The bell rings. Our time in the closet is over.
“Let’s do it,” I say. “Let’s go.”
Our train is already speeding through the countryside when dawn breaks across France. The car is nearly empty, and we’ve selected a pair of seats with a table. Josh sits beside the window, because he needs the light to draw. He pencils thumbnails into a new sketchbook while I read about a cannibalistic plane crash in the Andes. One of his shoes rubs gently against mine. I rub it back. I’ve always thought the best relationships are those that are as happy and content in silence as they are in action, but until Josh, I’d only ever experienced it with Kurt.
My eyes grow heavy as the sun grows brighter. I lean against Josh’s shoulder only to feel his hand stop moving. “Oh. Sorry.” I sit up so that he can resume drawing.
But Josh removes his dark blue hoodie, places it on his lap, and guides me onto the makeshift pillow. I breathe deeply, inhaling his comforting scent. I’m lucky. I am so, so lucky. I feel his arm moving again as I drift into a half-awake slumber. A dreamlet. An image of one bed and two bodies, his curled protectively around my own. At some point, I fall into a real sleep, because soon he’s brushing my hair away from my face.
“This is our change,” he whispers.
We’re in Figueres, Spain. Catalonia. It’s the birthplace of Salvador Dalí and just across the border from France. I clamber into a sitting position as our train approaches the station. Josh grabs his sketchbook and flips back the tabletop. He groans as he stands. His limbs are crunched and stiff.
“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.”