Isla and the Happily Ever After(41)

“Voting for your dad isn’t sleazy.”

“Everything else is.”

“Agreed.” The worst part is the timing. He’s leaving right after his run of detention ends, just as we’d be gaining full-time access to each other. “But,” I continue. “At least there’s cake.”

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.