~Madisen~

"¡Te va a llamar!" Daria informs me, the emotion in her perpetually even tone elevated almost to a level one would label as excitement. I scurry to create some distance from Noah in the hall, ducking into my bedroom.

During my walk earlier, she had called with an interesting tidbit of information.

After I went back into the club last night to grab my jacket, Daria flagged me over from the bar. She had run into a Chilean friend from one of her classes at La Católica; they were having a grand old time drinking Heinekens and screaming their conversations into the abyss of blasting music.

When Daria urged me to stay and hang out, I declined, explaining that Noah wasn't feeling well. Heading towards the exit, I received Noah's text letting me know he had already left in the colectivo. After a goofy text exchange in which he sent me a raccoon next to a kissy emoji, I made an about-face to return to the bar.

"You're back!" Daria had called out, hugging me with a surprising amount of enthusiasm. Her friend, a complete stranger to me, also cheered my return as if I were a celebrity.

"Meet my friend!" It was then that she introduced me to Ignacio.

I was super drunk, and all I remember is laughing like a wild hyena as he made joke after joke, drinking Heineken after Heineken. He ordered me another Piscola after I told him I despise Chilean beer (which I only now realize is a stupid statement, as Heinekens are German or Dutch or something). Thankfully, I only drank a sip or two before leaving it to sweat beads of condensation onto a soggy cardboard coaster.

I held zero romantic notions towards Ignacio and had no recollection of us flirting when Daria called this afternoon to inform me that he had been trying to get in touch. Apparently, I gave him the wrong number on accident when we all exchanged contact information at the end of the night.

She asked if I wanted her to pass along my real number or not.

If the earlier exchanges with Noah had gone differently, if he had given me any inkling that he wanted to take our flirty friendship to the next level, I would have declined without giving it a second thought.

But after Noah offered no follow-up beyond a smirk and a little joke over our kiss--the only kiss in my life that has ever flooded me with such an intense emotional and physical desire at the same time--I did give Daria's offer a second thought. And a third and fourth. Until she had asked if I was still on the line.

After sending Noah home alone puking in the colectivo, I should have been missing him. Instead, I was laughing my head off with unbridled joy alongside Daria, whatever her random friend's name was... and Ignacio.

So, in a moment of petty recklessness, I told Daria to go ahead.

"I just texted him your number. He is super excited and says he plans to call you really soon."

My stomach flip-flops, but it's not just nerves or excitement. It's a bizarrely momentous sensation, an intuition, as if something important is flipping upside down. And I'm not sure if it's for better or for worse.

An ominous text from Noah comes through as Daria and I continue chatting; it hits me in the gut like a brick of black coal.

I need to talk to you.

When I tiptoe into the hall after hanging up, Noah's door is closed. I hear him talking in English, which means someone from his family has called. My bones are icicles after a long walk, so I head to the shower.

"Madisen! Did you see my texts?" Noah is rapping on the door with a tinge of desperation as he repeats that he needs to talk to me, but I'm already undressed. Is he that urgent to clarify he doesn't want to be my boyfriend?

"Me voy a bañar."

In the shower, I relive the kiss with Noah for the hundredth time, hot water pounding against my eyelids shut tight as I attempt to analyze whether alcohol and friendship alone could produce such a passionate explosion, such an extreme connection between two bodies--Noah's lips sinking deep into mine like fine velvet, his tongue pressing with reckless craving, his frantic hands on fire holding my waist as tight as possible to his. He was so hard against me as he released a tortured, Piscola-infused groan into my mouth.

After melting into fantasy land, enveloped in the hot vapor of the shower, I'm half-expecting to emerge from the bathroom directly into Noah's arms, for him to set things right-side-up again. But I'm met instead with the winter chill of the unheated house.

My emotions are all over the place today, and I'm startled at the way my entire body sparks into electric jitters when an unfamiliar Chilean number buzzes on my phone. I swipe with the swelling of an ocean tide cresting inside my gut, at once thrilling and dangerous.

"¿Halo?"

"Hola, ¿Madisen?" His greeting washes over me—frothy, salty sea foam—and even though I don't really remember last night, the warmth of his voice glimmers in tiny turquoise ripples of a familiar memory.

"Sí, soy Madisen."

He's easy to talk to. His jokes flow and fold into the conversation. And he tells me straight-up how excited he is to have met me and how ecstatic he would be to take me out for coffee this evening. Ignacio is everything that Noah isn't, his emotions and intentions sparkling on the water's transparent surface for me to see.

In a ten-minute conversation, he has opened up the raw expanse of the sea, whereas Noah and I have been dipping our toes into a narrow and mysterious maze of rivulets for months, only to reach a dead end of broken branches and debris.

When we hang up, I realize I'm still wrapped in a towel, naked, my legs ice-cold despite the heat of anticipation rushing through my bloodstream. I dress for my date in a simple outfit of jeans and a teal sweater, then fix my hair and apply a touch of makeup.

My thought process is a whirlpool that continues to shift directions. When I'm finished getting ready, I march across the hall and knock with authority on Noah's door.

