Part 35 (2/2)

Two nights later, it happens. It's the free skate. Her gaze is sharp, and her black costume is s.h.i.+mmering and transcendent. Her music is from the 1968 film Romeo and Juliet, and she becomes Juliet in love, in death before the entire world. She wins the gold medal by a landslide. Cricket and Lola clutch each other and cry. I even see Anna and St. Clair jumping up and down behind them. But Calliope is all triumphant grin.

”Told you,” Josh says, as if he can predict the future. But maybe he can. He's always known what he's wanted, and he's getting everything that he asked for. I haven't always known. But now I have what I want, too. The rest, the unknown...it'll come.

And I'm looking forward to it.

The medal programme ends, we turn off the television, and as we wrap ourselves around each other we're faced with the truth that our time together is coming to an end, too. Josh holds me tighter, but it's not enough to stop the clock. The next evening, the Olympic flame is extinguished. The games are over. And he's gone.

Chapter thirty-four.

It's midnight. It's sweltering.

It's the top of June.

I cross Amsterdam Avenue underneath a clear sky. I'm nervous, but it's a good nervous. An antic.i.p.atory nervous. In the past few months, the last traces of shyness and doubt have been removed from my step. I've found the Right Way.

And I'm walking straight towards it.

The golden light of Kismet winks at me. There. In the window. Everything about this moment is exactly how I pictured it. His shoulders are rounded down, and his head is c.o.c.ked to the right. His nose is nearly touching the tip of his pen. He arrived earlier this evening on a flight from DC.

I stop directly in front of the window. The light changes on the surface of his paper, and he looks up. We smile softly.

I touch my hand to the gla.s.s. Hi, I mouth.

Josh touches the other side. Hi.

He nods towards the door for me to come in. I open it, and I'm greeted by the warm fragrance of strong coffee. He stands. I walk straight into his embrace. We kiss, and we kiss, and we kiss. He tastes like Josh. He smells like Josh. He feels like Josh.

”You're so real,” I say.

He touches my cheek. ”I was thinking the same thing. I love the real you. I've missed the real you.” His finger is splotched with fresh ink, and I feel the tiniest wet drop against my skin. He tries to wipe it away, but I stop him.

”Please,” I say. ”Leave it. I've missed the real you, too.”

Josh squeezes both of my hands with both of his.

”What are you working on?” I ask.

”The last page.” He gestures towards the table, where a pencilled sketch is being turned into inked brushstrokes. It's a drawing of us, in this cafe, in this moment.

I smile up at him. ”It's beautiful. But what comes next?”

”The best part.” And he pulls me back into his arms. ”The happily ever after.”

Acknowledgements.

This book and myself were rescued from the brink on three separate occasions: (1) in November 2011 by Carolyn Mackler and Sara Zarr, (2) in July 2012 by Holly Black, and (3) in daily phone calls with Myra McEntire. I will for ever be grateful for their concern, caring, and counsel. Thank you, you astounding women, you.

Myra, you deserve your own paragraph. Because...TWYLA.

Thank you, Kate Schafer Testerman, for being my rock. My cheerful, encouraging, tough-as-an-Olympic-gymnast rock.

Thank you, Julie Strauss-Gabel, for your unrivalled patience and intuition. For recognizing my three girls as individuals and for helping me craft their worlds. Further thanks to everyone at the Penguin Young Reader's Group for providing me with support and enthusiasm in equal measure. Exclamation points for: Lindsey Andrews, Lauren Donovan, Melissa Faulner, Anna Jarzab, Rosanne Lauer and Elyse Marshall.

Love and so much thanks to my family: Mom, Dad, Kara, Chris, Beckham, J.D., Fay and Roger. You, too, Mr Tumnus.

Thank you, Kiersten White. Words never seem enough when thanking you. You have listened to me talk about this novel for a long, long time. Few people would be able to do that with such genuine compa.s.sion and understanding.

