“Surreal.” Josh flashes the camera a startling amount of charm. “It feels great.”

He’s not lying. And even though I understand that this is a genuinely remarkable moment in his life, it’s…it’s as if I were looking at a stranger. I rewatch the segment and pause it as he answers the reporter’s question. I touch his image onscreen.

If we hadn’t gone to Barcelona, he’d be back in Paris in twenty-four hours.

I push the thought down and away. Because if we hadn’t gone to Barcelona, we also wouldn’t have Parc Güell. Or a moonlit hotel room.

When detention ends, I run straight to my bedroom. I scour the internet, but the earliest poll numbers all read the same. The race is neck and neck.

Kurt shows up, and – to my surprise – he shuts the door behind him. “Bœuf bourguignon suivi d’un clafoutis aux poires. For you.” He sets down a plastic cafeteria tray onto my desk. “I didn’t know what to do, so I took the whole thing.”

His embarrassment is touching, somehow. The still-warm dinner and pear dessert both smell intoxicating. “Thank you.”

He pushes back his hoodie. “Nate said I could wait up with you so long as no one else ever finds out, under penalty of beheading. But I don’t think he’d actually behead us.”

My breath is bottling up inside my chest.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t lie for you,” he says. “And I’m sorry that Josh is gone.”

I tackle him with a hug. It feels like the old days, even though we spend the night combing through the news instead of doing homework. Kurt crashes after midnight, but the race is too close for me to sleep. It’s still early in the States. A live feed plays softly, volume turned down. Predicted winners from all across America are announced one after another. At two in the morning, I’m given a six seconds of joy when it shows a clip from the Wasserstein headquarters.

Josh is standing beside his mother and father and a few hundred red, white and blue balloons. The camera moves, and the balloons obscure his face. The feed switches to the gubernatorial race in Florida. An hour later, my eyes are barely open when I hear the newsman with the bad toupee say, “And in the closest race of the night, New York senator Joseph Wasserstein is still fighting to hold on to his seat.”

I lean in towards the screen. As they watch the tallies, Mrs. Wasserstein still looks fresh and cheerful – ever the supportive wife – although I assume a make-up artist has given her a touch-up. The senator seems a bit haggard, but he’s keeping a brave face.

Josh looks exhausted and annoyed. I hope his parents don’t see this footage later.

Still…this is my Josh. Not the stranger from before. A tense-looking man, perhaps the campaign manager, whispers something into his ear, and Josh stands up straighter. The man must have told him that he’s on TV. The camera cuts away.

The news drones on. My burst of adrenalin fades.

I wake up to my morning alarm. Kurt is gone, and the covers have been neatly tucked around me. There’s a one-word note beside my pillow: VICTORY.

I have severely underestimated Josh’s parents. In the wake of the senator’s success, I imagined – at the very least – that they’d allow their son a celebratory phone call. No such luck. I wish I could tell Josh how happy I am for his family. I wish I could tell Josh anything. I’ve never before felt this helpless or cut off.

Two days later, the biggest morning news programme in New York has an exclusive with Senator Wasserstein. I find the link on his website, of course. The interview is standard political fluff, but the background. Well. It’s captivating.

It’s Josh’s house.

The camera follows his dad from the dining room into the living room. Everything is impeccably decorated, though perhaps too orderly. Delicate china plates hang in patterns on the walls. Extravagant vases are stuffed with seasonal grasses and pheasant feathers. It’s hard to imagine anyone living here. Mrs. Wasserstein joins him on the sofa beneath a prominently displayed, seemingly out-of-place oil painting of the Saint-Michel métro station – an Art Nouveau beauty that’s heaped in chained bicycles and dull graffiti. A teenaged boy languishes against one of the bike racks. It’s St. Clair. Josh painted this portrait of his friend last year. I saw it drying inside our school’s studio.

The interviewer, a beaky woman with shiny pale lips, knowingly asks about it, and Josh’s parents gush about their son’s promising future. It’s a jarring response. I’ve always assumed that the rift between Josh and his parents was caused by his desire to pursue a career in the arts, but their praise and support seems genuine.

“He gets it from his mother,” the senator says, beaming at his wife.

“His appreciation for art, yes,” she says. “But the talent is all his own.”

The interview flashes back to the polling station footage – Josh, so handsome, so charming – and when it returns, he’s joined them. My heart picks up speed. It’s that odd, clean-cut look again. An inexplicable pressure mounts inside of me.

The interviewer smiles, nosy and ominous. “We’ve heard that after that clip aired, young ladies flooded your father’s office with inquiries about you. What do you think will happen now that they know not only are you easy on the eyes, but you’re also an artistic genius?”

What?

Josh laughs politely. “I’m not sure.”

“Tell us.” She leans towards him. “New York is dying to know. Do you have a girlfriend?”

He pauses before giving another modest laugh. “Uh, no. Not at the moment.”

My ears ring. I rewind, heart reeling.

Uh, no. Not at the moment.

A dark churning rumbles in my gut. I blink. And then again. Pinprick stars obliterate my vision as they replay a clip from election night. It’s the one where Josh looks miserable, but now the interviewer says he looks nervous because he cares so much about his dad, and how it’ll be a lucky lady who lands such a compassionate young bachelor. “You won’t be single for long,” she teases, and his parents chuckle.

Rewind. Uh, no. Not at the moment.

You won’t be single for long.

Chuckle chuckle.

I reach for my phone and actually scream as I remember that I can’t call him. I do it anyway. No answer. I send a text: CALL ME.

Kurt receives a second text: 911.