Medellín

Juan Camilo picked me up at the appointed time, and as we pulled away from the school, I spotted my new group of "friends" waving goodbye from the courtyard gate.

 

“Learn anything valuable in school today?” Juan Camilo asked, eyes flicking toward me in the rearview mirror as we inched through traffic.

 

“Eh, not really,” I said, shifting the pile of textbooks on my lap. “Mostly just syllabi, outlines, and way too many books. Felt more like they were trying to weigh me down than teach me anything.”

 

He chuckled. “That’s how it always begins. They like to scare you before the real work starts. You’re in the Colombian school system now. Well, American-Colombian at least.”

 

“Yeah, well, it worked. My back already hurts,” I muttered, though a grin tugged at my mouth.

 

Juan Camilo gave me a quick glance, eyes warm. “At least it looked like you met some people.”

 

I hesitated. “Met” felt safer than “friends.” Most kids were polite—first-day nice is hard to read. One kid stood out anyway – outgoing, quick grin, easy on the eyes, and already too comfortable for day one. “Maybe,” I said. “Jury’s out. They seemed okay.”

 

“That’s good,” he said. “Friendships take time, especially in a new place. Don’t rush it. Just be yourself – you’ll be fine. I think a lot of your classmates would love to make friends with a gringo. Most of the gringos here stick to their own kind and don’t really socialize with the Colombian kids.”

 

I turned toward the window, watching the swirl of motorbikes and buses outside. Be yourself. Back home, I’d known who that was. Here, everything about me felt magnified – my accent, my skin, the way I walked through the halls. All day I’d felt like I was under a spotlight, and it was exhausting.

 

I smirked faintly. “Yeah, I felt like the awkward gringo on display all day.”

 

Juan Camilo laughed. “You are the awkward gringo. But Colombians like awkward gringos if they’re polite and genuine. And you are.”

 

His words landed softer than I expected. I rolled my eyes to cover it. “Great. Exotic zoo animal, that’s me.”

 

“Something like that,” he teased, flashing a grin. “But give it time. School will feel less like a zoo and more like a second home.”

 

I nodded, but inside I wasn’t so sure. A second home? Maybe. Or maybe it would always feel like I was standing just outside the glass, watching people I barely knew – and not quite understanding why one of them already mattered more than the rest.

 

It was kind of wild, honestly – making connections that fast. Maybe it was just Colombian friendliness; maybe I’d wandered into a group with motives. I’d play it cool and keep my eyes open—I wasn’t running to Juan Camilo over every shove. Still, considering how hot Miguel was, and Yeison too – curly black hair, dazzling eyes, dimpled smile, braces, and that lightning-bolt tattoo up his right arm – I was hoping this was real. A text from Miguel tonight would’ve made my week.

 

I’d always been about one-night stands and short flings: meet, hook up, move on within twenty-four hours. Lately, I’d been wondering if it was time to try a relationship, but – if I’m honest – I still wanted to “sample” a little first. The problem was that pattern had already wrecked me once, after the first boy I loved; I fell back into meaningless hookups, and the emptiness just got louder. Every encounter hollowed me out – regret, guilt, anxiety, loneliness – until I turned into the brooding, anti-social mess I hated.

 

More than a wild hookup with a nice ass and a big dick – or even a boyfriend – I needed friends. My own crew. I wasn’t about to be that gringo eating sad arepas alone under the guayacán tree, scaring people off with tragic loner vibes. Still, putting myself out there twisted my stomach. Culture shock was winning, and my sarcasm wasn’t exactly translating.

 

***

 

On the drive home, Juan Camilo mentioned he’d tracked down some recipes for classic American meals in Spanish and passed them along to Doña Susana – his answer to my whining about Colombian food yesterday. Honestly, I couldn’t keep surviving on overcooked meat, undercooked rice, greasy fries, and the dreaded arepa – the devil’s hockey puck. For someone who loved to eat, the holy trinity of cilantro, onion, and garlic wasn’t exactly thrilling. I knew I was supposed to be open-minded about new cultures, but my taste buds were staging a revolt. Credit to Juan Camilo, though – at least he was trying to throw me a lifeline.

 

Dinner was a revelation. Chicken cordon bleu, spinach rice, and a legit serving of steamed vegetables – none of it fried, none of it drowned in salt. It even came in an American-sized portion, which meant I scored seconds. Dad seemed impressed. Juan Camilo gave a little approving nod, and Doña Susana actually smiled when I thanked her. It felt like a tiny victory.

 

After dinner, I tried to lose myself in Netflix and Amazon Prime, but nothing really grabbed my interest. There were no good new stories on Nifty or any of the other websites for gay teen fiction, and music wasn’t doing it for me either. My brain was too busy checking my phone every few minutes, waiting for a ping from Miguel. Nothing. No text. No call. Still, it had only been one day. I could be patient. Kind of. I even debated texting him first, but I didn’t want to seem too eager. Desperation was not a good look.