Thanks to my Asheville friends: Alexandra Duncan, Alan Gratz, Beth Revis, Megan Shepherd and Meagan Spooner. Everyone at Malaprop's Bookstore and Cafe. And, especially, Lauren Biehl for in-person ensuring my return to health and happiness.

Thank you to Gayle Forman and Daisy Whitney for the impeccable, honest feedback. Thanks to Jim Di Bartolo for my ongoing education in comics, Manning Krull and Marjorie Mesnis for making it look like I can speak French, Hope Larson and Delia Sherman for answering very specific questions, Brian Sulkis for being great company and an inspiration, and Jon Skovron for guiding me through the most intimidating subject matter. And thank you, Natalie Whipple, for spending so much time teaching me about something that no longer exists inside this novel. You are a fantastic ally.

Thank you to all of the kind readers, authors, booksellers, librarians, educators, and Nerdfighters that I meet on my travels. Giant bear hugs to Robin Benway, Amy Spalding, Margaret Stohl, Laini Taylor, Jade Timms, and everyone on the retreat in San Miguel de Allende for listening and for laughing in the right places.

Finally, thank you to Jarrod Perkins. I'm crying now just because I typed your name. I love you more than anyone. Ever. Times a hundred million billion. etienne, Cricket, and Josh they were all you, but none of them came even close to you. You are my best friend. You are my true love. You are my happily ever after.

If you've loved Isla and the Happily Ever After, read on for a sneak preview of Anna and the French Kiss...

Here is everything I know about France: Madeline and Amelie and Moulin Rouge. The Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, although I have no idea what the function of either actually is. Napoleon, Marie Antoinette, and a lot of kings named Louis. I'm not sure what they did either, but I think it has something to do with the French Revolution, which has something to do with Bastille Day. The art museum is called the Louvre and it's shaped like a pyramid and the Mona Lisa lives there along with that statue of the woman missing her arms. And there are cafes or bistros or whatever they call them on every street corner. And mimes. The food is supposed to be good, and the people drink a lot of wine and smoke a lot of cigarettes.

I've heard they don't like Americans, and they don't like white sneakers.

A few months ago, my father enrolled me in boarding school. His air quotes practically crackled over the phone line as he declared living abroad to be a ”good learning experience” and a ”keepsake I'd treasure for ever”. Yeah. Keepsake. And I would've pointed out his misuse of the word had I not already been freaking out.

Since his announcement, I've tried yelling, begging, pleading, and crying, but nothing has convinced him otherwise. And now I have a new student visa and a pa.s.sport, each declaring me: Anna Oliphant, citizen of the United States of America. And now I'm here with my parents unpacking my belongings in a room smaller than my suitcase the newest senior at the School of America in Paris.

It's not that I'm ungrateful. I mean, it's Paris. The City of Light! The most romantic city in the world! I'm not immune to that. It's just this whole international boarding school thing is a lot more about my father than it is about me. Ever since he sold out and started writing lame books that were turned into even lamer movies, he's been trying to impress his big-shot New York friends with how cultured and rich he is.

My father isn't cultured. But he is rich.

It wasn't always like this. When my parents were still married, we were strictly lower middle cla.s.s. It was around the time of the divorce that all traces of decency vanished, and his dream of being the next great Southern writer was replaced by his desire to be the next published writer. So he started writing these novels set in Small Town Georgia about folks with Good American Values who Fall in Love and then contract Life-Threatening Diseases and Die.

I'm serious.

And it totally depresses me, but the ladies eat it up. They love my father's books and they love his cable-knit sweaters and they love his bleachy smile and orangey tan. And they have turned him into a bestseller and a total d.i.c.k.

Two of his books have been made into movies and three more are in production, which is where his real money comes from. Hollywood. And, somehow, this extra cash and pseudo-prestige have warped his brain into thinking that I should live in France. For a year. Alone. I don't understand why he couldn't send me to Australia or Ireland or anywhere else where English is the native language. The only French word I know is oui, which means ”yes”, and only recently did I learn it's spelled o-u-i and not w-e-e.

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