Isla And The Happily Ever After Part 17

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 Mila commissioned Gaud 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 Mila'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, b.u.mping 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.

"And some rain."

I glance at him and give a tentative shrug. "Next?"

He grins with relief. "I don't want to waste a single minute of this day."

I feel the same way, I think, staring at his dimples.

Kurt's map walks us down the street towards a second Gaud-designed house. We affix ourselves to the sides of buildings for protection from the rain, but it doesn't matter. It soaks us anyway. "It's your turn," Josh says. "Tell me about your friends. Sanjita. What happened there?"

"So...you remember."

"I remember that you were friends with her our freshman year. Did you split because she wanted to be popular? I asked Rashmi once, but she said her sister refused to talk about you."

The stab to my heart is sharp and unexpected. "You asked your ex-girlfriend about my friendship with her sister?"

"Whoa. No. Not recently. While we were dating."

"Oh." Though I'm still confused.

Josh guides me below a neon-green cross, the sheltered entrance of a farmacia. "Isla. I would never do that to you. I've had exactly one exchange with her since school began. About three weeks ago, she texted me to ask how I was doing. I told her I'm great, because I'm seeing you. She wished us well. She's dating some dude at Brown."

I wish this knowledge wasn't as welcome as it is. I try not to think about Rashmi. I try not to think about her and Josh in my room last year. I try not to think about how they probably had s.e.x in my bed. And maybe my shower. And maybe my floor, too.

I try.

Josh interprets my silence as a need for further explanation. "I spent some time with her family one summer. Sanjita was acting out, and I could tell she was depressed. That's why I asked Rashmi about you guys. So what happened?"

I've never told anyone this story before. It takes me a minute to gather my courage. "She's the only female friend that I've ever had, apart from my sisters. When I showed up at our school...I didn't even know how to make friends."

Josh removes my hands from my coat pockets. He pulls me closer.

"I mean, Kurt and I were friends before we even knew what the word meant. So it felt like a miracle when Sanjita wanted to hang out with me. And we had fun. And we could talk about boys, and she was interested in fashion, and she was emotional. She was the anti-Kurt. So I should've known what would happen when he joined us the following year, but I didn't. I thought my friends would automatically become friends with each other through...I don't know. The divine egotistical magic of me."

Josh winces. "I'm sorry."

"So he comes to Paris, and she's embarra.s.sed by him. And I can tell that she wants me to ditch him, and he keeps asking me why she doesn't like him, and...I'm just stuck between the two of them."

"Like you were with Sebastien."

"Worse, because this came first. I wasn't expecting it." My voice catches. "Sh- She made me choose. She actually said it. She said Kurt was holding us back."

He squeezes my hands. "Kurt would never ask you to choose."

"I know." Tears spill over my eyes. "And that's why I chose him."

Josh looks for something to dry my tears, but we're already so wet that it's pointless. We laugh as he tries to dry them with the inner sleeve of his hoodie.

"I'm sorry that happened," he says. "I'm sorry she hurt you."

I shrug at my boots.

"If it makes you feel any better? Sanjita was miserable for, like, a full year after you guys stopped hanging out. Even after her social-climbing aspirations had been met, and she'd become friends with Emily. I think she still has regrets about what she did."

"I know she does. When I look at her, I see them, too."

"Do you have any regrets?"

"Only that I stopped trying to make new friends. Between her and Sebastien? Ugh." I give our connected hands a single swing. "But someone recently taught me that not everyone is so judgemental."

Josh shakes his head. "I don't know. I can be pretty judgemental."

"Yeah, but...it's like you're on the right side of the law."

He smiles.

I poke his chest. "You wanna see something cool?"

"I'm looking at it."

"Shut up." I laugh. "Turn around."

We're standing across the street from Casa Batll, another Gaud masterpiece. The surface is covered in ceramic-shard mosaics aqua and cobalt, rust and gold in rough, skinlike patterns. And it has another spectacular rooftop, an animalistic arch of metallic tiles that's curved like the back of a mighty dragon. I like this building even more.

Josh's eyes widen with speechlessness.

"See that turret with the cross?" I point to the roof. "Some people think it's supposed to be the lance of Saint George who's just slayed the dragon."

"Architecture. Maybe this is your future."

"It's more art than architecture."

"Same thing," he says.

I ponder this, but if my interest was that strong, I'd want to rummage around through its insides. I'd want to inspect every angle from as close a vantage point as possible. "Nah," I finally say. "I just like the story. And the way it looks."

Josh places an arm around me. "Every art needs its connoisseurs."

I happily burrow into his wet side.

"What's next?" he asks, glancing at the clock on his phone.

I look at him in question.

He shakes his head, and we try not to be disappointed. It's still too early to check in.

Sagrada Famlia is next. The map easily leads us to the closest transit station. The metro is an unaccented metro, but apart from that, it's identical to its brother in Paris. When we exit the station, the rain has slowed to a drizzle. And then we see it. Casa Batll may be a dragon, but Sagrada Famlia?

It's a monster.

