Grapes Upside Down

27. Panatela

~Madisen~

"Tres huevos crudos," I tell Noah in a British accent, which is very difficult to do while speaking a foreign language.

He limps from the bathroom, eyes sunken in and hair disheveled.

"¿Qué?" My suggestion to eat three raw eggs to cure his hangover—a quote from my current favorite show on Netflix—does not appear to amuse him.

"Lo siento, es de Bridgerton."

Stepping in closer, my stomach twirls in pirouettes as I beam at the boy who has become my best friend, protector and confidant over the past two months, who kissed me with so much vigor and passion last night that I thought I would combust into glitter confetti fluttering onto the dance floor.

I've slept a full eight hours, despite having arrived home at 4:00am, and after a couple glasses of water along with the late breakfast smorgasbord Graciela prepared for me, the effects of last night's overindulgence in Piscolas have more or less worn off.

Noah is far less chipper. I had thought, after our midnight birthday kiss, that he might light up the tiniest bit at seeing me, but he leans against the wall without returning my affection, gripping the door frame with tense fingers.

"¿Estás bien?"

"No. Voy a dormir." He tells me he's going back to sleep.

My joyful anticipation over seeing Noah this morning dissipates, hope sucked through a vacuum and flipped inside out—its opposite emotion, disappointment.

Last night his friends invited him on an impromptu trip to Santiago. They purchased him a ticket to the Luis Fonsi concert as a surprise for his birthday. As far as I know, the bus departs in a few hours, and I'm fizzing like Papaya Pap soda with hope over the prospect of becoming Noah's girlfriend before he leaves.

I realize when I shut my bedroom door that I've forgotten to offer him a birthday greeting. Though it doesn't appear as if he would have appreciated the sentiment. I wished him a very happy birthday last night, however, with a kiss that rapidly morphed from experimental to passionate, before it was cut short.

Throwing on some Ellie Goulding, I snatch up my phone to scan through last night's pictures on Instagram and Discord. We have the next two days off of school for some or another holiday (it's always a holiday here in Chile), and I had planned on a long phone call home this afternoon. But after my non-conversation with Noah, I have no desire to speak to anyone right now.

The first photo I discover on social media is one of Noah grinding up on Clara. Great.

I remind myself that I was engaged in the same behavior with Mark, Armani, and pretty much every guy from our cohort. Everybody danced with everybody last night; there wasn't much holding back once the Pisco started flowing.

Scrolling, I come across a picture of Noah holding me close. His back is to the camera, so I cannot scrutinize his expression. I'm leaning into him, eyes half-closed, body in a state of surrender. The longer I stare at it, the more empty I feel.

Tossing my cell onto the bedspread, I shake my head to clear the suffocating spiderwebs attempting to weave a mass of doubt and anxiety inside my mind. Noah and my relationship has been shifting over the past weeks. I replay scenes from Pucón: The thoughtful birthday scarf, Noah doing everything in his power to avert his eyes from my chest in a bathing suit, our legs brushing together in the thermal pools.

Last night's unbelievable kiss... which caused him to vomit.

That's not how I have been interpreting it up until now; I figured he just had too much to drink. But a dark and overpowering enemy called "pessimism," who rarely visits me, is puppeteering my morning-after analysis.