josh dated Rashmi, they were notorious for their public displays of affection. It was torturous. I was both envious and repulsed. With me, he’s quiet. He holds my hand and steals my kisses, but he saves most of his affection for when we’re alone. I think he understands that I don’t enjoy drawing attention myself. I also think, perhaps, he’s placed a higher value on his own privacy.
Even so, our relationship hasn’t escaped the notice of our classmates. But I’m happy. Despite my shyness, I still want to parade him in front of the entire school. I want to shout, Look! Look at this perfect boy who wants to hold my hand!
On Friday, Hattie startles us from behind in the hall. “So you’re the guy who busted my sister’s nose. Either you have the best aim or the worst. Which is it?”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Josh says.
“Whatever. Isla, I need forty-six euros.”
“Why?” I touch my nose self-consciously.
“Because I want to buy a weasel skull and put it on this one girl’s pillow.”
I try not to sigh. I’m not successful.
“She’s my friend,” Hattie says.
“No,” I say.
“Ugh, fine. Maman.”