Ten minutes until midnight.

Josh and I were planning to meet at Kismet. We were going to ring in the new year with a kiss. I've never had a New Year's kiss.

Nothing about this decision has gotten any easier. That awful word torments me. Ex-boyfriend. I can't accept it as the truth. I don't think...I don't...I don't know why I'm doing this any more. I think I freaked out that night in the car. I know I freaked out. And I have a very deep, very ugly gut feeling that I've made a mistake.

Josh told me that I'll never know what kind of person I am if I don't take any risks. Apologizing would be a risk, grovelling would be a risk, begging for his forgiveness on my knees would be a risk.

What have I done? I love him.

Of course he's worth the risk.

Suddenly, I'm ripping off my pyjamas and throwing on a dress and coat and boots. I'm racing past my sleepy parents in the living room, and I'm shouting that I'll be right back. I'm ignoring their cries of concern. I'm running downstairs, onto the pavement, across the street. The air is frosty and sharp, and the wind is strong.

Josh, I'm coming. I know you're there. Please don't leave.

I tear around the corner, and there it is. My beacon of hope. I race towards its glowing front window, dodging taxis and b.u.mping into a guy being shouldered home by a friend. There's a loud cry of anger, but I keep running until I burst through Kismet's shining gla.s.s door. The cafe is still open. But it's empty.

Two employees are sitting at a table. They look up at my entrance, surprised.

"Excuse me, but is there a guy here?" I'm panting, but I have to raise my voice over the loud rock music blasting from the speakers. "Was there a guy here? About my age?"

A woman with a chest covered in electric-bright tattoos shakes her head. "Sorry, honey. We've been dead for nearly two hours."

In the distance, there's an eruption of explosions and cheering. Cars honk, people shout from their windows.

It's midnight.

I run back outside, frantically looking up and down the street, but he's nowhere to be found. Two college-aged girls run past the cafe hollering at the top of their lungs.

No, he's coming. He'll feel me here, like he felt me the last time.

"Are you okay? You don't look so well." The tattooed woman is standing beside me, and her forehead is wrinkled in concern.

"My boyfrie- my Josh. Josh. He's coming. He should be here any second."

The other employee, a wiry guy whom I belatedly recognize as pierced Abe Lincoln, pops his head out the door. "You forgot my kiss, Maggie."

"I forgot nothing," she says.

"He's coming," I say again.

Maggie side-eyes me. "How old are you? Do your parents know you're out?"

I shoot her a nettled glance. "I'm pet.i.te. Not a child."

She shrugs. "O-kay. But I'm still gonna wait out here with you."

"You don't have to do that." The cold wind howls, carrying with it the continued sounds of celebration. I hug my coat around myself tighter.

"Jesus." Abe shivers. "At least wait inside."

They coax me back into the cafe, and I sit at the table in the window. The one I sat at more than half a year ago. They turn up their music even louder. My ears hurt. I glance at my phone, watching the minutes tick past. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Josh hasn't called me since Christmas Day. Before I can talk myself out of it, I call Brian's number. It goes straight to the voicemail of a scary-sounding protective service agency. His employer. I leave a message explaining where I am, pleading for Josh to meet me, and then I run outside again as if that should be enough to make him appear.

He's not there.

I sit back down, wait until two minutes have pa.s.sed, and then bolt outside again. I repeat this pattern for an hour. I call again. I leave another message. I look outside, but nothing has changed. Josh isn't coming.

He's not coming.

I crumple in the doorway, vaguely aware of Maggie and Abe rushing towards me. It's the deathblow. It's over.

Chapter twenty-eight.

It's been a month. Josh never called me back. This gaping, b.l.o.o.d.y, open wound the wound that I created still rubs me raw. I have to keep convincing myself that I was right in the first place, that I was right to break up with him, because it's clear that he's realized the truth of what I've always feared. That what he felt for me wasn't love, after all, but convenience.

He's moving on.

I wish that I could move on. I'm clinging with every last fibre of my being.

At night, I lie awake in bed, pretending that his body is pressed against mine. I close my eyes and imagine the weight of his arms draped across me. Holding me tight. In cla.s.s, I daydream about placing a love lock on le Pont de l'Archeveche, a bridge near Notre-Dame. Couples write their initials on padlocks and snap them onto the gates as a public declaration of their love. I ache for this sort of unbreakable, permanent connection.

After New Year's, my father and I took a train to Dartmouth. I didn't want to go, because how can I possibly say yes to them, even if I am accepted? But Dad wanted me to see the school in person. He's excited that I've applied somewhere unexpected.

Everything was covered in a thick layer of pristine white snow. Dad had scheduled an interview for me, and the encouraging woman behind the desk showed me pamphlets of the campus in the spring and autumn. It looked even more beautiful. She was impressed with my transcripts, and she a.s.sured me that a lot of students don't know what they want to study when they arrive, and I left the interview feeling hopeful and buoyant and alive.

I died again somewhere on the train ride home. Dartmouth is a future that I might've had, but I lost. It's no longer mine. Furthermore, my ugly secret wish has been granted: a college rejected me, and my choice was made for me. I'll stay here in Paris and attend la Sorbonne. Maybe I'll meet someone someday, and he'll make me forget about Josh. Maybe we'll get married. Maybe I'll live in France for ever.

But some things have changed.

