Our date is so much fun. Alex is a spectacular bowler, and although I recall being a solid player, I realize my last experience bowling was during childhood. I lose every game despite putting forth my best effort, and I appreciate that it doesn't occur to Alex to go easy on me or let me win.

I've rarely ever seen him in attire beyond sports pants and baggy t-shirts; tonight he is so handsome in dark blue khaki shorts and a white short-sleeved button down shirt that contrasts with his tan skin. As I stand close to him while he inputs the data into the machine for our second round, I notice the shirt is scattered with volleyball designs—tiny embroideries of balls and nets.

He catches me observing him and offers a sly smile, presumably imagining I'm checking out his fit body. Alex is slender and not overly muscular (which I prefer—perfect bodies annoy me), but he's toned from all the sports he does.

"It's a volleyball shirt," I remark.

"Yeah, I thought it was fitting, given how we met." He winks at me.

I had hoped to wear the other new dress Mom recently purchased for me, but I opted for shorts so I could move more comfortably to bowl without worrying about showing off too much of myself on accident. Maybe there will be another date, and I can wear my dress.

Several times throughout the evening, I notice Alex noticing me, staring at my long, exposed legs for brief moments. He doesn't exactly blush; his face doesn't redden, but his expression shifts like he's holding a bursting excitement just below the surface. I never thought a guy could look at me this way.

"I told my mom about us," I inform Alex as we settle next to each other in the seats after our second round to take a rest. His eyes widen.

"How did that go?" The softness in his voice betrays his concern.

"She seemed completely fine with it." I smile and peer at him; our eyes swirl together in a moment of connection.

Alex exhales a heavy breath. "That's a huge relief." His smile widens, slyness painting his features, and he doodles idly with his finger over my hands. "I also told my mom about you. A year ago."

"Really?"

"Yep. I knew I liked you a lot, from the beginning."

Rainbow unicorns gallop through my chest, threatening to puncture my heart with their glittery, magical horns. I forget to respond to Alex, and he clears his throat expectantly.

"Oh!" I giggle. "You already know how much I liked you, I think."

"It was hard to tell. You were basically just nervous. So I didn't know if you were feeling the same attraction I was, or if I was totally terrifying you."

"You were totally terrifying me, in a good way."

This makes him laugh, and he pulls me in for an eager hug.

"Let's go?" he suggests, humming low into my ear, which sends shivers down my body. "I really want to kiss you soon."

My stomach balloons with excitement. As electrifying as all the covert interactions and secret touches and elaborate word-decoding of the past year has been, it's a giant relief to be out in a public space with Alex, knowing for certain how we both feel about one another.

In the car, Alex surprises me again by revealing a sliver of vulnerability I didn't know was plaguing him.

"You don't think it's weird that I live with my mom?"

"What? No, why would I? You realize I live with my mom, too," I jab.

"True." A momentary falsetto laugh billows out light as a feather. "I hadn't thought about that."

"You're silly. It sounds like it was a good solution when you returned from Costa Rica, to get back on your feet. It would be concerning if the reason you were living together was because you didn't have a job or any direction in life."

"Yeah. Some people don't like it though, as a matter of principle." Is he referring to his last girlfriend? I decide not to ask about that.

"This is the only country where people turn eighteen and are released like wild animals into the world. In most Latino countries kids keep living with their parents well into adulthood. It makes financial sense, and if you have a good relationship, why not? If I wasn't away at college, I would want to still live with my parents."

"You're really close to them, aren't you?"

"Yeah. I got lucky, I have really good ones." A pang of guilt stabs my chest, wondering if that was insensitive to say, since his father isn't in his life.

"I got one good one." The decibel of his voice has dropped noticeably, and I sense so much rawness in this single phrase.

"Are you really close with your mom?"

"My mom is everything to me. She raised the three of us after my dad left. She was still learning English, but she was so brave; everywhere we went, people would judge her accent, either make fun of her or pretend like they couldn't understand what she was saying. It wasn't all the time, but it happened enough that it sticks out in my memory. It would make me so angry, but I was a little kid and couldn't do anything to stick up for her. She worked her ass off for us."

I'm so touched by him pouring his guts out to me that I want to cry.

