The pictures are…sexy. His brushstrokes are all curves.

Josh reaches over and turns the page.

There’s a third drawing.

This one is from memory. I’m standing in the rain. My hair is wet. My sundress is soaked. More curves – mine – are exposed. A giant garden rose floats behind my head like a halo, and I’m staring straight ahead at the viewer. The artist.

My heartbeat pounds in my ears. I look up at Josh, eyes wide.

“Kurt asked to see it,” he says. “When I thought you were dating. I thought he’d kick my ass.”

“My dress is rather clingy.”

Josh groans. “And now you think I’m a pervert.”

I smile. “Only if the rest of the book is like this.” I bump his shoulder softly as I proceed to thumb through it. At first I don’t realize what’s happening, but…I am looking for others. There are plenty of women, of all ages, inside – even some pretty ones – but as I continue to search, it’s clear that mine are unique. They’re the only drawings that look like that.

Josh bumps my shoulder in return. “Feel better? Or am I still on par with that Finnish photographer?”

“No.” I’m still smiling as I set down the book. “Definitely not. For sure not.”

“Good.” His voice is deeper, quieter.

I stare at him. He stares back. His fingers comb through my hair, and he cradles my head in his hands. My eyes close. I slide my own hands up the nape of his neck, and then further upward, nails raking against his scalp. Our mouths hover, a murmur apart. Our breathing is fast and warm. He parts my lips with his.

And then we clash together like the ravenous animals we are.

I climb onto his lap, needing closeness, pushing my h*ps against his. The skirt of my dress rides upward. I feel desperate, in agony. A ragged sound escapes from between his lips. Our kisses grow frantic, and his mouth is assertive and his hands are strong and—

“Ah hem.”

We bolt upright. Nate is standing in the doorway. I tumble off Josh, and he grabs the sketchbook and lunges into his desk chair, strategically planting the book on his lap. Every square inch of my skin is on fire.

“Have a nice day,” Nate says wearily. He trudges away.

I groan. “I can’t decide if the new rules suck more for him or for us.”

Josh bangs his forehead once against his desk. “Definitely us.” Before I can reply, his phone rings. He lifts his head to peek at the screen. And then he swears under his breath. “I have to take this, or she’ll never stop calling.” He picks it up. “Hey, Mom.”

Don’t think about the sketchbook. Do not think about what it is covering.

“Yep. Everything’s fine.” Pause. “I’m doing homework.” Pause. “No.” Pause. “No, I’m not.” Pause. “Yeah. I know.” Josh rolls his eyes as he tosses the sketchbook back to the bed, a twofold message that the mood is beyond repair, and I’m welcome to look at anything inside. “No. I know.” Their conversation continues like this for five minutes until he cuts her off. “Oh, man, fire drill. Gotta run, bye.” He hangs up. And then he slings his phone across the desk and drops his head into his hands.

I give him a moment before asking. “Fire drill?”

Josh lifts his head. “Usually I come up with a better excuse.” He stretches out a leg and taps one of my shoes with his. “Hard to think with you sitting there.”

I tap back. “I take it you aren’t close with your parents?”

“No. I’m not.”

I wonder how often they talk. I only talk to mine about once a week, but our calls always last for at least an hour. “Is that why you’re here? In France? I have to admit, I’ve always thought it was kind of odd that a senator would send his kid to a foreign country to be educated.”

“Paris wasn’t exactly their first choice.” And then he gets this strange expression, as if he’s surprised by his own words.

“What do you mean?”

“I…I’ve never admitted that to anyone before.”

My brow furrows.

Josh stares at his hands, massaging his left thumb into his right palm. “My friends were aware that I don’t get along with my parents, so…they sort of assumed that I was shipped here because I’m difficult. Or whatever. And I never corrected them. I guess I wanted them to believe it, because…it’s less embarrassing than the truth.” He looks back up at me and holds my gaze. “I chose this. Being stuck here is my own fault.”

My eyes widen. I wait for him to explain.

“When my parents started looking at private high schools in New York and DC, I talked them into believing that sending me overseas would be better for my education. And I was immature, and I was dumb, and Paris sounded romantic and artistic and all of that bullshit, but the moment I got here, I realized…it’s just a city. You know? And, yeah, it’s beautiful and cultured and everything the cliché says it is. But, I don’t know. It’s always felt like I’m killing time here until my real life can begin.”

Killing time. I don’t think he counts me as a part of this, but the words are still wounding. I try not to let it show. “So where would you like to be? New York? DC?”

“No. And definitely no. I’m going to Vermont next year.”

I frown. “Vermont? What’s in Vermont?”

“The Center for Cartoon Studies.” Josh perks up at my confusion. He scoots closer in his chair. “It’s the only one of its kind – it completely focuses on sequential art. And it has this insane faculty, all of the best cartoonists visit to teach there.”

“Cartoonists? Like, what? The guy who draws Calvin and Hobbes?”

He shakes his head. “No, anyone who draws sequential art is a cartoonist. Superhero stuff, graphic novels, graphic non-fiction. It doesn’t just apply to the people who draw comic strips.”

“Oh.” And now I feel dumb. “How big is the school?”

“It’s not big. It’s about half the size of SOAP.” He picks up a pencil and rocks it between two fingers. “So what’s next for you?”

The nerve is struck. Just like that. “I…I don’t know.”

His pencil stops.

I should have seen the question coming, but it blindsides me. I’m humiliated to find myself fighting back tears. “I’m applying to both la Sorbonne and Columbia, but I don’t know where I want to go. I don’t know where I belong.”