~Madisen~

Noah leans in after a moment of pause, pecking my cheek like a timid hummingbird sipping honeysuckle. It's all a bit awkward, Americans interacting with each other as imposter Chileans, speaking stilted Spanish and exchanging stiff kisses.

"Gracias," I whisper, attempting to convey my sincere gratitude through eye contact. He realized I couldn't handle an extension of tonight's outing and requested that Edgar bring me home before they went to McDonald's. Noah may be a touch shy, but he is steady as a rock; I have the impression he is always going to have my back.

Juliana directs a parting sentence my direction that shoots through my brain like ice water with no specific meaning.

Vacillating between faking comprehension or asking for clarification for the five-hundredth time tonight, I opt instead for a blank, deer-in-the-headlights stare.

My oversensitive state interprets her reaction as a condescending sneer.

"Espero verte pronto," she enunciates, like a mother repeating instructions to a small child with passive aggressive patience.

"¡Oh! Mi también. ¡Yo también!" I correct, tears of frustration threatening to surface as I butcher the simplest phrase in the Spanish language.

The moment they leave, regretful FOMO washes over me as I stand paralyzed in the living room. Set to explode with a dozen popcorn kernels of sizzling emotion, I text Noah on impulse:

I feel like such an idiot! It's as if I don't know any Spanish. Is it just me??

Adding several face palm emojis, I await his response as three dots on his end appear immediately.

Nope, not just you. Same. You're not an idiot. The accent here is really hard to understand, plus all the slang. Give yourself a break.

God, he's nice. I inhale a deep breath and release some of my tension along with it.

My phone pings with another text, but this time it's from Clara.

Madisen!!!

She fills the following text with about seventeen sobbing emojis. This message then flashes onto my screen in English:

I just slipped in a DEAD RAT!!!!!!!

Snorting back the cackles that so badly want to blast out from my throat, I choke on my own saliva. I rush to my bedroom and shut the door to avoid disturbing the Mendezes any more than I already have.

QUE???

I plop down onto the floor, leaning against my bed with my legs bent into triangles. As I'm about to text Clara again, my phone buzzes with her incoming call.

"Fui a tomar un vino con Lana y Evie." She launches into her tale, bypassing any greetings, voice quivering with horror and hilarity. "Hay un bar súper bonito cerca de mi casa."

She switches to English halfway through:

"Crossing the intersection on the way home, my left foot went slip-sliding, like, an entire meter—ice skating style. I made the grave mistake of glancing back, only to discover I had tromped over a giant dead rat!"

The final word is pronounced with breathless disgust, as if she is on the verge of either fainting or dissolving into hysterical giggles. I do the latter, attempting to mute the noise with a palm pressed firmly across my lips.

"Oh my God, Clara."

She makes dramatic whimpering noises.

"¡Bienvenidos! Welcome to Chile, I guess. Crap, me tengo que ir. My host mom is in the hall; she's gonna scold me for breaking curfew on the first night!"

"¡Buenas noches, amiga!"

After brushing my teeth and changing into pajamas, I collapse into bed to look through all my photos from Santiago. Now that I'm no longer in an overstimulated introvert panic, I realize I'm not quite ready to fall asleep, still hyped up from all the excitement of the past three days. I keep breaking down in solitary giggles over Clara's rodent incident.

Relaxing into my pillow, slight irritation bubbles inside my chest over the fact that I didn't enjoy the concert more. I pop in headphones and search up a YouTube playlist of La Oreja de Van Gogh, listening as I scroll through the pictures on my phone, wishing I had my Canon here in Chile.

I've been taking photography classes since high school, but in the past year I have taken a deeper interest in it. When I'm not not in class or studying, you can usually find me roaming the pathways of Whitman with a camera glued to my forehead, exploring every nook and cranny of the campus. Zooming in on ladybugs tucked into pinecone crevices, crouching over wet grass to achieve the perfect angle into the golden Maples, secretly capturing the candid clasped hands of couples strolling gravel paths.

I met my boyfriend from last fall when I backed into him attempting to frame the image of a crow picking at an Asian pear. Donovan—a painter—appeared sensitive and deep as we discussed our artistic passions next to the stained glass arch sculpture. He turned out to be neither of those things.

