Her smile was big and brave and try-hard, and it snapped at my heart like a rubber band. Still, I smiled back, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks. “His name is Aaron,” I began, “and we’ve only been out a few times.”
“And you didn’t mention him all week? Is there something wrong with him?” she joked, smacking me playfully.
“I mean, who knows if it’s even anything. And dating is, like, the least interesting thing we talk about.” I snickered. “I didn’t want to be the girl who can’t shut up about a guy she barely knows.”
“Don’t worry about it. I know you’ve always had issues around self-esteem with dudes.” Her eyes widened, like someone else had said it. “Oh my God, that came out wrong.”
It stung, but I shook my head. “No, it’s true. You know how hard it is for me to be vulnerable with someone I like. And how even liking someone happens sooo rarely.”
“Totally. Well, and you have this nasty habit of picking guys who are one one-millionth as awesome as you and don’t treat you like the queen you are.” She grinned. “So tell me about him! Does he kiss the ground you walk on, like he damn well should?”
I laughed and felt my shoulders loosen. “Not yet, but I think he might actually be a good one?” And so I told her about him, glancing away whenever my smile felt too big for my face. What a relief, feeling this secret I’d been carrying soften and dissolve. Kristen listened, eyes sparkling, pressing her palms together and occasionally punctuating my patter with quick, happy claps. So supportive was she, so encouraging and excited, that I forgot to make a point I’d vowed earlier to state outright: I’m not choosing him over you.
* * *
—
It was a Saturday, and restaurants that’d been dark the night before were flicking on lights, sweeping off decks. We selected a cozy café with bean stews and hearty corn casseroles. Kristen’s guidebook was right: Our waiter confirmed that cheap buses rolled in from Santiago and Valparaiso and the Atacama Desert weekly, and we watched as new visitors streamed past. Two shiny-haired, bird-boned women sat in the corner with their enormous backpacks next to them, like canvas stand-ins for dinner dates. There was a bustle now, movement, energy matching our own. Kristen was still acting normal—bouncy and ebullient—and I felt dizzy with relief. The thought of disappointing her filled me with a fireball of anxiety and guilt.
Out on the street, she clutched my arm and pointed at the sky: stars as bright as fireworks, layers and layers of them, like someone had cleaned off the glass separating us from the heavens. I gasped and gave her a side hug.
“That’s us.” She pointed just above the horizon. “See those two little stars? You can tell.”
It was goofy but somehow perfect; they were equal in size, close together, and just a smidge above the mountaintop. “Which one is you and which one is me?”
We both squinted and then I spoke again: “You’re the one on the left, the pinkish one.”
“I was going to say the same thing! You’re totally the greenish one.”
“I think it’s bluish.”
“That’s so green-star of you to say.” We watched them giddily, these two bright-burning peas in a pod light-years away. Warm and together, just like us.
“Let’s go get a drink,” Kristen suggested, and off we went.
A whole new swath of places were open tonight: dark lots transformed into leafy patios where string lights clung to latticework and vines. We ordered bottle after bottle of cheap Chilean wine, Syrah and Cabernet Sauvignon and Chardonnay. We danced to pop tunes, both American and regional, and ate endless bowls of spicy corn nuts, licking our fingers when we finished each refill.
I went off to the bathroom and got waylaid for a while—first to hunt down toilet paper from a harried-looking employee, then to find someone to hold the stall door closed for me, then to carry on an enthusiastic conversation with the helpful stranger, who wasn’t a complete stranger, it turned out: She was one of the two tiny black-haired backpackers I’d spotted at the restaurant, and she was from London, and we liked each other ever so much.
I made my way back outside and stared in confusion: There was someone at my table. But was I looking at the wrong table…？ No, there was Kristen across from him, nodding with her chin in her hand. He had a five o’clock shadow and dark hair pulled into a small ponytail, and skin so tan it glowed amber in the dim light. Like embers in a campfire.
I crossed the patio and stood over them, and suddenly everything was wrong. I could feel it instantly, on her face, her posture, the stiff line of her back. My chest froze over, icicles on the inside.
“Oh, this is Paolo.” She cut him off midsentence. “He’s from Spain. He was just telling me how he’s spending a year backpacking across South America.”
He smirked and flicked his chin toward me. “I thought maybe your friend Nicole was doing the same thing, traveling around by herself.” He shrugged. “But for women, it’s much safer with a friend.”
Not icicles—something sharper, like a head-freeze to my entire body.
“This is Joan,” Kristen said. She swept her palm my way, never took her eyes from my face. “She’s the best friend a girl could have.”
CHAPTER 5
I breathed hard and chastised myself for feeling upset: Kristen was allowed to flirt with a cute backpacker. Not just allowed—I owed it to her, after all she’d done for me in Cambodia. And after I’d dropped the bomb of Aaron’s existence? Of course she was seeking a little romantic validation. As long as she didn’t ditch me for him, it was fine. It was a selfish thought, but one I hoped she’d pick up on: I didn’t want to be left alone in an unfamiliar city after…
I watched the two of them banter and rearranged my face into an attentive smile. I’d just wait it out, and at some point he’d step away to buy more drinks or she’d head toward the bathroom and I could tell her, make sure she understood I needed her company.
But an hour passed, then two. There was another code Kristen and I had used throughout our twenties: a finger point, plus, “Doesn’t he remind you of [a random male friend, real or imagined]?” Inevitably, the man would tell us he had “one of those faces” and got that all the time, but we knew what the comment really meant: I’m done talking to this guy; an escape hatch, please.
She didn’t invoke it, her get-out-of-jail-free card, so after a while I interrupted and said it myself: “Kristen, doesn’t Paolo look like my friend Dennis?”
Kristen’s brow pursed in friendly confusion. “You think? I don’t see it at all.” Then she turned back to him and smiled conspiratorially. “You’re much more handsome.”
So it was on. I steeled myself, moved around the patio, made more chitchat with the British girls, breathed deep to slow my racing heart. It’s just an hour. She’s been having terrible dating luck. Don’t be such a chicken, not to mention a cock-block.
“Nicole” announced she wanted to show Paolo the crystals she’d picked out at the market, and I gave her one more out: “You’re sure? You know we have that flight tomorrow?” She brushed me off, so I recited my lines: They should go, I wanted to finish my drink, but I was sleepy so （yaaawn, streeeetch） I’d probably be back in forty-five minutes. Paolo lifted his gigantic backpack, and Kristen touched her palm to my cheek gratefully as they slipped past.