"She'd worked her way up slowly over time at her company, but the boyfriend she has been with for years started drinking; it got really bad, and that's why I moved her to Sacramento with me last fall. She lost the position she had worked so hard for at work, though, and now she is clawing her way up again."

"It sounds like she is tenacious and taught you to be as well."

"Yeah," he concedes.

"Do you talk to your dad?" I venture, hesitant and fretting over causing him pain with my question.

"Nah." He flicks his hair back, and I can tell it's a sensitive topic. "He's an alcoholic. The shitty part is, he was a really good dad when I was little. His absence was really... painful."

Alex clears his throat.

"Jesus. I don't really talk about this stuff, Nati. How do you get to me like this?" I can tell he is emotionally overwhelmed and attempting to bring humor back into the conversation.

"Maybe you should. Talk about it, I mean." I think about my mom and her past trauma. Maybe it's time we discussed it, as well, so I can know where I come from.

"It's not like anything bad ever happened to me, you know?" Alex says, which makes no sense to me. "There was no abuse, no neglect. My mom has always provided and loved us. I've had it pretty good compared to most people."

"That's called comparative suffering," I muse, tentative, recalling a recent podcast I listened to.

"What?"

"When we downplay our own trauma or struggles, comparing to others who have had it 'worse.' Something bad did happen to you, Alex. The person you loved and trusted most in the world wasn't there for you."

I glance at him in the drivers seat and am shocked to find his eyelids tinged red, a shimmering layer of tears holding over his eyeballs.

"Damn, Nati. No one's ever put it quite like that before." He swipes the back of his hand across his eyes, inelegant, and I find myself melting for him. "I never cry, and I think I've cried twice in front of you." He coughs softly.

"And I think I've cried twenty-seven times in front of you," I retort, laughing.

He grins. "It's fine, it doesn't bother me. My little sister, Victoria, has a very similar personality as you."

"Overly emotional?" I joke.

"Nope. Highly sensitive. It's a gift. She—like you—is insightful, perceptive, cares about other people and issues in the world."

"Wow, that's really sweet. Now you're going to make me cry." I'm being sarcastic, but a thread of genuine emotion tickles the back of my throat.

He chuckles. "Let's get frozen yogurt."

I fill my cup with plain mint, not only because it's my favorite flavor and the most refreshing option in the stifling Sacramento summer heat, but also because Alex still hasn't kissed me tonight, and I'm hoping this will be the least offensive flavor for my breath.

When we sit down, Alex's cup is overflowing with chocolate and peanut butter flavors, and I'm fairly certain he has piled on a scoop of literally every topping available. Three cherries top it off.

He clearly doesn't spare a care in the world to how his breath might taste later, and I love this about him.

"Wow," I comment, staring at his masterpiece. "That's intense."

Alex smiles, unembarrassed as always.

"No toppings?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow in skepticism.

"I'm not that hungry."

In an impulsive and under-analyzed move, Alex scoops a giant mess of toppings from his bowl and flings it onto my tidy mint swirl.

"What the heck, Alex!"

He doesn't even say anything, just hits me with his gleaming green eyes, defiant and jocular all at once. Then he rests his calf against mine under the table and begins to shovel his treat. I can barely get the cold creamy substance past my tonsils, which are dancing around with excitement.

"I love seeing you more comfortable," Alex remarks softly. I'm not sure if he is comparing me to myself last school year, or commenting on the fact that we can be freer with each other now that the relationship is out in the open.

It's not the most romantic setting, but Alex pulls me to him in the parking lot, his back against his car, and kisses me incredibly slowly. His lips are soft, urgent, hesitant, like he's savoring me. He kisses in the exact opposite manner from how he devoured his frozen yogurt. I taste remnants of peanut butter.

My lips move with his, and I think it's me who accidentally ticks up the intensity of the kiss. It becomes deeper and heated, and I can feel Alex's desire swelling into me where our bodies are pressed together against the car.

"Okay," he says, as if putting a stop to something that isn't supposed to be happening. He grins as we catch our breath. "You're officially killing me."

I blush.

"Oh, I forgot to ask you something," he says, his face close to mine, his body still intimately positioned against me as he holds me to him with yearning fingers around my waist.

"Yes?"

"Will you be my girlfriend?"

"Yes!" I initiate the next kiss.