Grapes Upside Down

50. Galletas con Mantequilla

~Madisen~

After I've pressed the snooze button the maximum possible number of times, Clara pops into my bedroom freshly showered.

I had no idea she'd slept over last night. The last thing I remember was Clara forcing me to finish a bottle of Watt's peach juice and stroking my head. As my eyes grew heavy, a tremendous sense of relief settled over me like a thick blanket of black night sky tucking me in, lulling me to sleep.

Clara drops her bath towel and pulls an entire outfit from the tiny bag she brought with her last night. It looks as though she's gained back a tiny bit of weight; her frame is fleshier, legs less like the stick limbs of a fragile doe.

My stomach groans with a grumpy rumble, interrupting my pensive silence as I analyze the naked body of my best friend.

"¡Necesitas comer!" Clara scolds me, lips upturning at the exaggerated sounds gurgling out. "You can't survive on soda crackers, chica."

"También comí fruta, Ramitas y las galletas con mantequilla," I defend weakly, listing the snacks Clara forced into me last night in between my bouts of crying. The snacks Noah brought.

My heart fragments into shards of regret when I think of the pure and utter compassion with which he's responded to my Chilean fling fiasco. For eight weeks, I've been parading around blind, stupid and selfish; Noah has witnessed it all, remaining civil as he nursed his own feelings privately with the utmost level of grace. And now that everything has blown up, he's still here for me, buying me butter cookies and juice at the corner market.

"¡Madicita! ¡Clarita! ¡El desayuno ya está listo!" Graciela calls for us to come to breakfast.

"¿Dónde dormiste?" Changing out of my pajamas, I ask Clara where she slept. My host mom usually sets up a little mattress on my floor when she stays over, but there's no evidence of that.

"Con Noah," she replies immediately, rolling her eyes.

Her response freezes me from head to toe as I feel my teeth clamping down on my bottom lip and blink her direction. Clara smirks, covering the froggy laugh croaking from the back of her throat.

"I slept on the couch," she clarifies, eyes dancing mischievously around my face, laser-scanning my reaction. I sense a flush splashing across my cheeks.

"You still like him," she hums in conspiratorial singsong, lowering her voice as she creeps closer with an accusatory finger pointed towards me. "Broken-hearted and all."

After a long pause, during which my throat swells up inside my neck, I allow my response to play in my own head rather than aloud. It's a statement that doesn't make any sense but feels true:

I don't think my heart's even broken over losing Ignacio. It's more like... I broke my own heart.

Clara's expression, so often sardonic, sassy or coy, grows soft as she places her arms over my much taller shoulders. "Madisen, it's okay. We're all idiots when it comes to love. Don't be so damn hard on yourself."

In the dining room, Noah greets me with a light kiss on the cheek, taking his time with the motion as if he wants to assure me that he's not just doing it out of obligation, not merely following cultural protocol. This is the story I'm making up in my head, anyway; it's just a peck on the cheek.

I don't know how he doesn't hate me, but as much as I've been pushing him away in the last twenty-four hours, I crave Noah's calming presence like oxygen. How did I never fully see him for who he is--a genuinely quality guy? That's everything.

Throughout breakfast, I'm unable to make eye-contact or small talk--still enveloped in a thick cloud of shame--but I feel Noah's gaze on me. He's checking me out, but not in the way he used to. He is checking on me--concerned, caring.