Isla and the Happily Ever After(80)
I’m a bad person. I’ve hurt him. I never wanted to hurt him, and somehow it happened anyway.
“Do you really think breaking up with him was the right thing to do?” Gen asks.
“I don’t know.” But I shake my head. “That’s not true. It was right. It was.”
“But you still love him.”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“A lot.”
“Yeah.”
She pauses. “Would it make it better or worse if you showed me what’s in the tube?”
“Ohmygod. You’re relentless.”
“The word was ‘domineering’. Get it right.”
“Ugh. Fine.”
Gen opens my sock drawer. “I had a feeling I’d find you here,” she tells the tube. She pops off the top and gently taps out the paper. She unrolls it. “Whoa, Nelly.”
Shit. I’d forgotten he drew us naked.
“So. You guys were serious.”
“Please, Gen. Don’t.”
“Is that a Joshua tree? On an island?”
“Yeah.”
“Well…fuck. That’s a really romantic gift.”
“I know.”
“He’s good. The art,” she clarifies. “I mean, he was good when he was a freshman, but this doesn’t look like it was drawn by someone in high school. Not even a talented someone in high school. This is, like, the real deal.”
“Will you please stop complimenting my ex-boyfriend?”
Ex-boyfriend. The word tastes sick on my tongue. I hadn’t even let myself think it until now. Every single part of me wants to take the word back.
“I’m just saying he’s talented.”
“Why don’t you tell me more about Sarah?”
Gen rolls up the drawing and slides it back into the tube. “You win.”
But she’s wrong. I’ve lost everything.
One miserable week and no phone calls later. No messages. New Year’s Eve. There’s shouting and singing and general drunken revellery down on the street. Our neighbours have been blasting dubstep for the last three hours. I’ve been watching television in my bedroom alone. Just like Josh and I talked about on our first date.
Ten minutes until midnight.
Josh and I were planning to meet at Kismet. We were going to ring in the new year with a kiss. I’ve never had a New Year’s kiss.
Nothing about this decision has gotten any easier. That awful word torments me. Ex-boyfriend. I can’t accept it as the truth. I don’t think…I don’t…I don’t know why I’m doing this any more. I think I freaked out that night in the car. I know I freaked out. And I have a very deep, very ugly gut feeling that I’ve made a mistake.
Josh told me that I’ll never know what kind of person I am if I don’t take any risks. Apologizing would be a risk, grovelling would be a risk, begging for his forgiveness on my knees would be a risk.
What have I done? I love him.
Of course he’s worth the risk.
Suddenly, I’m ripping off my pyjamas and throwing on a dress and coat and boots. I’m racing past my sleepy parents in the living room, and I’m shouting that I’ll be right back. I’m ignoring their cries of concern. I’m running downstairs, onto the pavement, across the street. The air is frosty and sharp, and the wind is strong.
Josh, I’m coming. I know you’re there. Please don’t leave.
I tear around the corner, and there it is. My beacon of hope. I race towards its glowing front window, dodging taxis and bumping into a guy being shouldered home by a friend. There’s a loud cry of anger, but I keep running until I burst through Kismet’s shining glass door. The café is still open. But it’s empty.
Two employees are sitting at a table. They look up at my entrance, surprised.
“Excuse me, but is there a guy here?” I’m panting, but I have to raise my voice over the loud rock music blasting from the speakers. “Was there a guy here? About my age?”
A woman with a chest covered in electric-bright tattoos shakes her head. “Sorry, honey. We’ve been dead for nearly two hours.”
In the distance, there’s an eruption of explosions and cheering. Cars honk, people shout from their windows.
It’s midnight.
I run back outside, frantically looking up and down the street, but he’s nowhere to be found. Two college-aged girls run past the café hollering at the top of their lungs.
No, he’s coming. He’ll feel me here, like he felt me the last time.
“Are you okay? You don’t look so well.” The tattooed woman is standing beside me, and her forehead is wrinkled in concern.
“My boyfrie— my Josh. Josh. He’s coming. He should be here any second.”