Kurt's placeholder comment has returned to haunt me. I've been replaced. While I spent a month in detention, he started talking to these two soph.o.m.ores, Nikhil Devi I cannot escape that family and Nikhil's best friend, Michael. Kurt had overheard them talking about the tunnels, and he discovered that they're obsessed with them, too. He mentioned their names a few times last semester, but I was so preoccupied by my own problems that I didn't realize they were actually hanging out. They kept in touch over the winter break, and now their friendship has reached the next natural level.

Nikhil and Michael are sitting at our cafeteria table.

This must be how Kurt felt when Josh ate with us. And it's not that Nikhil and Michael are ignoring me they don't, just like Josh never ignored Kurt but they're not exactly sitting at our table because they like me. Though, okay, maybe Nikhil does seem to like like me, which is yet another awkward situation.

It's weird knowing that Nikhil has spent a significant amount of time with Josh, through Rashmi. I wish that I could ask him about them. What were they like as a couple? And how did Josh and I compare?

But that would be mean. Not that I'm a good person any more.

I can't help but think that Kurt is pulling away from me on purpose. And not just because he got tired of sitting in my backseat, but also because Josh did this same thing when he was a junior, when his friends were close to graduation. He pulled away from them. And Kurt will always be my best friend, of course he will, but things have changed. For the first time ever, Kurt wasn't the most important person in my life. That's hard for me to deal with. It must have been hard for Kurt, too.

And yet...he's thriving. Which has only made it that much more clear that I'm the reason why we haven't had any other friends. Not Kurt. I've held us back. When I disappeared, he found new people to hang out with, but I still don't have anyone else. How do people even make friends? How does that happen?

I can't stop thinking about risk. I took one risk in going to Kismet and another in calling Brian's phone. Neither worked out. It takes the entire month of January for me to build up the courage to attempt another. Even though Josh is no longer an option, I still want to tackle these other problems my lack of friends and lack of everyday courage.

It happens one evening in the cafeteria. There's a rare conversational break between Kurt and his friends, and I pounce before I lose my nerve. "Angouleme is this weekend. You guys wanna go with me?"

Angouleme is the name of a town about three hours south-west of Paris by train, but it's also shorthand for the largest comics festival in Europe. Its black-and-white wildcat mascot has been crunched in every advertising s.p.a.ce not already occupied by the Olympics. It feels like a symbol of everything that I've lost. If Josh were still here and if we were still together we'd take the day trip without a second thought. I need to prove to myself that I can do it without him. And I've seen Nikhil and Michael reading comics, so surely this is not an unattractive offer?

"I thought you were done with leaving this city without permission," Kurt says.

"It's one afternoon," I say. "The school will never know."

Nikhil sits up eagerly. He's tiny and excitable, a kittenish ball of energy, and he always speaks in an enthusiastic babble. "That sounds fun. Yeah, guys, let's do it! We should totally do it."

Michael grins at him with a full mouth of braces. "I wonder why you want to go."

"It's because he wants to bone Isla," Kurt says.

"Kurt." I'm mortified.

"Yeah." Michael rolls his eyes. "I know."

"Oh." Kurt sinks. They may be friends, but they don't have each other's rhythms down yet. And then he immediately perks back up, because he still has the upper hand on information. "It won't happen. She's still hung up on Josh."

"Kurt, I'm sitting right here." I try to give Nikhil an apologetic wince, but he stares determinedly at his food tray. His dark brown skin has taken on a pinky-red undertone. Crushes are so awful. I wonder if they suck worse for the crush-er or the crush-ee. I consider my three years of watching Josh from afar. Yeah, definitely the crush-er.

Poor Nikhil.

Poor me.

"It doesn't matter anyway," Michael says. He speaks with a shrewd authority that's belied by his ungroomed, sticky-uppy hair. "Sat.u.r.day is the only day Arnaud can take us underground."

"Who's Arnaud?" I ask.

Kurt stabs a roasted potato with his fork. "Our first connection. Michael found him. He works at the sewer system museum."

"There's a sewer system museum?" On the upside, at least this means there are still things for me to learn about Paris. Since I'll be here for a while. If Kurt stays interested in this stuff, I suppose someday I'll be crawling around underground, too. It doesn't sound so bad. Cramped and dirty, yes. But it'd be an adventure. I suppose.

"Yes, of course," Kurt says. As if all cities have sewer museums. "Why don't you come with us this weekend instead?"

I imagine drainage and mud and darkness. And then I imagine a train and the open countryside and a sleepy town filled with comic books.

Yeah. I'll make friends another day.

That night, there's a letter waiting for me. I stare into my mailbox, afraid to pick it up. I want it to be from him. I want it to be from him so badly.

My arm trembles as I reach inside and pull it out.

It's not from him.

The blow to my chest is as strong as ever. I'm still not any closer to being over Josh. Not even a centimetre closer, not even a millimetre. People say that the only thing that heals heartbreak is time. But how much time will it take?

The return address comes into focus, and I'm hit with a second shock wave. I shred open the envelope, right there in the hall, and rip out the letter. My head reels. I read the first sentence again, but the words haven't changed. It's a different kind of heartbreak. On behalf of the faculty and staff, it is with great pleasure that I inform you of your admission to Dartmouth College.

The streets of Angouleme overflow with red balloons and swarms of happy readers. But their excitement can't stop the rain. Why does it rain every time I travel? This time, I don't wait to buy an umbrella. I haven't seen the last one since Barcelona. Josh must have it. Or maybe we left it in the park. Umbrellas are so small and sad and easy to forget.

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-ill.u.s.trator 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 t.i.tles 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 ill.u.s.tration 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 Chambery 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 Angouleme, 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.

OhmyG.o.d. 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 compa.s.sion 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."