I wake up the following morning feeling invincible, if not a bit thirsty, and snicker in silence to myself over the absurdity of the previous night. I'm not embarrassed about making out with Shawn, ordering him to heat up his tortilla or dancing in my bra with the other girls. Scrolling through my phone, I see that our pictures in the cowboy hat have been posted to Instagram. I panic for a moment praying no one took pictures of me shirtless, but everything looks appropriate. My mind darts to Ethan's expression of shock when he arrived at the party, and a sharp twinge of unidentifiable emotion pings inside me.

I stare at the photo of myself in Micah's cowboy hat. My smooth and blemishless complexion shines with an alcoholic pink glow, and my smile radiates carefree happiness.

Drinking has definitely improved the quality of my life, I think to myself, a tiny, mischievous snort escaping my throat. If my parents knew I had started partying and kissing random guys on the weekends, I'm sure they would worry I was slipping off the deep end. But I feel a sense of complete control.

"Why did you freak out when Ethan got to the party last night?" Isla inquires as we stroll to breakfast. Elia snaps to attention and bores her eyes into the side of my head.

"Because we were half-naked?" I reply.

"Why were you half-naked?" Elia asks, her pitch rising with shock and intrigue.

"It was hot," Isla and I answer in unison, and we both crack up at the same time. Elia rolls her eyes and shakes her head as we enter the cafeteria.

"I need Ethan. You two are incorrigible. Where is Ethan, by the way?" She checks her phone, then stretches her neck to glance around the Bon.

"I doubt he will be up before noon," Isla declares, and I nod. It required both of us steadying his shoulders from either side to make it back to campus on the short walk home last night.

"So why did you freak out over Ethan, Nati?" Elia re-focuses the previous conversation once we settle into our seats with eggs and pancakes.

"Ethan looked horrified when he saw me. It was like being shirtless in front of your big brother!"

"Brother, eh?" Elia mutters. She and Isla share a glance that I'm unable to interpret, but before I can ask, I spot Joshua approaching our table. Isla and I make eye contact, and I will myself to maintain composure as a fit of giggles threatens to overtake me.

"Mind if I join you ladies?" I can tell Isla is on the verge of hysterics as well.

Elia and Isla rush through breakfast and take off to do laundry, while I hang back with Joshua so as not to abandon him in the middle of his breakfast. My anger from the previous days has evaporated, and I'm relieved when we fall into easy conversation.

Paying close attention to his mannerisms and facial expressions now, and thinking back to his frantic fingers and heavy breath on the garden bench, I am fairly certain he did and still does have a crush on me. Rather than feeling rejected, I choose to believe the brush-off is due to his own fears and has nothing to do with me. Maybe he feels the same way about me as I feel about him—uncertain and unprepared to pursue anything more.

"Let me know if you want to play foosball again sometime," Joshua says when we stand up to leave.

* * *

On Monday, I enter literature class with jitters in my stomach, wondering how the interaction with Shawn will go after our make-out session over the weekend.

When he enters the room and approaches his chair, I smile openly at him, feeling as though we have broken open the barrier of shyness between us. Apparently, he feels the opposite, because he flicks his eyes away when they meet mine, looking supremely uncomfortable. Oh, okay.

We barely greet each other, and I let him have his space. I expect nothing from him romantically, but for some reason I thought the breezy conversations from Saturday would carry over.

Our professor passes back an essay we turned in on paper with hand-written comments. Mine earned an A, and I breathe a sigh of relief. As my social life expands, I have invested slightly less focus into my studies in recent weeks. Which is to say, I still study more than most people, but I have lightened up the tiniest bit.

Finals are approaching, after which we will return home for a month-long winter holiday. In my first weeks of college, I was counting down each day until the next break. Now, I feel a pang of disappointment over the idea of leaving my new friends and breaking the social momentum I've built.

After class, I run into Kamden near the reflecting pool. He fist-bumps me with a cool smile.

"Haven't seen much of you lately," he remarks.

"I've been branching out," I reply, grinning.

"You have other friends?" Kam gasps, pretending to be hurt while clutching his torso.

"For the first time in my life, I do actually have friends," I muse. "I never thought I cared about socializing, but as it turns out, it's pretty fun." I laugh, making fun of myself.

"Well, don't forget about me," he says, winking.

"Oh, I won't."

I strut away, unsure whether the conversation was flirty or not; my over-inflated ego now seems to believe every guy I talk to is interested in me. All the social lines have become blurred in my mind as I explore what other people have been doing their whole lives—talking, connecting with others. Saying words to other human beings, free of fear, over-analysis and shame.

