The phone stops ringing. A minute later, it blips with a voicemail. I turn off the volume, but I see the Manhattan number call me again. And then again. Kurt throws my phone underneath his bed to curb my temptation to answer it.
“I’m tired,” he says. “Go brush your teeth.”
I brush them with his toothpaste and an index finger, and I wash off my make-up with his liquid hand-soap. My face is a blotchy mess. I ditch my dress and replace it with one of the worn T-shirts from the pile on his bathroom floor. When I return to his room, he’s asleep. I tuck myself up against him, and – all night long – I lie awake and watch the green light of my phone flashing out from underneath his bed.
Forty-two missed calls. Three voicemails.
Merry Christmas Eve.
I listen to the voicemails on my walk home. Josh is angry and sad. He begs me to call him back. He begs me to reconsider. He says he doesn’t understand what happened. It was all a mistake, a misunderstanding. Something we can fix.
He says it over and over and over again.
This is Brian’s phone. I’ll have access to it for the rest of the night. Please call me. Don’t do this to us. I think you’re afraid. I don’t know why – I don’t know what I could’ve said or done to make you distrust me – but for once in your life, Isla, take a risk. Take a f**king risk. If you keep playing it safe, you’ll never know who you are. I know who you are, and I love who you are. Why don’t you trust me?
His voice fills my heart with pain. His words rip it apart.
I believe Josh – that he thinks he loves me. But I also still believe he’s missing the point. Between his expulsion from school and the pressures from his family, he’s too distracted to see that he’s repeating the same mistake with me that he made with Rashmi. He stayed with her for so long because he liked the idea of being in love. He has an empty well in his heart that needs to be filled by someone. Anyone. But that’s not enough for me, and it won’t be enough for him either once he finally realizes the truth.
Brian must have taken pity on him, because a few hours later – after what I estimate to be three hours of sleep on Josh’s behalf – the calls begin again. I don’t know what to do, so I don’t do anything. My fear is paralysing. I turn my phone on silent and hide it in my sock drawer. I hate myself for this.
Josh refuses to be silent. He comes to our house in the evening, and my parents turn him away. A minute later, there’s a knock on my door. It’s Maman. She hands me a small tube. “He wanted you to have this.”
I stare at it.
“What’s inside?” she asks.
“My Christmas present.”
“Was it a nice one?”
“Yeah.”
She sits beside me on my bed. “I’m sorry.”
I cry. She stays with me until I can’t cry any longer.
Christmas Day. Mainly I hang out beside the tree and attempt to read one of my presents. It’s a book about a man-eating tiger, but I can’t muster up any of my usual enthusiasm. My parents don’t ask me to help them in the kitchen, and Gen picks up the extra slack. Even Hattie silently takes over my portion of the dirty dishes.
That’s when I know things are really bad.
I peek at my phone before bed and discover only two missed calls. No messages. Either he’s getting the picture, or he’s respecting my Christmas Tree Agnosticism.
Even thinking that phrase hurts.
“May I come in?” But Gen is inside before I can answer. I drop the phone back between my socks and slam the drawer shut. “I used a desk drawer,” she says. “When my girlfriend broke up with me.”
“Sarah broke up with you?” Now I feel awful about that, too.
“Yeah. Right after Thanksgiving, actually.”
“Did she call you a lot afterward?”
“No.” Gen gives me a sad smile. “I hid my phone for the opposite reason.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
She shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. It sucks either way, right?”