In the days that follow, I pour my attention into soaking up time with my parents in order to take my mind off Alex. On Christmas Eve, I tag along with my dad to work and help him deliver Christmas baskets to the tenants in the properties he manages along with his brother.

That evening, against all precedent and logic, I call Ethan on FaceTime. I'm in the holiday spirit, and I chat him up, twinkling my eyes into his through the screen. He seems genuinely glad that I called, and the conversation flows freely. My confidence skyrockets; I find myself openly flirting with him, which for me means teasing him ruthlessly.

That night, I drive with my parents to view the Christmas lights on this infamous cul-de-sac called Dove Court, in the heart of our tiny suburb. As the colorful lights sparkle into my nostalgic soul, my phone begins vibrating in my jacket pocket. I'm expecting it to be Isla, since I recently texted her a Merry Christmas message, and I tilt the angle of the screen to light up the notification with a wide smile, excited to hear from my best friend.

It's Alex.

Feliz Navidad, Natalia. With a freaking Christmas tree emoji. This time, my ego expands and overflows like over-yeasted bread dough, smothering my conscience. Guilt is replaced by an overwhelming burst of joy at the notion that wherever Alex is and whatever he is doing in this moment, on Christmas Eve, he is thinking of me.

Merry Christmas, Alex! I include a snowman, because this seems lighthearted yet still cute.

We leave it there. Yep, he is definitely still in a relationship. I keep getting my hopes up, but I don't feel crushed this time. I just feel feelings, lots of them, and that's okay with me.

* * *

In the period between Christmas and New Year's, things appear to be progressing well with Ethan. We chat over FaceTime every evening, in addition to texting a few times throughout the day. I have learned about his childhood, his family, his goals for the future. Ethan has shared that his father is a functioning alcoholic and that he fears a similar fate if he continues the same habits he developed during our first semester at college.

This last piece of information causes me to question whether it is a good idea for me to fall any deeper for Ethan or become involved with him in a relationship. Not that he has so much as hinted towards the notion of us officially dating.

"What are you doing for New Year's Eve?" he asks me on December 30th. For a moment, I imagine him inviting me to spend it together with him. We live only a couple hours away from each other, driving distance.

"My aunties, uncles and cousins will be here. My mom always hosts a big dinner, and we play board games and hang out. How about you?"

"I'm heading into the city with my friend Clara to party with a couple other buddies from high school," he replies with even nonchalance. Ethan lives near San Francisco. At the mention of the name Clara, my stomach clenches in recognition. He has mentioned her many times in conversations over the months, and I have the distinct impression that he likes her as more than a friend.

"Okay, have fun. Don't drink too much," I suggest without conviction. My vocal chords have dried and withered.

After we hang up, I text Elia, because she is closest friends with Ethan out of the three of us. I relay the information from our recent phone call and hint at the sensation of dread creeping through me.

Yeah, be careful Nati, Elia writes, causing my stomach to deflate.

Ethan is a good guy with a lot of issues.

I want to throw my phone in the trash and pretend I haven't read her messages.

What do you mean? I ask, gripping the device with aggressive fingers.

Elia responds efficiently, with her straightforward opinion, as I can always count on her to do.

He drinks too much. And he gets crushes on too many girls.

I'm not saying he's not into you. He absolutely is. But he gets that way about a lot of girls, and sometimes at the same time. He's quite fickle.

My eyes blur with tears. I'm so foolish to think my personality could hold Ethan's interest when he is surrounded by beautiful, dynamic, captivating girls.

I consider my own musings, all winter break daydreaming about Alex and Ethan alternately, while thoughts of Joshua, Josué, Kamden and even Bracelet Boy float into my mind and pop like shiny iridescent bubbles every few days. My heart still leaps with thrill every time Joshua texts me, despite wanting nothing romantically from him. Why would I believe Ethan only thinks about me?

I force myself to regain composure in order to enjoy the rest of the holiday weekend and time with my family. Mom's New Year's Eve party is a blast, and I realize how intensely I missed my cousins while away at Lewis & Clark. The adults sip cocktails and bellow to one another in a beautiful blend of Spanish, English and Spanglish at increasing decibels as the night progresses. We play Pictionary until everyone decomposes into hysterical laughter.

At midnight, my cousins and I relive the traditions of our childhood, banging pots and pans with wooden sticks on the front porch, screaming "Happy New Year" with unreserved joy, and popping open a green bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling apple cider.

At 12:15am, I realize Ethan and I haven't spoken at all today. My imagination conjures a scene involving him and Clara and red cups and bottles and darkness and dancing and everything out of control. It hurts, but not as much as it should. I can handle it. I'm grateful to be here where I am.

At 12:35, the ping of a text message rings out from my pocket, and I grin. Ethan hasn't forgotten me after all.

Happy News Year, Natalie! m

Sorry, typos. I might be a little drunk.

I roll my eyes. Maybe it would have been better not to receive anything. He's thinking of me. But he can't spell my name properly.

Forgetting to reply, I tuck my phone away. My youngest cousin is attempting to convince everyone to start up a game of Charades.

"Yes, let's do it!" I yell over the buzz of the living room. Ping!

"Dang, you have a lot of friends now!" my closest cousin Jazmín remarks, nudging me in the side with her elbow.

"I'm very popular," I joke, throwing a thick lock of long hair over my shoulder and raising my chin in pretend snobbery.