* * *

That Friday, we have a Jazz concert performance. I was beyond relieved when Professor B informed us that only two bands from the club would perform onstage and that our group had been relegated to playing in the lobby during intermission. I practice my chords all week and attempt to improv solos on the piano in Forest when no one else is in the lounge.

I nail the brief piano intro to the first song we play, and I manage to fumble through my turns of trading fours without freezing up. Henry smiles my way and nods in approval. I'm glad I decided not to quit the band, though I won't be signing up again next semester. Some things are too far outside my comfort zone still.

Baldwin performs with his band of well-known, elite musicians during the concert, and I relax into my seat in awe, allowing the music to wash over me. My brain invents backstories for each of the men as they passionately create their specific, unique combination of notes; I imagine their personalities, presume their values, envision their deepest desires.

When the final LC student band takes the stage, I am blown away by their talent. A familiar rush of adrenaline courses through me, the same sensation I feel when a shot of vodka splashes into the back of my throat or I receive praise on a writing assignment or I notice a boy is smiling in my direction. It's a physical sensation I only felt during most of high school inside my own imagination; experiencing it in the outer world is ecstasy.

Despite everything I have experienced this semester in college, however, my favorite rush was still a certain, mysterious fling with a certain handsome, carefree volleyball coach.

"Play the blues, drums!"

Huh? The drummer from Professor Baldwin's band is shouting something from the audience as the students play their piece.

"Play the blues!" The four adult musicians seated together in the audience look at each other in bewilderment. My palms begin sweating immediately.

"What the fuck?" The drummer shouts to his bandmates, with a biting emphasis on the f-word, his face flushed in exasperation. "Play the blues, drums, play the blues!" His volume is increasing with each cat call, and my stomach swirls in discomfort. Why is he screaming in the middle of their performance?

The image I held of these talented musicians crumbles, indignation at their rudeness bubbling inside me.

The four musicians break into perplexed laughter as the piece continues, shaking their heads.

When the performance finally concludes, I'm pissed off and realize my palms are tucked into tight, sweaty fists by the sides of my hips. The drummer from Baldwin's band hops up from his chair immediately and jogs down to the stage.

He motions with his hand to call over the student drummer—Jessie—who crouches down by the edge of the stage to hear what the famous musician has to tell him. Jessie nods, his expression unaffected, and the next thing I know Baldwin's drummer is skipping up the steps of the stage to join the students. He sits down with Jessie at the drum set, demonstrates a rhythm and makes a bunch of hand motions. Coaching. He wasn't reprimanding the students or attempting to ruin their performance; he was coaching them.

I exhale and stand up, rolling my eyes at myself. Turning around, I bump straight into Josué. He beams at me.

"Natalia, ¿cómo has estado?" Sometimes he speaks Spanish to me now when we run into each other around campus.

"¡Súper bien!"

The professional band and the student group have begun playing again, improvising a piece together, and a bunch of people are now spontaneously dancing throughout the auditorium.

Josué sways with uninhibited, goofy movements at the edges of my personal bubble, engaging me in childish play as he often does. I roll my eyes in good humor and hold a smile in my lips, not quite comfortable but not uncomfortable as I would have been just weeks ago if faced with this situation. Willing myself not to break into nervous giggles, I stare into his eyes instead. Rust-orange spots dance inside the dark brown, sparkling like tiny fires. I hold the eye contact, exposing myself to him, and it feels more intimate than taking my shirt off in front of twenty strangers at last Friday's party. I'm sober now.

He begins blowing. A trumpet blasts through a piercing solo behind us as Josué blows into my face, just as he did one day in the cafeteria. His breath, sweet and cool, wafting into my nostrils. He moves closer and continues doing it with increasing gusto.

I blow back once with light wisps of air. Josué breaks into a massive grin, producing deep dimples in his smooth, latte-colored skin. He blows harder into my face, and I don't flinch at the tiny mist of saliva that lands softly on my nose. Neither does he. The now-accurate blues rhythm beats and vibrates around us as we move in our own vortex of reality, unaware of anyone around us.

I feel my cheeks sizzle with intense heat, but it's not a blush. I'm fully concentrated on gathering a deep inhale of air into my ballooning lungs. Josué is facing me—very close now—smiling freely, his slender frame continuing to move with random, graceful motions. I blow as hard as I can at him. And again. Blowing directly into his face.