I'm afraid I might fall in love with Alex this summer, I text Isla the following morning.

Last time we spoke, she told me she is preparing for a trip to visit Danny in Colorado. I'm afraid he is going to hurt her, and I think she is going too far out of her way for someone who isn't trustworthy. She assures me it's all for fun, nothing serious.

Lady, you were in love with that boy a long time ago.

I snort.

You're crazy. I don't know how else to articulate it. Since I was a young child, I have prided myself on being a rational, deep thinker. Measured, mature. How is it possible that I am now knowingly and willingly setting myself up for heartbreak?

At Lewis & Clark, I kept striking out with boys, yet the defeats somehow felt like victories. I was gaining confidence, learning to take myself less seriously, developing social and emotional resilience. Now, I've unexpectedly won the prize I yearned for all along—Alex—and an impending doom is descending upon me as if I'm about to lose everything.

Just enjoy it, chiquilla.

I inhale a long, sputtery breath. Enjoy it. When I'm with Alex, I relish every minute. This swirling black dread shows up every few days, then dissipates again as he lights me up with deep kisses, terrible jokes and honest conversations.

The idleness of summer break increases my anxiety. I prefer to be busy, on-the-go, engaged in a multitude of activities. The jarring gap between my two lives—a child in California and an independent adult in Oregon—causes my brain to feel as though it's splitting in half. I want to protect my heart from the same. My boring, high school self never knew such highs and lows; I was so much saner then.

Mom knocks on my door to check on me before heading out to run errands. I've got an empty journal page resting over my lap as I lean against multiple pillows in bed. The other thing that has always nagged at my soul during breaks from school is the self-imposed pressure to pursue creative writing. In theory, I love to write, and I know I'm good at it. When I'm occupied with studies, I have an excuse for not writing. Free time and blank white pages taunt me in the summertime to a point of invisible panic.

"Are you okay, m'hija?" Mom must sense my anguish from the way I'm gripping my pencil.

"Sort of."

"What's going on?" She sits gingerly on the bed next to me.

"I'm scared of getting hurt, when all this ends with Alex."

She pauses, taking in my comment.

"Is it ending?"

"I mean, that's what happens to relationships at this age, right? I feel foolish for even being in a serious relationship at nineteen. What's the point?" Stubborn tears swell just behind my eyeballs, pressurizing around the delicate spheres but not yet spilling out.

"Well, m'hija, I hate to break it to you, but no matter what your age, you're going to feel foolish for being in a relationship. It's a very foolish exercise human beings engage in. It often ends in heartbreak, even the relationships that stick. We break each other's hearts over and over again."

Is she talking about her and Dad? I suppose I've always viewed my parents' marriage with blind idealism.

"You're so strong, you'll be able to take it."

"I've had a few crushes at college that all crashed and burned, and I bounced back—almost too easily. But this with Alex... doesn't feel like fun and games anymore."

"I know, sweetie. But things with Alex will happen how they happen."

"It's just, I like him so much, and I have to go back to college. It's outright stupid to be falling so hard for each other. Even if I weren't living out of state, and everything was going perfectly, it's not advisable to be starting a serious long-term relationship at such a young age."

Mom smiles. "Probably not, m'hija, but not everything we do in life makes logical sense."

"You think I should just keep seeing him, then? And keep getting in deeper, until it all blows up?"

"Is there another option? You could cut it off now and be miserable all summer. Or, enjoy it and see what happens."

"Why, though?"

"To experience it. Think of all the feelings you've experienced with Alex you wouldn't have otherwise had. That's all we have in life that really matters—connection with others and the emotion that goes along with it."

And connections with ourselves, my brain argues. Was it better before I let anyone else in?

I consider all these little life thrills I've ridden since beginning college, mundane and common experiences that explode in my chest like fireworks. Even having a boyfriend is nothing revolutionary; I suppose people fall in love all the time, but this fact makes it no less magnanimous.

Dad enters my room, observing our dialogue. A year ago, I would have been mortified to find myself in a conversation about love and boyfriends with both my parents, but in this moment I'm tolerably uncomfortable.

"Baby, I know you're used to excelling at everything you do, but most of the time in life we're course-correcting. Nobody is on track all the time. You have to try things and experience all the emotions along the way. I know I shielded you too much growing up, but happiness isn't the only feeling worth feeling. All emotions are valid and important."

Dad, interjecting himself into the conversation, falls somber as he only does very rarely when he's about to say something profound.

"We mistakenly believe we navigate life with our brains in control, but the truth is, we are nothing more than emotional beings, and most of life is about dealing with our emotional crap."

As simple as his statement is, it tracks with my personal experience as a highly sensitive introvert and somehow feels revolutionary.

"With all the subjects we study, maybe they should mention that or guide us on this topic at some point in school," I huff, a smidge of humor shining through.

* * *

Alex is occupied much of the week, so I barely see him. It gives me time to process my conversations with Mom and Dad, and I begin feeling more lighthearted about my situation.