My heart is racing around inside my chest like a mouse who lapped up a few cappuccinos. Depending how this conversation goes, I can always cancel the date with Ignacio.

Graciela pops her head out of her bedroom to let me know that Noah went out to run some errands in preparation for his trip.

Glancing at my watch, I realize I'm supposed to meet Ignacio in less than an hour.

I text Noah: Will you be back soon?

He doesn't respond. I'm feeling restless and untethered.

Pacing my tiny bedroom to ward off the extreme chill penetrating my body, I scour the Aventuras Chile Discord for something that will confirm my doubts, reignite my hopes, calm my spirit or break my heart. Something to cement my decision to step out of the house in ten minutes, take a micro into Valpo and have coffee with a stranger.

A photo of Noah twirling Lana, face lit up like he's having a blast.

The same picture I saw in the morning of Noah pressed against Clara, his expression intense.

A photo of Evie in a contorted dance pose, her barely-covered backside in full contact with Noah's groin.

Oh my God.

Tears sting my eyes for the second time today, as I swipe out of Discord and tap into Instagram in a compulsive effort to further shred up my heart in the social media cheese grater.

Clara and Noah are all over the place in each other's photo comments.

My tears, which I don't bother to wipe away, evaporate in the outside air as I heave in breaths colder than the vapor of dry ice.

"¡Holis!" Ignacio lays a gentle kiss on my cheek, then stands directly in front of me, bringing to life a very tangible illustration of the personal space culture gap between Latinos and North Americans.

I smile, nervous yet at ease. A unique, very unfamiliar type of energy emanates from Ignacio. He's attractive; I hadn't noticed his appearance at all last night. All I remember is that he was hilarious.

"Que hermosa," he hums, taking my hands for a moment. I receive the gesture as natural and genuine, rather than overly forward. "Just as I remember," he adds in Spanish, with a brief, childlike chuckle.

My cheeks flush, but there's no instinct rushing through me to deflect, evade or hide from his affections.

"¿Quieres ir a tomar un cafecito?" Ignacio asks if I want to have coffee; his sparkly dimples as he intones the diminutive cafecito cause my stomach to spin with vertigo.

"Sí, claro." He takes my hand each time we cross the street, dashing in between vehicles during rush hour traffic.

"I kept calling you this morning, but I had your number wrong. So I called Daria."

I recall all of us exchanging contact information with numb, clumsy hands at around 3:00am, but I thought it was nothing more than a drunken, optimistic gesture of friendship after we had had such a fun time together. Never did I actually believe I would hear from Ignacio again.

And I definitely wasn't aware of the chemistry that's now coursing between us, warm and flickering like a campfire, as we stand in line just inside the entrance of the café.

While we're waiting to be seated, Noah finally returns my text.

Hey, where are you??

Part of me is still waiting for Noah to confess the feelings I was so convinced he had; if he does, there's still time to abandon this date. But the vengeful half of me is still upset with him.

I went out, I reply curtly.

He sends a series of texts rapid-fire as we are being seated; before I can read them, he begins calling.

I hover my finger over the circular green telephone icon and am about to swipe right when Ignacio beams at me from across the table.

* * *

~Noah~

I need to talk to you.

But I'm supposed to leave with Armani in a few minutes.

Where are you? Can you come back?

I'll wait for you.

Texting is driving me crazy. I tap the phone to call her, but she sends it to voicemail.

Apparently, I never clicked "send" on the second message I wrote to Madisen while on the phone with my sister. The one with the flirty emojis, referencing our kiss. There it was, sitting in draft form, two hours later when I returned from the drugstore.

I pace my room, feeling frantic. After dumping the bag of pointless pharmacy crap into my suitcase, I zip it up with a vengeance. Fuck deodorant! And fuck Band-Aids!

Madisen finally texts me back.

What's up, Noah? I'm with a friend, I can't talk right now. Is everything okay?

I can't shake the notion that I've monumentally fucked this up.

What the hell am I supposed to text her? Just in case it's not blaringly obvious by this point, I didn't get a chance to tell you I love you.

Who is she with? There's no way. Not after that kiss last night.

The kiss followed by me vomiting all over myself, abandoning her at the club and acting like an asshole this morning. Fuck me!!!

I dial a different number.

"Hello?"

"Daria, it's Noah. Do you know who Madisen went out with tonight?"

"Uh..." I've caught her off guard. "His name's Ignacio? We met him last night, and he and Madisen hit it off."

"She's on a date?"

"Yeah, I mean... I think so."

"Are you freaking kidding me right now?"

"Um..." Daria falters, as if she is pondering a response to my rhetorical outburst.

"Sorry. I'm not yelling at you, just the situation."

"No worries. Uh, sorry--I thought things with you and Madisen never materialized."

"They didn't, clearly!" I resist the urge to chuck my phone against the wall and instead grunt a "thanks, I guess" to Daria before hanging up.

My mom calls me immediately, wanting to rehash all the issues I've just counseled my sister on. I shove my misery and nausea somewhere deep inside my gut and pretend to be fine in order not to tick up my mother's anxiety even further.

