Grapes Upside Down

34. Frugelé

~Madisen~

I haven't heard from Ignacio all day, which is unlike him.

In the single week we have known each other, anyway.

A pounding sensation like an oncoming migraine reverberates its threat of searing pain throughout my body, and it takes a full minute of deconstructing this unexpected physiological takeover to comprehend my own fears. An eerie instinct deep in my bones knows Ignacio is upset with me, and I feel in my gut and my throat and the pit of my chest that I can't handle it.

In between history (in which Noah tucked himself into the back corner of the room to avoid me) and Recreación, I text Ignacio to confirm our date tonight.

Hola hermosa.

I'm flooded with relief at his greeting, only to fling backwards off the emotional balance beam I'm straddling with his following message. Its English translation is:

I don't think I can take you out tonight, I'm super tired from the past week.

The statement is entirely reasonable, but this isn't how someone would word a date cancelation if they truly wanted to see you.

Hot tears pool in the corner of my eyes for the millionth time in the past day.

Are you mad?

The lake comes into view as I stride with hurried steps up the hill towards the sports stadium, realizing that texting has slowed my pace and caused me to be late for class.

Not with you, Caperucita Roja. It was surprising to learn you live with another guy you never mentioned.

Reaching the peak of the hill, I heave in air with a level of despair that is utterly disproportional to the current situation.

I'm so sorry! I didn't even remember to mention him because I've been having such a great time getting to know you. Is that why you don't want to see me?

Reaching the gym, the blaring noise clatters at my nervous system. I can't bring myself to go inside, leaving the conversation in limbo.

Hey, are you in class? I can meet you between shifts so we can talk in person.

A half-hour later, I've ditched class for the first time in my life and am seated, straight-spined as a ballerina, on a bench in the plaza by my house, tapping my tennis shoe anxiously into the dusty dirt.

"¡Holis!" The cute greeting (a playful version of hola) eases my tension half a degree.

I'm dying for him to melt away my worries with a sensual kiss, picking back up where we left off at dawn, but he pulls me into a warm hug instead.

"Hey, sporty," Ignacio says to me, eyeing me in the yoga pants and sweatshirt I'm wearing for the class I've just ditched. "You look cute like that. Very sexy."

When he brushes the area from my hips to upper thighs, fingertips tingling with desire, my relief manifests as small sobs sucked in like a baby awaiting its bottle, desperate for her primal needs to be met.

"What's wrong?"

"Do you not want to see me anymore?"

"Of course I do!" Ignacio wraps me up in his large arms, holding me as my spasms subside. "I'm so crazy about you."

"But you're mad at me over Noah."

"I like you, a lot. How long have we known each other?"

"A week, exactly," I answer, a small laugh escaping as I wipe my tears, the salty buildup scratchy in the corners of my eyelids.