A peacefulness of inevitability for the destiny yet to unfold settles in, which I know I can't control. I couldn't control my feelings for Alex from the first moment he stared into my eyes by the side of the volleyball gym, and what could have been a one-sided crush or a forever unspoken two-way pull has manifested into a complete connection.

Whatever happens, I'll have to face it head-on.

Alex drops by once mid-week on the way to school to bring me food his mom has prepared, and memories of drive-by tamales come tumbling back.

"My mom wants to meet you," he says slyly, handing me a bag of steaming hot food emanating unfamiliar aromas.

He presses his lips to mine for what was supposed to be a gentle peck, and we end up in a passionate kiss that threatens to drown us before we come up for air.

"Oh dear," Alex murmurs. That phrase is now a permanent joke between us.

I snicker.

"I'm supposed to go to class now?" he whines, playing with my fingers like he's fiddling in a pile of pebbles on the beach.

I blush.

"I want to meet your mom," I bravely tell him.

"Great, how about Friday? You can come for dinner at our place. And she'll be there all night, so you don't have to stress your adorable overanalytical mind about what might happen after dinner." His high little chuckle slips out carefree.

"You're incorrigible."

"Yes." Leaning closer to me, he hums, "I do hope we can be alone together sometime in the not-so-distant future though, because I want to make out with you in a way I can't do in public, or with my mother around."

He grins wickedly at me as the bones in my knees loosen spontaneously like weak screws, causing me to wobble on my front porch.

"I said make out, don't let your gutter mind spiral now."

I gasp in mock indignance. "My gutter mind? Look who's talking."

My mom's Nissan pulls into the driveway, and Alex smoothly increases the distance between us.

"Is that your mother?" he asks, pretending to be alarmed at my parents arrival. I don't think he is actually concerned.

"No, my mom and my dad." I snort, amused and nervous all at the same time.

"Oh, venado."

It takes me one beat to process that he has just said "oh deer" (as in the animal) in Spanish. The combination of the corny joke and secret shared phrase combust in my chest, producing a bout of nearly hysterical giggles, exacerbated by my nerves over the present circumstances.

"Hi!" Mom calls to us. She pulls Alex into a small hug as she climbs the porch steps, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek as is customary in Mexican culture.

"Mom, this is Alex."

She smiles sweetly at him. Dad has finally made his way to us, carrying a few bags of groceries.

"Dad, this is my boyfriend, Alex." Everyone is introduced, and Alex displays his usual confidence while greeting my parents.

"Would you like to come in?" Mom asks.

"Thank you so much, I'm on my way to class. I just dropped off some sopa negra for Nati to try. She might share with you." He grins adorably.

"It smells delicious," Mom remarks. "Nati told us your mom is Costa Rican. ¿Hablas español?"

"Natalia me esta enseñando." In his slightly accented Spanish, he lies that I am teaching him, winking at me in humor.

"So you two met through volleyball?" Dad asks, and for a moment my heart freezes, wondering if he has actually misunderstood the backstory behind who Alex is. Sometimes my dad fails to pay attention to conversations or quickly forgets information.

Alex's eyes widen, and he glances at me with slight alarm, his mouth parting.

"Do you often date the players you coach?" Oh, he's making a joke.

In general, my dad's demeanor could best be described as gentle and mild, so the rather serious tone tips me off that he is teasing Alex. Though I do sense there is a grain of true feeling behind his humor.

Alex appears flustered for the first time ever; he runs his hand haphazardly over his forehead, brushing back his messy hair. A series of sounds emit from his mouth, mostly "uh" and "eh."

"No, it's the first time," he manages with a sincere tone.

I nudge him. "He's messing with you."

Alex smiles and pretends to wipe sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Why don't you come in for dinner?" Dad suggests.

I do a literal face palm; Dad has poor hearing, which also doesn't aid in tracking conversations. Mom and I both interject with an air of exasperation: "He just said he's going to class!" at the same time that Alex responds, "Okay, thank you."

We turn our heads towards each other in a moment of confusion. "You have class."

"Yes, but I don't want to be rude."

"Ay, m'hijo. Go to class. We'll have you over another time," Mom encourages gently.

Alex nods with a grateful half-smile. I'm disappointed but relieved, and I also don't want to be the reason he gets off track with his studies.

"I hope you guys like the sopa. I made it myself." Alex flashes me a mischievous grin.

"You did not!"

"My mom made it," he concedes. "Especially for Nati."

His Spanglish use of "especially" in this moment is so endearing I feel my heart prickling, and the sensation only intensifies when Alex leans in with a confident motion to hug Mom and peck her cheek.

"Glad to know you." This time, Dad's tone is quite genuine. He gives Alex his hand again and surprises me by turning the hand shake into a half-hug.

My body stiffens, unsure how Alex will choose to take leave from me in this moment. The tension washes away in an instant as he wraps me up in his arms for one second as if grasping onto his favorite fluffy teddy bear. His warm squeeze transfers all the emotions of the past five minutes into my soul. He plants a gentle kiss on my forehead and barrels down the porch steps, waving to us with an electric glow all over his face.