I wander through the town, the venues, the comics museum. Festivals like this aren’t as crazed as their American counterparts – and there are far fewer people in costume – but the Europeans in attendance are still showing less restraint than usual. I try to get caught up in their enthusiasm, and occasionally it works. Like when I discover a new-to-me author-illustrator who writes about a split life between China and America. It’s only after I purchase two volumes that I realize how much Josh would like her work, too. And the fact that I can’t share it with him makes my heart hurt all over again.
It gets worse when I find myself faced with a large display featuring only titles by Joann Sfar. And then even worse when I discover one of Josh’s favourite artists in the flesh, and I have to talk myself out of getting a book signed for him. It feels selfish, so I talk myself back into it, thinking I’ll just have something signed. No personalization. If I ever see him again, he can have it. But the moment the cartoonist asks, I blurt, “‘To Josh’, please.” And before I can correct my mistake, my ex-boyfriend’s name – at least I can say that word now – has been inked onto the front page beside an illustration of a rose.
Of all things. A rose.
I can’t win.
Back in Paris, the posters for the Olympics make me wonder if I should buy a ticket to Chambéry next month. But the thought of another crowded train, another crowded town, all of those crowded hotels…ugh. No.
That’s how I’m feeling about everything these days: ugh. No.
The city remains as cold as ever. A few days after Angoulême, I pop into one of the Latin Quarter’s identical gyro joints, seeking warmth in the form of hot frites. Or French fries, which should really be called Belgian fries, if America wants to get correct about it.
Ohmygod. No wonder I don’t have any friends.
The restaurant is empty. I sit in the back with the second volume of the Chinese-American split-life autobiography. I haven’t been able to put it down. Much of it is depressingly, satisfyingly familiar.
The door dings, and another customer enters the restaurant.
Sanjita looks as startled to see me as I am to see her. She waves, uncertain. I return the gesture. She also purchases a sleeve of frites, and I’m thankful that she’s the one who has to make the decision: leave or join me. The restaurant is too small, and we have too much of a history, for her to sit alone.
She’s hesitant. Fearful. She joins me anyway.
“It’s freezing out there,” she says.
I’m surprised by how grateful I am for her company. “I know. I wish it’d hurry up and snow already.”
“Me, too. It feels wrong for it to be this cold without it.”
There’s an uncomfortable pause. It’s the kind that follows any general statement about the weather, the kind that’s filled with everything we aren’t saying. I’m trying to come up with another neutral topic when she asks, “How’s Josh doing?”
The blood drains from my face.
Sanjita doesn’t notice. She pokes at her fries. “I felt so bad for you guys when he had to leave.”
This unexpected moment of compassion tugs on my heart. “I…don’t know how he’s doing. I think he’s okay. We broke up last month.”
“You did?” She raises her head in surprise. “But you were perfect for each other.”
The floor dips. “You thought so?”
“Of course. And you’d been in love with him for, like, ever. That must have been crazy when you actually started dating him.”
The relief I feel at being understood – really and truly understood – is profound. The emptiness inside of me transforms into an instant flood of emotion. “It was crazy. It was amazing. It was…the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Sanjita scoots forward, and her dangly gold earrings sway. “So what went wrong?”
“I liked him – I loved him – but I don’t think he loved me the same way in return.”
Her shoulders fall. “He broke up with you.”
“No. I broke up with him.”
She winces. “Oh. Ouch.”
“I know.”
But her frown only grows. “I don’t get it. You guys were glued to each other. I saw the way he looked at you. He never looked at Rashmi like that.”
My heart stops. I could never ask Nikhil, but…Sanjita.
“Wh-what were they like as couple? Your sister and Josh?”
She shrugs, and her long earrings sway again. “I don’t know. They bickered constantly. I think they were more similar, more stubborn and determined, than they realized. It was why they sort of worked together, but why it never could’ve lasted. There was no balance.”
Josh and I had balance. Didn’t we?
“Not like she ever told me anything.” Sanjita scowls. “But, from the outside, it seemed like they’d both be better off with partners who were softer. Like you.”
I’m not sure I like that word. Softer.
She sees my expression and shakes her head. “Not, like, weak soft. I meant…someone who’d give them the space they need to flourish. Who wouldn’t try to change them. Who’d support them – even when they were being dumbasses – but who’d be ready to guide them back when they needed it.”
“And…you think that’s me?”
“Are you kidding? You’re the most patient and forgiving person I know.”
A strange thing is happening. Something deep inside of me recognizes her words as true. I am patient and forgiving.
Just not with myself.
She looks away from me again, re-hiding her face, and I know she’s thinking about Kurt. About how she tested me for months. About how I wanted to be friends with them both, but how she forced me to choose anyway. I can see her shame. She clears her throat, pushing herself back into the present. “So why don’t you think Josh loved you?”
“I felt like I was…a nice distraction. He was so unhappy here, you know?”
“Phones are distracting. The internet is distracting. The way he looked at you? He wasn’t distracted. He was consumed.”
I get the sense that she’s being extra nice to me to make up for the past without having to say she’s sorry. It feels cowardly. But it also appears as if she believes what she’s saying. It’s simultaneously my greatest fear and my greatest hope. Is it possible, after all of this second-guessing, that Josh really did love me as much as I loved him? Is it possible that he saw something in me that I have trouble seeing in myself?