Josué is in my Marimba class, and I observe him with concern the following day. His shoulders are slumped, and he is not engaged in any of his usual babbling banter or philosophical meanderings with anyone.

I approach him after class.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"What is your understanding of the concept of 'okay?'" he challenges, with his soft voice that always reminds me of sweet, flowing creek water through a lush, flower-spattered meadow.

"I don't have a response for that," I answer, not allowing myself to fall into his rabbit hole. I maintain my voice steady. "You don't seem like yourself. I'm asking if you are okay."

He stops walking and blinks at me in surprise, as if I got to him. His face is dark, and tired circles ring his eyes.

"That's really kind of you to notice and ask." He smiles, and now I'm wondering if my intuition was wrong. I continue observing his face, my eyebrows raised in anticipation and a small half-smile hanging on my lips, waiting to see if he will answer the question.

"I've gotten a little too far sucked into some side projects this semester," he comments without providing detail, his eyes growing dull as he stares into the distance.

I wonder vaguely what types of projects he does on the side. Josué is involved in quite a bit of volunteer work, and I often see him scribbling furiously into his notebooks when I stop by his room to chat with him and Joshua.

"What's your major again?" I inquire.

"Philosophy."

I snicker, covering my mouth for effect. "Why did I even need to ask?"

Josué nudges me in the arm with his elbow and grins. There's that beautiful dimple.

"I like this 'new you,'" he remarks with sparkly eyes. "You are getting more comfortable with me."

Forgetting about my concern over Josué's mental and emotional health, I take his compliment as an unauthorized cue to spill my guts all over him.

"I'm not sure if you knew that... I had a little crush on you first semester."

He smiles blandly with closed lips. "I knew."

"You did?" Am I that obvious? Crap.

"Yes. Thank you for having a crush on me." His smile opening up is like the caramel of flan melting all over me.

"Um, no problem," I giggle. This is my cue to allow the conversation to naturally conclude and leave this poor boy alone. Instead, I say: "So, I was wondering..."

And here he cuts me off.

"You are genuinely sweet, Nati, and it's so brave of you to say all this to me. I like you a lot, as a friend. I'm not looking for anything more right now, with anyone." His words are warm and don't sting me.

I should be frustrated by my own stubbornness, impulsivity and inability to leave things alone, but instead I feel proud of myself for speaking the truth and asking for what I want. I smile at Josué, only slightly embarrassed.

"Okay, that's fine. I'll see you around," I say, giving him a small wave.

He winks at me.

* * *

Later that afternoon, I change into a lavender tank top and the tiny spandex shorts I used to feel so self-conscious wearing, then head to my volleyball class.

As I pull on my long-sleeved navy T from high school volleyball for warmth, Joshua bursts through the main Forest doors. I shoot him a big smile and catch his eyes raking indiscreetly down my bare legs.

"Genius," he comments as his eyes make their way back up.

"Shut up, it was our team shirt last year."

"No judgment!" he defends. "Are you going for a run?"

"No, I have volleyball class."

"Class?" His tone is incredulous. "They have that?"

"Yep. I get a whole credit for playing volleyball twice a week."

"Dang! That's genius."

"Oh, you're so clever," I tease him.

He pokes me in the side, and I squirm in laughter.

"Yup, that's me—clever."

I rush off towards the gym, my chest light and bursting.

A few people are warming up when I arrive, bumping in pairs or practicing serves. I glance around uncomfortably, looking for someone to match up with. Sometimes I think I've become a whole new person, confident and carefree, but then I realize I'm still me, perpetually on the precipice of awkwardness, at risk of plunging into the abyss at any given moment.

"Georgia!" Coach K calls out to my RA, who is also in this class—the one who threw inspirational rubber bracelets at us our first night here. "Bump with Natalia."

Our instructor is the Lewis & Clark team coach. I appreciate her firm but nurturing demeanor. Even though she looked to be engaged in taking notes on her clipboard, she seemed to notice me awkwardly scanning the gym and came to my rescue.

The scrimmage today is a blast. I make several amazing blocks, and even my serves are clearing the net with a bit of extra power.