It wants me to cower. It wants me to weep. It wants to save my soul from h.e.l.l. Gaud started work on this church in the late nineteenth century, but it won't be finished for at least another decade. It stretches twice as high as the tallest cathedrals of France. It looks like a fantasyland castle wet sand dripped through fingers, both sharp and soft. Bright construction lights are everywhere, and workers are tinkering around its ma.s.sive spires in dangerously tall cranes.

We circle the entire structure, shading our eyes from the rain, as we look skyward towards the figures that are carved into every inch of its facade. So much is happening, everywhere, that the overall style defies categorization. Some of the spires are topped with mounds of rainbow-coloured grapes, while the west side is austere and tormented, drawing the eyes to an emaciated Jesus on an iron cross. Stone women wail beside a pile of skulls at his feet. But then the east side is an abundance of life humans and angels and animals and wheat and topped by a green tree covered in white doves.

"It's beautiful," Josh says. "f.u.c.k, that's beautiful." Something occurs to me. I'm off running. "Hold that thought!"

"Where are you going?" he shouts.

"I'll be right back! Don't move!" I dart across the street and down two blocks until I find a convenience store with a display of umbrellas beside their entrance. I grab the first one, pay for it, and race back with a cheap clear kiddie umbrella.

Josh is confused and upset. "Don't you think it's too late for that?"

I hold it above his head as I dig into his backpack. I toss him tomorrow's T-shirt. "Dry your hands." He obeys, and then I replace the shirt with his sketchbook and pen. "You have to draw it. When will you get another chance?"

"Isla, I..."

I zip up his bag, step aside, and hold the tiny shelter above his body.

He watches the rain roll down my face. "Thank you," he says quietly.

I beam back at him. He kisses my cheek and then bends over his pages, further protecting them, as he uncaps his pen with his teeth. He draws quickly, and I have to urge him to slow down. I don't mind the rain. He focuses on the dove-covered tree. "We have maybe two hours until sundown," he says, after nearly twenty minutes of silence. "How are you doing? Are you cold?"

"A bit, but I'm okay. There's only one more destination marked on our map."

"Do we win a prize if we check off every box?"

"The grand prize."

He raises an eyebrow as he caps his pen. "Then we'd better do it."

We admire his drawing together. I like it even better than the real thing. I only see the beauty, not the accompanying fear. Everything Josh touches is beautiful to me.

He puts his sketchbook away as I search for our map. "Oh, no!" I glance in the direction of the convenience store. "I must have dropped it while I was running."

"Do you remember its name?" He takes the umbrella and holds it over my head. "Not the convenience store. The name of our final destination?"

"Yeah, of course."

Josh smiles. He unb.u.t.tons my coat, places his fingers against my collarbone, and fishes out my necklace from below my dress.

It's incredibly s.e.xy.

He holds up the compa.s.s. "Then we'll find the Right Way."

Chapter seventeen.

We take the metro north and emerge into a neighbourhood that's emptier and dirtier. No one exits the station with us, and there are no street signs for our last destination.

"Is this the right place?" I ask.

Josh scratches his head. "I think so. Let's try up there."

He points towards an area that looks less barren. We hike up the street, sharing the umbrella as best we can. The drizzle has turned into a fine mist. Weeds spill out through ruptures in the sidewalk. Everything feels abandoned. We finally chance upon a long hill with several grouped sets of stairs and escalators. Escalators. I've never seen them outside like this, sandwiched between residential apartments and souvenir shops. But despite these promising signs...the street is still deserted.

As we ride the rickety escalators, the mist gets lighter and lighter. And as we reach the top of the hill, it evaporates into a clear sky. Sunshine.

We tilt our heads backwards and marvel at the heavens.

There's another, smaller hill across the street. "Looks like it's right up there," I say.

With a burst of energy, Josh scoops me over his shoulder and runs towards it. I scream with laughter. He shouts with mad glee. I pound on his back with my fists, but he doesn't set me down until we're through the gates and on the summit. He throws up his arms in triumph. "I win!" And then he buckles like a weak hinge. "I'm dying."

I grin. "Serves you right."

Josh lifts his head. "Oh, yeah?" And then he sees my expression change as I notice what lies behind him. He turns to look. His entire body straightens in astonishment.

We're not just at the top of the final hill. We're at the top of Barcelona.

The jumble of the city stretches to every corner of the horizon, sharp rectangles of brown and grey and yellow and red. Towering above it all are the spires and construction cranes of Sagrada Famlia, but directly below us, there's a seemingly endless path winding its way down through a landscape of Mediterranean greens.

Parc Gell.

In the far distance, we can see the turrets and sculptures that Gaud designed for this park and its accompanying crowds but, up here, everything is trees and serenity. The air is so fresh and clean that my lungs are surprised. For the first time in months, the world stills. Since before Paris, since before New York...actually, I can't remember the last time I felt such an overwhelming sense of calm.

"We must've come up the back way," I say.

"We should lose the map more often."

We wander down the main path in silence, our hands clasped together. I'm in awe. Several minutes pa.s.s before we see anyone else. It's a young vendor with a blanket on the ground, attempting to sell feathery earrings to two j.a.panese women. Josh nods towards a narrow side-path through the trees. We take it.