"Noah, ya llegó tu amigo." Graciela knocks on my door to let me know Armani has arrived.

"Did you know she's out on a date?" I spit out in a ragged, Spanish whisper, the words bitter on my tongue.

"What?" Graciela's jaw slackens, her expression crestfallen. "No..."

"Yes. Anyway, I have to go. I'll see you Friday."

I lean in for a peck on the cheek, but she pulls me into a snug embrace, which I wriggle out of as respectfully as possible. The sympathy is causing my throat to swell up with some kind of rushing emotion that's drowning me and pissing me the hell off.

"I'll chat with her while you're away," Graciela promises.

"No! No, please don't do that." Throwing my backpack over my shoulder, I shake my head vehemently, not even sure why I'm opposed to the idea. I need fresh air.

"Hey, man." Armani fist-bumps me.

"Ready?"

We speed walk through the block of ice that is the current weather outside, and my buddy doesn't afford me even sixty seconds before digging in.

"Did you seal the deal this morning?"

"Nah-uh." I produce a series of syllables that are meant to convey: "Drop it, shut up and leave me the fuck alone," but Armani is continually in everyone's business and never bothers to comply with my subtle pleas for peace.

"Please tell me you talked with her and re-confessed your love in a sober, vomit-free state of mind this time?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You have got to be kidding me."

"Will you leave me the fuck alone!" I bellow at him in the middle of the sidewalk. A few passers-by glance our way in alarm. Armani stops walking and blinks, impassive, as would a mother maintaining complete composure as her toddler screams and swings their fists in a temper tantrum. How I wish I could release my pent-up aggression right now by taking a swing at Armani's solid, unflinching shoulders.

"Sure, man."

I must appear tragically pathetic, for he ceases all teasing and drops the subject, and I know it's not because I hurt his feelings.

When we check in at the bus terminal along with Mark, the clerk asks for our passports, which our host families advised us not to bring since we won't be crossing national borders. We produce our Chilean carnets with eyebrows furrowed into nervous, hopeful patterns.

The girl reviews our cards with without expression, typing into her computer and flipping through our stack of paper tickets. She slides her rickety desk chair towards her co-worker at the next window to confer. They engage in a brief, hushed, machine gun dialogue, a layer of amused condescension highlighting our attendant's poker-face.

"No, son gringos," I overhear her remark, the emphasis in her tone paired with a hint of an eyeroll transforming the word from a neutral de-marker for North Americans into a derogative.

My friends glance to one another with groans at the possibility of being returned home. Another rush of nausea invades my stomach like a screeching warning sign. As my head spins around the chaotic terminal, I can't for the life of me interpret whether my intuition is begging me to sprint home to Madisen or do everything in my power to make it onto this bus. I despise Pisco.

After a few more glares and smirks, the ticket clerk hands us our documents and gestures towards the terminal with bored nonchalance.

I fall fast asleep on the bus and dream about the kiss with Madisen, except it goes on for much longer in my imagination, interrupted by that jerky falling sensation that sometimes physically rips us from sleep.

It doesn't take me long to realize there's a reason I woke up that has nothing to do with the sexy stuff going on in my dream; our massive bus is angled precariously on a steep, spiraled mountain road, with a pickup truck sticking out of its left side like a pesky tic.

"Fucking seriously?" I growl, causing Armani to crack up beside me.

This delays our journey nearly a half-hour, despite the fact that no one actually does anything during those thirty minutes. We sit there, most Chileans showing little to no reaction over the situation, while the foreigners exchange eye contact to communicate their low-key anxiety. Our bus driver ambles down to inspect the vehicle, while the dude driving the truck eventually reverses, pulls to the side of the road, stares at the dent in his front bumper and continues on.

"She met some Chilean guy last night after I left the club," I croak out to Armani without pretext, my cheek smooshed against the window like a child making hog faces through the glass. "She's on a fucking date with him."

There's a silent pause, before Armani startles me with an excitable outburst.

"Dude, she's trying to make you jealous!"

"What?"

"Totally! You kissed her and then abandoned her at the club, so she's trying to get your attention. This is your last chance, Drama Kid. Make your move or forever hold your peace. Call her now."

"I tried calling earlier; she sent me to voicemail. She's not trying to make me jealous. Madisen doesn't play like that."

How I'd love to believe him, though.

After three hours of travel, we're now only halfway to Santiago due the accident. As the bus rumbles back to life and clatters further up the hill, Madisen finally sends a follow-up text to her last message, which I never responded to.

Noah, is everything okay? You said you needed to talk to me. Did you leave for your trip?

I'm confused. Can't she see I'm not at the house?

Yeah, everything is fine. Did you make it home okay?

There is a long pause. I rotate my wrist, taking in the time: 11:17pm.

I'm still out.

I press my face hard against the window of the bus again, the glass icy stinging my cheek. The seat smells like puke, or maybe it's me, the stench of last night's disaster absorbed into my pores.

What did you need to tell me? Madisen presses.

I squeeze my eyes shut and pound my fist hard against my thigh for about three solid minutes. She wouldn't go out with someone else just to make me jealous.

Nothing, Madisen. I'll see you Friday.