"Natalia! Come here," Coach K calls during a water break. I jog over, an extra bounce in my step. Her sandy blonde hair is pulled into a simple pony tail, and her plain, makeup-less face is naturally beautiful.

"Coach?" My stomach does a wild, unwarranted gymnastics triple flip as the word floats off my tongue. I hear a chorus in my head of all the girls on my volleyball team last year chirping the word, effortless, while the simple syllable would stick like peanut butter in my throat, unable to lodge free.

Despite my struggle, Alex noticed me and chose me—to flirt with, to get to know, to hug. And now, it's like I can say any words I want and hug any boy I please.

Well, except the one I really want...

I peer up into Coach K's amused eyes with a little smirk trying to burst free from my lips.

"Nice blocks," she remarks in affirmation, offering a high five. "Why don't you join the volleyball team next year?"

It isn't the first time she has mentioned this to me. Early in the semester, when she first saw me play, she asked why I hadn't gone out for the team in the fall. This conversation, however, feels more momentous.

"I'm serious," Coach continues. "I'll take you onto the team at any time. We need another middle."

"Really?"

"Yes. What's your hesitation?"

"It's just, I had decided not to play college sports, so I could have time for other experiences." My mind zigzags inappropriately to tossing back shots with Isla, making out furiously with Ethan, dancing with Joshua's groin shoved into mine as my hands drenched his shirt in nervous sweat.

Suppressing a giggle, I add: "Like volunteering, hiking, campus events—all the college stuff. When you do sports, it doesn't leave time for much else."

"That's true, and I respect that. On the other hand, the season only runs six weeks, plus two weeks in the summer. And you form a tight social circle with the other girls on the team."

I drink in a long, pensive breath. Memories of a dream I had in the late summer before my freshman year of high school patter in my head like sweet rain. It was during the week of basketball tryouts, and in the dream, I was chatting and joking around with the girls on my team, free and uninhibited. That's all. Just a snippet of an alternate reality—one so normal for every other adolescent, yet so foreign to me that it only could exist as an unconscious vision. A distant, delicious fantasy... but now it has come true—all of it is coming true.

"You look like you're considering it," Coach K prods.

It would feel good to be part of a team again, and if I decide to join volleyball next year, the experience would be different than it was throughout high school. I can talk to people now.

"Yeah..." I grin. "Could I think about it for a few days?"

"Of course. If you decide to go for it, you'd need to find a team to practice with this summer."

"Like intramurals?"

She tilts her head and scrunches her nose in consideration. "Preferably something more organized and competitive, like a club team."

"Oh." I never played club growing up; my commitment level to sports didn't reach quite that high, and club teams were outside my parents' budget. Coach K senses my deflated response.

"Or, you could see about joining a summer training program at a local high school, if they'll let you practice with them."

A tiny fire lights in my stomach, and I'm not sure the excitement is over volleyball.

"Hm, okay. That might work."

* * *

I'm pacing the figure of a rectangle like a maniac, in rhythm to Ed Sheeran's "Bad Habits" blasting from my portable speaker, when Isla's voice startles me from my thought loop.

"What the heck are you doing?" She's cracking up watching me from the doorway.

"About to press the button of self-detonation," I state.

"Oh my God, who are you texting?" she demands in complicitous concern. Our eyes connect, and I know she already knows. "Alex?"

Isla crosses the room and grasps my wrist in an attempt to read my texts from the cell phone I'm clutching.

"I haven't written it yet!" I exclaim, ripping my hand from her fingers. We're both laughing.

"Are you gonna try to see him this summer?"

I fill her in on the volleyball situation. It has been three days since my conversation with Coach K; I forced myself to wait before acting to ensure I was making a logical decision. It turns out, I have nothing to lose by practicing this summer; the LC trainings don't begin until August, so I might as well test out the waters until then.

Of course, it is the perfect excuse to text Alex.

"Do you think it will seem too contrived, like I'm making up a reason to text him?" I blink my eyes pleadingly at Isla, confident that she is on my side and will respond with honesty.