I grin at a photo I snuck of Clara at the Giratorio, a restaurant that spins to give its diners a view of the capital city. She is pointing at something out the window with an expression of childlike awe quite fitting for one's first week in a foreign country.

All of my closest college friends are back at Whitman, but Clara is definitely the person I click with most here. Although I have a feeling Noah and I are about to become great friends. He is very pure and humble, and I like that.

My phone buzzes against the wood surface of the nightstand table. It's a text from Clara:

My host father just tripped in the living room and knocked over a table, a lamp, a stack of books, a picture frame and a vase of flowers.

I snicker quietly.

Como se dice clumsy en español?

I tap on my SpanishDict app, which provides the word torpe. That's a fun one. I text it to Clara.

Did you consult your dick? she teases me. The Hispanic Studies majors at Whitman refer to this dictionary app as the "Dick."

We joke back and forth for a few minutes, Clara's biting yet harmless sarcasm causing me to swallow back my snorts of laughter so as not to wake Graciela and Eduardo.

When she signs off with a kiss-blowing emoji, I swipe into Instagram. The picture at the top of my feed is one of us at the Mexican restaurant last night, which feels like fifty nights ago in Chilean delirium time.

It's Daniela's post.

Livin' it up in Chile, baby! My new friends from our exchange group enjoying some Margaritas pre-discoteca.

The comments underneath cause a spasm of uneasiness in my gut.

Clara: Love this picture! Glad I've met you girls. xo

Daniela: Best night ever!

Lana: Everyone looks so pretty!

Evie: Thank you for posting a picture at the beginning, not the end of the night. I didn't look so pretty then. Too many tequila shots, LOL.

Daniela: You were still beautiful at the end of the night, sweetie.

Evie: OMG look at Madisen, she is sooooo gorgeous!

Daniela: A natural MODEL

Lana: Yeah, I don't want to be in any more picture next to you Madisen, haha

Some guy named Jonas: Damn, who's your friend? The redhead. HOOOOOT

Daniela: Shut up, Jonas. She's in Chile, far away from you, luckily.

Jonas: Gee, thanks sis.

Daniela: Anytime

I feel objectified, and I don't love it. Not on principal—not in a feminist way; I simply don't enjoy people drawing attention to my appearance, comparing themselves. It feels icky.

Glancing at the clock, I remember that the time zone in Chile is three hours ahead of Washington. I swipe "Rosas" on YouTube into the iPhone ether and tap instead on FaceTime, Mom #2. One of the funny questions people ask when they find out about my family structure is, "What do you call your moms? Like, do you call them different things?"

I explain it's similar to having two grandmothers; one might be called Grams and the other Grammy. Depending on the person, I'll joke with this response: "Mom #1 and Mom #2."

Silly questions about my lesbian mothers really don't bother me much; I'd rather someone show their authentic curiosity than stiffen up awkwardly.

"There she is!"

"Mumford!" In reality, we have several pet names for each other. My mother Jenny somehow morphed from Mommy to Mummy to Mumford over the years. Sometimes we refer to her as Mother Jen (as in "Mother Hen"). I address my other mother, Camila, as Mama Cami.

"Cami, it's Madisen!"

Mama Cami's shoulders slam into Mumford's in her enthusiasm to make an appearance into the FaceTime frame.

"Eliana?"

"She's asleep, sweetie."

I knew this already; it's after 9:00pm there and far past her bedtime, but I watch my eyes in the screen flood unexpectedly with tears.

"Oh, honey!"

"I miss her so much! I'm okay," I assure them, wiping away the salty droplets from below my eyelids.

Eliana is my four-year-old baby sister. My moms adopted her less than a year before I left for college. Even though Whitman is just a few hours' drive from our home in Seattle, it shattered my heart to leave her. I cried constantly my first year and came close to withdrawing from school.

"We'll call you tomorrow morning with Elly, promise."

"Sure. I'm just overtired. We've had no downtime whatsoever. I went to a concert!"

They ask about my host family, and I fill them in on the fact that Noah is living here as well. They exchange a not-so-subtle glance when I mention living with a boy. Which is silly, because it's not as though I don't live in a dorm building filled with boys at school.

I haven't ever dated much, which I think my moms find curious. Unless I'm certain I like someone, I'm often hesitant to explore. Kissing a stranger in the discoteca last night was fairly out of character. In fact, I can probably count on the fingers of half a hand the number of times that has happened. I won't lie, however; it was fun in the moment.

