My arm trembles as I reach inside and pull it out.
It’s not from him.
The blow to my chest is as strong as ever. I’m still not any closer to being over Josh. Not even a centimetre closer, not even a millimetre. People say that the only thing that heals heartbreak is time. But how much time will it take?
The return address comes into focus, and I’m hit with a second shock wave. I shred open the envelope, right there in the hall, and rip out the letter. My head reels. I read the first sentence again, but the words haven’t changed. It’s a different kind of heartbreak. On behalf of the faculty and staff, it is with great pleasure that I inform you of your admission to Dartmouth College.
The streets of Angoulême overflow with red balloons and swarms of happy readers. But their excitement can’t stop the rain. Why does it rain every time I travel? This time, I don’t wait to buy an umbrella. I haven’t seen the last one since Barcelona. Josh must have it. Or maybe we left it in the park. Umbrellas are so small and sad and easy to forget.
I wander through the town, the venues, the comics museum. Festivals like this aren’t as crazed as their American counterparts – and there are far fewer people in costume – but the Europeans in attendance are still showing less restraint than usual. I try to get caught up in their enthusiasm, and occasionally it works. Like when I discover a new-to-me author-illustrator who writes about a split life between China and America. It’s only after I purchase two volumes that I realize how much Josh would like her work, too. And the fact that I can’t share it with him makes my heart hurt all over again.
It gets worse when I find myself faced with a large display featuring only titles by Joann Sfar. And then even worse when I discover one of Josh’s favourite artists in the flesh, and I have to talk myself out of getting a book signed for him. It feels selfish, so I talk myself back into it, thinking I’ll just have something signed. No personalization. If I ever see him again, he can have it. But the moment the cartoonist asks, I blurt, “‘To Josh’, please.” And before I can correct my mistake, my ex-boyfriend’s name – at least I can say that word now – has been inked onto the front page beside an illustration of a rose.
Of all things. A rose.
I can’t win.
Back in Paris, the posters for the Olympics make me wonder if I should buy a ticket to Chambéry next month. But the thought of another crowded train, another crowded town, all of those crowded hotels…ugh. No.
That’s how I’m feeling about everything these days: ugh. No.
The city remains as cold as ever. A few days after Angoulême, I pop into one of the Latin Quarter’s identical gyro joints, seeking warmth in the form of hot frites. Or French fries, which should really be called Belgian fries, if America wants to get correct about it.
Ohmygod. No wonder I don’t have any friends.
The restaurant is empty. I sit in the back with the second volume of the Chinese-American split-life autobiography. I haven’t been able to put it down. Much of it is depressingly, satisfyingly familiar.
The door dings, and another customer enters the restaurant.
Sanjita looks as startled to see me as I am to see her. She waves, uncertain. I return the gesture. She also purchases a sleeve of frites, and I’m thankful that she’s the one who has to make the decision: leave or join me. The restaurant is too small, and we have too much of a history, for her to sit alone.
She’s hesitant. Fearful. She joins me anyway.
“It’s freezing out there,” she says.
I’m surprised by how grateful I am for her company. “I know. I wish it’d hurry up and snow already.”
“Me, too. It feels wrong for it to be this cold without it.”
There’s an uncomfortable pause. It’s the kind that follows any general statement about the weather, the kind that’s filled with everything we aren’t saying. I’m trying to come up with another neutral topic when she asks, “How’s Josh doing?”
The blood drains from my face.
Sanjita doesn’t notice. She pokes at her fries. “I felt so bad for you guys when he had to leave.”
This unexpected moment of compassion tugs on my heart. “I…don’t know how he’s doing. I think he’s okay. We broke up last month.”
“You did?” She raises her head in surprise. “But you were perfect for each other.”
The floor dips. “You thought so?”
“Of course. And you’d been in love with him for, like, ever. That must have been crazy when you actually started dating him.”
The relief I feel at being understood – really and truly understood – is profound. The emptiness inside of me transforms into an instant flood of emotion. “It was crazy. It was amazing. It was…the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”