 

I wandered out to the balcony for a bit, letting the cool mountain air wash over me. The view was still blowing my mind – layers upon layers of lights climbing up the hillsides, the faint hum of traffic below, and that weird mix of peace and danger that seemed baked into the city’s DNA. Medellín was stunning and alive, but I hadn’t forgotten the security briefing. Not for a second.

 

The rest of the night was quiet: I knocked out my homework – early habits die hard – and settled in, telling myself tomorrow would be better. I’d push to talk to more people, make real connections; I wasn’t meant to live alone here, especially with Dad gone so much—not that it was great when he was around, not after he basically chose the job over Mom during chemo and hospice. He wasn’t there when she died. I was. In the morning, he’d head to Bogotá for an extended Embassy stint with Agent Sánchez—thank God for small miracles—no clue how long, said he’d keep me posted. I tried not to let it get to me, but I’d hoped things might improve between us after the move; instead, the same distance was creeping back. He’d always been married to the job; somehow, he used to make time for me. Now? Not so much.

 

There was one bright spot, though: Dad said he thought it might be time to get a dog. For companionship, sure. But also, for extra security. I gave him an awkward one-armed hug for that. Juan Camilo said we could start visiting shelters after school tomorrow. I was adamant – I wasn’t about to shell out big bucks for a designer dog when there were perfectly good strays in need of homes. I wanted a rescue. A dog that needed me as much as I needed it. I couldn’t help but start imagining it already. A scrappy mutt with lopsided ears. Or maybe a sleepy golden retriever with eyes that said, "I’ve seen some things." Whatever it was, it had to be a real dog. No tiny lapdogs or hairless purse pets.

That night, as I pulled the covers over my head, Dad stepped into my room. It had been years since he came in to say goodnight, let alone anything resembling a tuck-in. He sat on the edge of my bed, looked me in the eye, and said, "I know this isn’t easy. Moving is hard enough, but moving here... with everything going on... I just want you to know how proud I am of how you’re handling this. You’re making it easier for me, more than you know. And I promise – I’ll make it up to you." It was one of those rare moments where I actually saw him – not just the tough DEA agent, the guy always packing a sidearm and chasing bad guys – but the dad. The person who lost his wife, who didn’t know how to raise a teenage boy on his own, who probably wanted this to work out just as badly as I did. But he still had a long way to go – and a lot of work to do – if we were truly going to reconcile.

 

He told me to make friends. Real ones. To let people in. That our house was always open to them, whether it was sleepovers, mall trips, whatever kids did these days. He said Medellín had everything – I just needed to be patient. Then, in a moment that caught me completely off guard, he leaned down, kissed me on the forehead, pulled the covers a little tighter, and whispered, "Goodnight, Hunter." An unwanted tear trickled down my face. He’d made promises like this before; he’d never kept them.

 

As he stepped out of the room, I looked at my phone one last time. Still no messages from Miguel, or the few friends I still had back home. But somehow, it didn’t sting as much anymore. I had tomorrow. I had time. And maybe, if I were lucky, I would have a dog in my near future too. Medellín was a strange mix of new and familiar, safe and dangerous, beautiful and brutal. But it was also becoming something else – mine. It would be what I chose to make it.

 

***

 

I woke up unusually chipper on Tuesday morning for my second day of school. Maybe it was my dad's chat with me the night before, maybe it was the fact that I was going dog-hunting with Juan Camilo after school, or maybe – just maybe – it was the smell of something amazing drifting from the kitchen.

 

Yes, indeed. Breakfast consisted of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, spicy chorizo, buttered toast – and, mercifully, no arepas. A small miracle. And the tinto was great as usual, with just the right amount of sugar to cut the bitterness.

 

After scarfing everything down, I got dressed in my uniform, brushed my teeth, fixed my hair into that intentionally messy look with a ton of gel, tossed on a spritz of cologne (just enough to impress, not overpower), and hopped into the SUV with Juan Camilo. He greeted me with a nod and a chuckle, clearly amused by my unusually upbeat demeanor. The ride to school was short and uneventful, but I was buzzing with anticipation.

 

Morning classes were… fine. A bit challenging in places, but nothing I couldn’t handle. What surprised me more was how fluent my Colombian classmates were in English. Other than their accents, they probably had better grammar and vocabulary than me! The headmistress wasn’t exaggerating. The other kids really did speak English well, so a communication barrier was no excuse for me not to be able to make some friends, although the cultural differences seemed just as challenging. Sure, this was an international school, but still – impressive. I caught myself feeling a bit guilty now and then. English was my first language, but here I was surrounded by kids who’d worked their butts off to speak it as well as they did. Respect. All the more reason to work my butt off and learn Spanish.

 

When lunch rolled around, I reheated some leftover chicken cordon bleu and spinach rice in the student lounge microwave. Not exactly gourmet anymore, but it beat a mystery soup or soggy beans. I made my way back to the same tree in the courtyard, settling in for a low-key solo lunch.

 

Or so I thought.

 

I’d barely taken three bites when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned, expecting Miguel and his entourage – but instead, it was another gringo. Freckled face, reddish-brown curls, a little on the scrawny side, but cute in a nerdy kind of way. He looked like he belonged in a coming-of-age indie film.