"He's a sweet boy," I tell them in reference to Noah, rolling my eyes in good humor.

"Time for bed, girlie," Mama Cami declares, after I yawn dramatically.

I wake up a short time later with my phone jammed into my ribcage, along with a notebook, several colored pens and Lessons in Chemistry cluttering my bed. The lamp by my bedside is still on. I gently dump all the items onto the desk chair, cringing when the book falls to the hardwood floor with a clap. Switching off the lamp, I notice a flicker of light shining through the bottom of my bedroom door. Noah must be home.

"Fuck." The house is small, with the bathroom right across from my room, so I hear the word clear as day. He turns on the water, and it continues running for quite a while. As I plop back onto my pillow, a nagging sensation urges me to check on him.

The door is ajar; he has his shirt off and is rinsing the white cotton fabric in the sink, wringing out brown liquid. My head is swimming in sleep, and the scene in front of my blurry eyes makes little sense.

"Noah?"

He startles.

"Madisen! Sorry, ¿te desperté?"

"No, no me... ¿qué pasó?

"Fricking got robbed because I'm an idiot. Had my wallet out for one second leaving McDonald's and this guy slammed into me."

Suddenly, my half-asleep imagination bends reality, producing a very awkward moment. My brain registers that he was attacked, my ears hear the running water rinsing out his stained shirt, and my eyes catch on a red cut on his lower torso; somehow, a knife assault scene conjures itself up as a horrifying vision inside my head.

Gasping, I reach out and put my hands on his bare stomach. "Oh my God, Noah!"

* * *

~Noah~

Oh my God, oh my God...

My whole body prickles with goosebumps when Madisen touches me. I suck in a breath involuntarily, tensing up as my heart flaps around like a desperate bird trapped in a cage.

A black gap of pleasure rips through my logical consciousness, lasting only a few seconds. All I feel is the sensation of Madisen's palms on my flesh.

Overly rehearsed fantasies flash through the darkness of my imagination: Madisen pushing me backwards against the wall, moving in on me, sliding her hands down further...

Understanding cracks through like a blinding light as I glance down and realize she is touching my scar. We look at each other, comprehension dawning on both of us at once. She pulls her hands away in haste, covering her cheeks in embarrassment.

"Oh my God, I'm sorry!" she squeaks, cracking up. "I thought you were injured. I'm half-asleep!" She buries her whole face in her hands.

"No, that's a scar from a snowboarding accident." My voice is hoarse and dysfunctional, disintegrating like shredded tissue paper. I'm relieved that she's laughing, because it's helping break up the one-way current of sexual electricity sparked by her fingers on my skin.

"My bad. What got stolen?"

"Just a little mini-wallet with a bit of cash. Not too much. But I'm pissed at myself for letting that happen."

It was mildly humiliating ending up in Edgar's startled embrace, drenched in sticky syrup, then being lectured by the whole group of Chileans about keeping my stuff put away. Madisen, now fully awake, diligently switches gears back into Spanish.

"No es tu culpa." She assures me it wasn't my fault, and the important thing is that I wasn't injured.

She's creeping in on my space again, sincerity ringing in angelic tones through the crowded bathroom. Her skimpy summer pajama top doesn't fully contain her breasts, and I'm really struggling. I need a shower, like, now. Except it's the middle of the night, and there's this special mechanism Mrs. Mendez showed us that has to be lit in order to produce hot water.

Actually, never mind—an ice-cold shower is precisely what I need.

"Gracias, Madisen." I wrack my brain for a reason to justify hugging her but come up empty. So much of her smooth, bare skin is on display just inches from me, and I'm very aware of the fact that I'm shirtless.

Is it painfully obvious how affected I am right now? Between my shaky voice, dysregulated breathing and the fresh batch of goosebumps covering my torso... not to mention everything that's happening against my will a bit down south.

"Vamos a dormir," I manage to croak out, suffocating the flames blazing inside me as I gather up my shirt and wring it out one last time.

Blinking shyly at me, Madisen hesitates with her mouth half-open in contemplation, then opts for English:

"Again, sorry for the unauthorized caressing of your stomach."

She's a natural at making an awkward situation seem like no big deal. If she only knew...

"Not a problem," I tell her, smirking. "Anytime."

I probably shouldn't have said that last word aloud.