Isla and the Happily Ever After(50)

“I always wished they were a brighter green. They’re so dull.”

“Don’t say that.” He kisses the top of my head. “Have I ever told you about the cabin?”

“Uh-uh.” I’m listening to his heartbeat.

“There was this cabin upstate that my family used to rent in the autumn – rough walls, stone fireplace, beds with patchwork quilts. The works. And when we were there, my dad would forget to be worried about politics, and my mom would forget to be worried about my dad. And we’d go hiking, and we’d pick apples from this abandoned orchard. And there’d be so many that we’d throw them into the creek just to watch them float downstream. And we’d play board games at night—”

“What games?”

“My favourite was Pictionary.”

I snuggle into him. “Of course.”

“My mom’s favourite was Cluedo, and my dad’s was Risk. And my parents would cook these home-style dinners like pot roast with mashed potatoes and baked apples—”

“From the orchard?”

“Yeah. And while they’d cook, I’d be spread out on the rug in front of the fireplace with these giant stacks of paper, and I’d draw. And…I’d look up, and my parents would be in the kitchen with this perfectly round window behind them. And all I could see outside of that window – from my position on the floor – were those pine trees.

“So I like pine trees,” he finishes. “A lot.”

I curl my hand around his thumb and squeeze it.

“What about you? Where were you the happiest?”

I have to think about it for a while. “Well, there was this one trip to Disney World—”

“Did you have mouse ears? Please tell me you had those mouse ears with your name stitched on underneath.”

I poke him. “No.”

“I’m gonna picture you with the mouse ears anyway. Continue.”

I poke him harder. “So Gen was ten, I was seven, and Hattie was four. Gen was adorable. She has those perfect corkscrew curls, you know? Plus, she was always in charge of everything. And Hattie was…Hattie. So they were getting all of the attention, like always, but then my parents surprised me with this Disney Princess breakfast. Just for me. And Belle and Snow White and Cinderella were there, and Jasmine told me that my dress was pretty, and that I was pretty, and it was amazing. My parents…they knew. They knew I was the one who needed it.”

“This,” Josh says, “is my new favourite story.”

“Of course, the whole thing was supposed to be a secret. But the second I saw my sisters, I was like, ‘Princess Jasmine thinks I’m prettier than you!’ Which wasn’t even true, but it felt true. Mom wanted to kill me, and Hattie threw this massive tantrum that lasted the rest of the trip, but it was worth it. Best day ever.”

“You are prettier than your sisters. You’re way prettier than your sisters.”

“That is…the most romantic thing that you’ve ever said to me.”

He laughs again. “It’s true.”

An unseen bird warbles, and another unseen bird answers its call. “You know,” I say, “I can’t remember the last time I was in a place where I couldn’t hear any traffic.”

“Ah, you’re a nature girl at heart. You’ve just never been given the opportunity.”

“And you’re a nature boy?”

“Definitely. See, if you come with me to New England, we can learn how to do all of those outdoorsy things you read about in your books. Exploring, camping, rock-climbing, rafting, stargazing, building fires—”

“Building fires?” I smile.

“That’s right. Fires. Plural.”

The sun dips below the treeline, and suddenly, Josh is backlit by a stunning golden light. He looks perfect even when he’s damp and sweaty and dirty. I wiggle upward until I reach his lips. We kiss, heavily, until I can’t handle it any more.

“Let’s go,” I say. It comes out ragged.

Josh freezes.

And then he’s lunging for his hoodie and backpack, tripping over himself to get moving. I grab my things, and he takes my hand as we sprint onto the narrow path. We’re laughing, completely blissed out. We run down, down, down, and the further we go, the more crowded the park gets. We race through an area that looks like a cave – perfect for making out, complete with a classical Spanish guitarist – but making out is no longer enough. We pass Gaudí sculptures, Gaudí buildings, Gaudí’s famous lizard fountain, but they barely earn a glance as we whiz by. We only have eyes for each other.

We grab the first cab outside of the park. We’re breathless. Josh hands the driver our hotel’s address, and our tongues and limbs and hands are touching, searching, groping as the streets of Barcelona whiz past our windows. We pay our distressed cabbie way too much, mainly out of guilt, and tumble back out.