“I’ll have to wash this blanket now anyway.” I gesture towards his paint smears.
Josh slowly stops laughing. He smiles up at me – a beatific, godlike smile – and holds out his long arms. I nestle into them, green paint and all. He hugs me tightly. My ear is pressed against his na**d chest, and his heart is beating a thousand times a minute. I run my hands down his body. He closes his eyes. I kiss his skin and the paint and his sweat. He lifts my face towards his and kisses away my tears. “Thank you,” he says. “That was the best reaction that anyone has ever given me. For anything.”
Chapter fourteen
My heart reacts to his news by shattering. A heap of fragile glass shards. “You’re going home? Why didn’t you tell me this could happen?”
It’s been exactly one week since Josh turned the Treehouse into a tree house. But tonight is too chilly for an open-air rooftop, so we’re slumped against each other on the top of my bed. At least he looks miserable, too. “I don’t know,” he says, tossing aside his phone. “I guess I hoped that maybe, somehow, they might…forget about me.”
“Your parents wouldn’t forget about you.”
“You’d be amazed at how many minutes we’ve spoken to each other since school began. Twenty? Maybe? And most of them just now?”
I sigh. “Happy birthday to you.”
Josh’s parents chose today – of all days – to inform him that they’re flying him home for the entire week of elections. He’ll be an interest story for the news: the eighteen-year-old who gets to vote for his father for the first time. His parents want footage at the polls, a gushing post-vote interview, the whole charade. “It’s so sleazy,” he says. “They’re bringing me into their world of sleaziness, and they want me to sleaze for their cameras.”
“Voting for your dad isn’t sleazy.”
“Everything else is.”
“Agreed.” The worst part is the timing. He’s leaving right after his run of detention ends, just as we’d be gaining full-time access to each other. “But,” I continue. “At least there’s cake.”
His brow raises hopefully. “Cake?”
I smile and slide off the bed.
“You’ve already done too much,” he protests, though it’s clear he’s okay with it. “The crème brûlée. The gifts.”
I laugh. “Only one of those gifts counted.”
“But I like them equally.”
After lunch, I gave him a – poorly made, by myself – papier-mâché fox with purple crayons glued into its butt. And then I gave him his real present, original artwork by one of his favourite cartoonists. I had it shipped overseas the week we started dating, right after he offhandedly mentioned his October 24th birthday. I’ve been worried that it’s too much too soon, but he seemed genuinely delighted by both.
My birthday is in late June. I won’t be able to vote until the next election.
I’m heading towards the mini-fridge for his cake, when…something stops me. The quiet. I peer into the hall. For once, it’s empty. Nate’s door is closed. There’s not a single person in sight. A wave of recklessness washes over me. Or maybe it’s desperation, the impending separation pounding throughout my body. My hand hovers above my door handle. And then I take action.
I shut my door.
Josh swallows. We’ve been so careful to follow the rules. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“My birthday is looking much better.”
I flick off the overhead light.
“Also much darker,” he says.
I fumble towards my desk, turn on a lamp, and remove something small and round from the fridge – a glossy chocolate mousse and hazelnut cake. I light a perfect ring of candles around the edge and softly sing “Joyeux anniversaire”. It has the same tune as its English counterpart. Josh grins at my singing voice, which he’s never heard before.
“Sultry,” he says.
I can tell he approves. It’s embarrassing, but pleasing. Josh closes his eyes and all eighteen candles are extinguished in a single blow.
“You got your wish!”