Isla and the Happily Ever After(16)
Author: Stephanie Perkins

On Thursday, before government, Josh removes a pen from between his teeth. “So. Saturday. I’m out of detention at eighteen hours. Anytime you want to meet after that…”

Paris runs on a twenty-four-hour clock. Eighteen hours is six p.m. My stomach butterflies emerge from their chrysalises. “Yeah?”

He points the pen at me. “You know that because you asked me out, you’re the one who has to pick the place, right?”

Throat. Dry.

Dry throat.

All of the dryness in my throat.

Josh places the pen back between his teeth and then immediately takes it out again. “Whatever you suggest.” He grins. “I’ll say yes. You’ll definitely get a yes. If that helps.”

My response is another hot blush.

The rest of my school week is spent in freak-out mode, a situation that leaves me with a new-found respect for guys. Sébastien planned and organized most of our dates. It’s an alarmingly high-pressure job. Kurt reminds me that it’ll be Nuit Blanche. White Night. A night that never grows dark. The first Saturday of every October, museums and galleries open their doors for free until dawn. The tradition started in Saint Petersburg, Russia, travelled here, and has continued to spread around the world. But – even speaking as someone used to its decadence – there’s still no greater city than Paris for an all-night festival.

I’m not the only one watching the clock. At precisely vingt et une heures – just as the numbers on my phone tick from 20:59 to 21:00 – I hear a sound that’s instantly recognizable: two light knocks, down low. My nerve endings jolt. Yesterday, I told Josh when to arrive but not where we’re going. Mainly because I hadn’t figured it out yet.

Three years of anxiety flood throughout my body. What if I’m wrong? What if this isn’t what I’ve always wanted?

What if it is?

I open the door.

Josh is knee-bucklingly sexy. It’s the first cool night of autumn, and he’s dressed in a striking wool coat. The collar is turned up in that self-confident yet unkempt way that only artists can pull off. I’ve seen him wear this coat before, this beautiful going-on-a-date coat, but this is the first time that he has worn this coat for me.

“Youlookamazing.”

But the words tumble from his lips, not mine.

I’m wearing a swishy dress, and my hair is in neat, pretty waves. My mouth is painted red. Maman once told me to place the boldest colour where I want people to look. I bite my bottom lip. “Thanks. You do, too.”

Josh tucks his hands into his pockets. His shoulders rise nervously.

My breathing is shallow. Like I can’t get enough oxygen. “So I thought we’d go to the Pompidou? They have an exhibition of this weird photographer from Finland. He’s supposed to be totally nuts, and I thought it might be interesting, but I don’t know, maybe that’s stupid, we can do something else if you want—”

“No.”

Blood rises to my cheeks. “No?”

“I meant we should go. That sounds cool.”

“Oh.” I swallow the goose egg that’s been stuck in my throat. “Okay. Good.”

There’s a long pause. Josh takes an exaggerated step to the side. “Unfortunately, you will have to leave your room.”

I laugh, and it sounds like I’ve been sucking helium. “Right. Been a while since I’ve been on one of these. A date. I forgot how they worked.” I close the door behind me, internally exploding with humiliation. We’re only two steps down the hall before my door jack-in-the-boxes back open.

Josh slams it shut with a move that’s both calculated and knowing. “Oh, man. It really is too bad that some ass**le broke your lock.”

Finally, I laugh. Genuine and normal sounding. And then my date says the best thing that he could possibly say: “It’s okay. I haven’t been on one of these in a while either.”

My smile triples in size.

Josh grins. “Just give me your hand.”

“W–what?”

“Your hand,” he repeats. “Give it to me.”

I extend my shaking right hand. And – in a moment that is a hundred dreams come true – Joshua Wasserstein laces his fingers through mine. A staggering shock of energy shoots straight into my veins. Straight into my heart.

“There,” he says. “I’ve been waiting a long time to do that.”

Not nearly as long as I’ve been waiting.

Chapter nine

The Centre Pompidou is the modern-art museum, a huge box of a building that looks as if it’s been turned inside out. Its inner structure is exposed and colour-coded: green pipes for plumbing; blue for heating and cooling; yellow for electricity; and red for safety. The bold primary colours clash with the noble grey elegance of the rest of the city. For some reason, that makes me like it even more.

I wouldn’t have minded the walk here – my sushi place is right around the corner, not to mention the Treehouse – but Josh took one look at my heels and led me straight to the nearest taxi stand. I am wearing my tallest pair. He’s still over half a foot taller than I am, but I know I can reach his lips if he tries. I hope he tries.

The museum’s lobby is silver metal and blinding neon. As we pass the information desk, Josh takes my hand again. Our palms are sweaty. It’s heaven. We ride the crowded escalators up, up, up beside a wall of steel and glass. The glittering streets of Paris stretch all the way to the horizon. We talk about the shiny little nothings we see – people and cars and cathedrals, even la Tour Eiffel – but it’s not that we don’t have anything meaningful to say. The feeling is that we have everything to say.

And where do you begin with everything?

We switch escalators from level four to five, and I ride backwards on the stair above him. Our eyes are level. We’re laughing, I’m not even sure why, and he’s holding both of my hands now, and – suddenly – he’s leaning in.

This is the moment.

Josh hesitates. He second-guesses himself and pulls back. I lean forward to say the timing is right, I’m ready, let’s do this thing, and his smile returns and our eyes are closing and his nose is bumping against mine and – blip!

We jump. His pocket blips again.

“Sorry,” he says, flustered. “Sorry.” Our hands unclasp, and he pulls out his phone to silence it. And then he bursts into an unexpected laugh.

Everything inside of me is throbbing. “What is it?”

“He got a job.” Josh shakes his head. “He really got one.” He holds up the screen, and a snapshot of a guy with mussed hair and a polyester vest grins back at me. He’s giving the V sign, the English finger. It’s his best friend, Étienne St. Clair.