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.
We dash below an awning and squint through the rain, across an intersection, at its curious stone facade. Over a century ago, a wealthy man named Milà commissioned Gaudí to design the building. Its grandiose structure is made entirely of waves and curves. There’s not a single straight line of construction. It was the home of Milà’s family, as well as several renters, but most of the locals despised it as an eyesore – exactly how the same generation of Parisians felt about their own recently built Eiffel Tower.
I wonder how I would have felt about it back then. I’d like to think I would have been one of the people who understood that it was special. That being singular is the exact thing that makes something – or someone – amazing.
“Nice roof,” Josh says. “But your Treehouse is better.”
I nudge him, my own singular and amazing someone, and he nudges me back. La Pedrera’s rooftop terrace is famous. It’s covered in strange, bulky chimneys. Some of them look like giant soft-serve ice-cream cones, others like soldiers in medieval helmets. Tourists march up and down Escher-esque staircases, around and around the chimneys, bumping umbrellas. They’re like boats adrift at sea.
“It’s like an ocean.” Josh’s voice is filled with admiration. “The wavy limestone, the iron railings.” And the balconies look like twists of tentacles and seaweed. Though it’s possible that the weather is adding to our overall perception. Our eyes travel towards the unsheltered line of people waiting to get inside.
“That’s, uh, some crowd,” I say.