Jazmín leans over my shoulder to peer at my phone screen as I check it. "Alex?" She squints at me, eyes twinkling and amused, a half-smile pressed into her lips. My heart stops beating.

This is it. I'm expecting some big declaration.

Happy New Year! Feliz Año Nuevo, Nataliita. My heart is thudding, blood expanding throughout my head; I'm certain all the blood vessels in my brain are about to explode and cause a real mess all over the living room. Next to his words is the KISS-BLOWING emoji.

I'm in such a state of shock that I forget to reply to Alex's message, too. By the time I realize my idiocy, it's 2:00am and I don't want to risk bothering him (or his girlfriend), so I simply plug in my phone and go to sleep.

* * *

The next morning, I reply to Alex. In the excitement of last night, I likely would have blown him a kiss back, but in the stiff air of morning, this doesn't feel right. So I go with the most generic response possible:

Happy New Year, Alex, along with the party hats and confetti symbol.

I don't hear from him all day. Certainly, he was drinking when he sent last night's message and now regrets it. Whether or not he was drunk, his message still proves I was on his mind. This fact stirs up those little wisps of thrill and hope inside my tummy, as well as the confusion and wariness over what Alex wants from me and whether he is being duplicitous in his current relationship.

Regarding Ethan's text, I have an entirely different intuition about it. Something tells me he sent it out of obligation and courtesy, not because he missed me. I still haven't texted him back.

That evening, Alex sends me a montage of basketball bloopers, similar to the volleyball videos we watched together nearly a year ago at Chili's, our kneecaps flirting under the darkness of the tablecloth. I break into hysterical, uncontrolled laughter.

"What are you doing?" Mom questions, peeking through the partially open door of my room.

This only causes me to laugh harder, tears streaming down my cheeks.

"It's this basketball video my friend sent me," I explain, swiping tears from my cheek.

Mom sits down next to me on the bed, and I shift the angle of the phone in order for her to watch with me. We crack up together.

"I'm so glad to have you here for the break, m'hija," she says, wrapping me up in a tight hug and pulling me into her chest. When she releases me, her eyes are soaked with tears.

"Me too, Mom."

I consider telling her about Alex. Or Ethan. Or everything. A year ago, I wouldn't have considered such a notion, but now, I could. Mom and I have always been close, and she has made it clear I can share anything with her, but my own insecurities always held an invisible barrier between us. I open my mouth to spill my guts. But then I close it and hug her again. None of the dramas with these boys are such a big deal, and it will work out however it does.

* * *

There is a clear distance between Ethan and me since New Year's. We still talk, but not as often, and it's not the same. I waver back and forth, up and down, around and upside down, resolving to take whatever is happening or not happening with Ethan with levity and low expectations. This is easy to do while on a dopamine high from Alex's recent messages. I review them every few days (I mean, hours).

Sorry for hugging you in front of your dad. Merry Christmas. Happy New Year. People's noses being crushed by basketballs.

Christmas tree. Kissing face. Christmas tree. Kissing face. KISSING FACE?!

But more and more days tick by, and I realize I'm not going to hear from Alex again. That's when the joy dissipates, the anger bubbles up and the bitterness settles in.

I spend a long time in front of the mirror one night. Scrutinizing my reflection. Smiling. Analyzing—my face and my insides. Swiping on various shades and flavors of lip gloss. Smiling. Staring into my own eyes. Smiling. Smiling.

In the final few days of break, I spend most of my free time chatting—of all people—with Joshua. It's friendly, familiar and low-pressure. I enjoy knowing that he is probably still crushing on me and that his heart might bounce around every time I message him in the thrilling way mine does when I hear from Alex or Ethan (or any guy). Since he is the one who put on the breaks between us, I don't have to feel guilty over playing with his emotions. We seem to be on the same page—two people who enjoy each other's friendship and can flirt here and there without the situation becoming charged with emotion, meaning or expectation.

During the flight back to Lewis & Clark, a very stupid notion comes over me. For some reason, I think that when Ethan and I reunite, he will fall for me again. He will become smitten all over. With Clara far away, he will forget about her.

As if I have learned nothing over the past month of roller coaster emotional surges and crashes, I allow myself to get my hopes up, building up the moment in my mind, genuinely believing it's going to work out. Perhaps this incessant optimism is because, in all prior experience, things always seem to fall into place for me.

I vow not to be shy, not to hold anything back. Solidly convinced of my own beauty, inside and out, I resolve to open my heart to Ethan.

When I go to his dorm room that evening, there are two girls there hanging out. He hugs me like a friend, with the tiniest hint of attraction between us, but... not much. Not like the last time I hugged him. Isla and Elia arrive shortly after. We chat and banter and listen to music. Someone cracks a joke about the number of females in Ethan's bedroom. I swallow back the lump of ice into which my tonsils have transformed.

Without giving up the fight, I stick close to Ethan, putting my body in his presence, playing with eye contact, finding ways to touch his arm or poke at him, as he used to do to me. There's a stiffness in his body, a glass wall between us. It's something I sense through intuition, not any physical manifestation of rejection. He is as friendly and physical as he ever was, but it's just... different.

After an hour, I leave with Isla and Elia. No words are exchanged, but we all understand exactly what has just happened. My dejection must be written all over my face.

"Sorry, Nati," says Isla, wrapping her arm around me from the side.

"He's a prick to lead you on like that," Elia asserts.

"You warned me," I remark quietly, shrugging. "Happy New Year."