"No!" she exclaims. "Do it! Remember, he texted you over Christmas."

"Three times!" I clarify, for emphasis. "I don't have the head coach's number, so the only other way to get in contact would be to call my school. Texting Alex makes perfect sense, right?"

"Stop overanalyzing and TEXT HIM!" Isla bellows at me, grabbing my arms and pretending to shake me.

"Gah!" I expel my overanxious bubble of emotions with a series of random sound effects, hopping up and down and shaking the nerves out of my hands.

Hey Alex, Do you have Steve's number? I wanted to get in touch with him about a volleyball question.

"That's all you're going to say?" Isla accuses.

"I can't just vomit the whole story into one text!" I defend. "I have to feel him out first."

"Yeah, that's true. But what if he just gives you Steve's number, and that's that?"

I groan, tilt my head to the heavens and press send. "Screw it, here goes nothing."

Heaving my phone across the room, it bounces on my bed and then onto the floor.

"Oopsies."

Isla completes a literal face palm. "Oh, Nati." She retrieves the device and screams. "He responded!" Instead of passing it to me, Isla unlocks the screen (she knows my code) to read the message, as I attack her in an attempt to wrangle to the device away.

"Gimme!" I'm out of breath, more from the anticipation of Alex's text than the scuffle with Isla. "No boundaries," I mutter in jest.

My heart thuds like blocks of steel crushing down on my chest when I see the best possible emoji. Starry eyes. As though he's thrilled I texted him. I remind myself not to get my hopes up; it's a lecture I have reviewed several times in the past three days in mental preparation for this moment.

Alex adds a waving hand emoji. I recall his lack of emojis during our text exchange towards the beginning of first semester, when I reached out to him and he apologized for ghosting me in Costa Rica, admitted to liking me and gently let me know about his girlfriend. Stop it, I tell myself.

Natalia Stevens! he addresses.

Alex Candela, I counter, now that I know his last name.

"Oh my God!" Isla gushes. "You are so totally smitten with this guy."

"He hasn't even said anything yet," I admit with crinkly eyebrows. "Just my name and a couple emojis."

A volleyball question? Alex queries. Hm. You know who else could likely answer a volleyball question, right?

I'm dying already. Is he flirting with me? I refuse to crack open my insides, as I tend to do with every other guy I interact with.

Haha, I type noncommittally.

When I don't add anything else, Alex concedes.

I have Steve's number. The shared contact pops up as a blue rectangle on my screen, and my heart sinks, registering I may have missed a window of opportunity to push the conversation a tiny bit further.

Thanks! Do you know if he's still the coach at Wilderness?

You're welcome. Yeah, he's still head coach.

"Oh my God, do I ask? Do I ask?" I chatter my teeth together for effect.

"Ask him!" Isla encourages, despite no awareness of what the question might be.

Are you still assistant coach? I type with shaking fingers.

I press my fingers into my cheeks in agony and knead the flesh around as Alex takes an eternity to respond.

Yep! with a winking face. My legs disintegrate, and I'm forced to collapse onto my bed.

So you really aren't going to tell me your volleyball question? Alex pries. He is the absolute best.

Then I remember he might still have a girlfriend. "What is he doing?" I ask rhetorically.

"What's happening?" Isla implores. "You're killing me with the suspense, Nati! Your facial expressions are like a silent movie, but I need subtitles."

"It's like he's flirting with me, but he must still be in a relationship, right? Otherwise he would just let me know! I don't want him to flirt with me; I want him to be a stand-up guy!"

The coach at my college offered me a spot on the team for next year, and I'm considering it. But she told me I need to play over the summer. So I want to ask Steve if I can join the summer training camp. Do you think he would let me?

I gulp and go for truth.

Also, would that be too awkward? Assuming you'll be there.

The three dots appear as a thrashing shark to my overactivated sensory system. Flashing, jumping, gyrating all over the screen.

Not at all! That's a great opportunity for you! Congrats on being offered a spot on the college team, that's amazing. I can talk to Steve for you later today at practice, if you'd like. I'll let you know what he says.