Isla and the Happily Ever After(33)
Author: Stephanie Perkins

“You should have woken me up. You were in that position for hours.”

He slips back into his hoodie. “But you needed the rest.”

We’ve packed light – a backpack each – and we shove our books into them. The train comes to a stop, we hop out, and I shiver at an unexpectedly strong wind. The brilliant dawn has turned into a dusky morning. The sky continues to darken as our connecting train rattles towards Barcelona. The French countryside was green and grey, and the Spanish countryside is green and golden. But the threatening clouds deaden its warmth.

“I don’t suppose you brought an umbrella?” I ask.

“I don’t even own an umbrella.”

“Ah, that’s right. I forgot that your skin is water-repellent.”

Josh laughs in amusement. “I like you.”

I smile at my lap. An entire month of making out, and he can still do that to me. Who cares if it might rain?

Two hours later, we exit the Barcelona Sants railway station. The neighbourhood is urban and sort of…grubby. We pass a group of skaters, and the clack of a board hitting the cement is echoed by a much louder clack from the sky. The downpour erupts. The skaters shoot off across the street, and – on instinct – we chase after them into the closest café.

“Ohthankgod.” Josh weakens at the sight of lunch. “That worked out well.”

Our wet shoes squeak against an orangey-red tiled floor. Behind the glass counter, slender baguettes are stuffed with spicy pork, buttery cheeses and thick slices of potato. I order three different bocadillos – chorizo, un jamón serrano y queso manchego, y una tortilla de patatas – and we split them at a counter overlooking the congested cars.

Josh rips off an enormous hunk of the chorizo sandwich. “You know what’s great? We’ve never had to discuss it, but we share the same philosophy when it comes to food.”

“Variety?”

“And lots of it.” He points an accusing finger. “So, hey. You speak Spanish.”

“Spanish, sí. Catalan, no.” Catalan is the native language of Barcelona, though both are spoken here. “Taking a French class would’ve been cheating.”

“Any other languages I should know about?”

“Only Mandarin. Oh, and a little Russian.”

Josh freezes, mid-bite.

I smile. “Kidding.”

“Maybe that’s what you could do someday. You could be an interpreter.”

My nose wrinkles.

“Sandwich artist? Professional skateboarder? Train conductor?”

I laugh. “Keep trying.”

Our spontaneous lunch is delicious, because Spanish pork is beyond belief. It’s like fish in Japan or beef in Argentina. Or anything in France. Though admittedly, I’m biased. I study the custom map that Kurt drew for us last night. He stopped being disappointed in me when he realized I’d given him the perfect excuse to play cartographer. “Should we take a cab to La Pedrera?” I ask. It’s the first landmark that Kurt has marked. “Or should we check into our hotel first?”

Josh lifts away a lock of my wet hair. “This reminds me of last June.”

I raise my head and find him absorbed in memories. He wraps the lock around an ink-stained index finger. He uses it to gently pull me closer into a deep, open-mouthed kiss.

The hotel.

Definitely the hotel.

Chapter sixteen

The hotel that Josh reserved online is gorgeous. It has mosaicked columns and a babbling courtyard fountain and dozens of succulents dangling from planters on the walls.

Unfortunately, it was too early to check in.

The tension inside our cab is heavy. Tangible. I don’t know how we’re supposed to wait, but we’ve been left with no choice but to explore the city first.

We’re splashing towards the heart of Barcelona. Red-and-yellow-striped flags – some with the blue triangle and star of independence, some without – hang everywhere from apartment balconies, soaked with storm. The city’s appearance is distinctly Western European, but it’s also filled with colourful architecture and steep hills. Palm trees and leafy trees. Purple vines and red flowers.

“It’s almost like a Parisian San Francisco,” Josh says.

Either he’s trying to change the subject from the obvious one, or he’s thinking about his friends in California. Probably best to change the subject. “Speaking of, how are St. Clair and Anna doing these days?” I ask.

“Good.” He sits up straighter. “They’re pretty much living together now.”

“Wow. Already? Do you think they’ll last?”

Josh frowns. “Yeah, of course.” And then he sees my expression. “Sorry. Sometimes I forget that you don’t really know them.”

I don’t forget.

They watch me, stare back at me, every time I’m in his room. The wall-to-wall drawings make his friends a constant, unspoken presence. I wish I knew them better. I want them to know that I exist, that I’m a part of Josh’s life now, too.

“St. Clair and Anna are one of those couples that seem like they were made for each other,” he says. “Instant friendship, instant chemistry. He was obsessed with her from the moment they met. She was the only thing he ever wanted to talk about. Still is, actually.”

“I like Anna. I mean, I like St. Clair, too – he was always friendly to me – but I don’t know him as well. Not that Anna and I ever hung out.” I don’t know why I’m babbling. Maybe so I won’t feel untethered from this part of his life. “But she did live on my floor. And the first week of school, she told off Amanda Spitterton-Watts on my behalf.”

Josh grins. “She punched her, too. Last spring.”

“I know. That was weird.” I laugh. “But also awesome.”

Amanda was the Emily Middlestone of last year – the school’s most popular mean girl. I saw Anna throw the unexpected punch, and it was my testimony that kept her from being suspended. I felt like I owed her. And not just for sticking up for me in the past, but…she knew about my crush on Josh. She once caught me absent-mindedly doodling his tattoo. I thought for sure she’d tell him, but she never did. He never side-eyed me with that particular brand of I-know-you-like-me weirdness.

Anyway. I was grateful.

Our cabbie pulls over on Passeig de Gràcia, a large thoroughfare where every shop is emblazoned with an expensive name. Dolce & Gabbana. Salvatore Ferragamo. Yves Saint Laurent. But amid this luxury shines an actual jewel: Casa Milà, aka La Pedrera.