 

“Hey, mind if I sit?” he asked.

 

“Sure,” I said, scooting over.

 

“I’m Zack. Been here about a year. Let me know if you’ve got questions about anything.”

 

I liked him immediately. Chill, friendly, seemed kind. Naturally, my first question was about Miguel and his crew, who were lounging under a tree across the courtyard.

 

“Oh yeah,” Zack said. “Everyone knows Miguel. Most popular guy in school, total jock. His dad’s loaded, he’s a star soccer player, very smart, and outside of school, girls literally flock to him. He’s basically a local legend. He’s also kind of an asshole, picks on other kids sometimes, and is not a fan of gringos. He thinks we think we’re better than them and that we … well, that we smell bad.”

 

“How so?” I asked.

 

“Well, usually when he crosses paths with one, he’ll cuss them out in really rapid-fire paisa Spanish so they can’t understand what he’s saying, calls them ‘Imperialistas blancos’ or ‘gringos hijueputas.’ He also frequently takes part in physical bullying of the nerdier kids, pushing kids down in the hall, slamming kids against lockers, beating them up, and playing other mean pranks on them, tripping them. He’s done it to me before. It’s just better to avoid him,” he warned me.

 

“What does ‘imperialista blanco’ mean?” I asked, a little afraid to know the answer.

 

“It just means ‘white imperialist.’” He doesn’t have a very positive view of gringos, thinks they’re ruining Colombia by driving prices up even further for the locals, and they think they own the place, like Colombia is really the 51^st state of the United States,” Zack explained.

 

“That’s funny,” I said. “Because he and his crew came over to talk to me yesterday, and they were all pretty nice, especially Miguel. He even gave me his phone number. Maybe he’s got multiple personalities or something?”

 

Zack just shrugged. “I’d just stay away from him if I were you. And his friends.”

 

Great. Just great. Now I had a school demigod and certified asshole interested in me… probably as his next target. Zack's words made me doubt myself for the first time in a while. I wasn’t used to feeling like a nobody. I’d always been confident – smart, good-looking, a relatively decent guy – but Miguel was in another league entirely. But despite my attraction to him, I wasn’t about to put up with him treating me like a jerk when I’d done nothing to him. There’s one thing I couldn’t stand: assholes and bullies. Maybe it was time he got knocked down a peg or two.

 

Still, I kept chatting with Zack. We talked about school, life in Colombia, food (he didn’t love arepas either), music, how the Colombian version of Netflix wasn’t quite as good as the American version, and how he ended up here. Apparently, his dad worked for an international bank in Bogotá, but his mom hated the cold, rainy weather there, so the rest of the family lived in Medellín, and his dad came home on the weekends.

 

Zack asked if I wanted to hang out sometime. I figured, why not? He wasn’t really my type, but I was only supposed to be looking for friends, so it should work out perfectly! We swapped numbers and promised to text. Except, I’d broken my own rule about not making gringo friends. Rules were made to be broken, anyway. Plus, I could gather a lot of intel from him in helping me to make more friends and deal with this Miguel character.

 

At the end of the day, I made my way to the main gate, ready to meet Juan Camilo. But before I got there, a hand landed on my shoulder. My first thought was something ridiculous, like – oh God, I’m being kidnapped. Time to fight for my organs.

 

But no. It was Miguel. And his buddies.

 

“Why didn’t you call me last night?” Miguel asked, his smile teasing.

 

I blinked. “I was waiting for you to call me.”

 

We both laughed.

 

“So, what are you doing after school? Want to hang out?”

 

I told him the truth – I had plans to look for a dog with Juan Camilo.

 

“A dog?” His face lit up. “Can I come with you? I have a dog, too. His name is Timo, and he’s the sweetest amiguito ever!”

 

I hesitated for a few moments. This was Miguel, my potential arch-nemesis and school bully. But maybe I could use this trip to do some recon, find out more about what made him tick. Figure out a way to take him down. “Sure,” I finally said, “but we won’t have room for all your friends.”

 

“No problem,” he said, already waving goodbye to the others. “Just me.”

 

Trying not to squeal like a tween at a Chappell Roan or Sabrina Carpenter concert, I walked beside him to the front gate. When we reached the SUV, Juan Camilo was waiting patiently.

 

“How was your day, Mr. Hunter?” he asked with a grin.

 

“Pretty good. Juan Camilo, this is Miguel. Would it be okay if he came with us to look for a dog?”

 

Juan Camilo gave Miguel the once-over – cop instincts on full display – then nodded.

 

“Sure. Hop in.”

 

And just like that, we were off.  Miguel, Juan Camilo, and I cruising through Medellín’s chaotic traffic. Miguel kept giving me these little grins, dimples flashing. I tried to act cool, like this was just a typical day, not a fantasy come to life. I had to admit that I did have a bit of a thing for “bad boys.” Meanwhile, Juan Camilo – ever the chaperone – was already peppering Miguel with questions.

 

“Where do you live? What’s your family do? Do you play sports?” “What kind of grades do you get in school?” “Have you ever committed a felony or spent any time in prison?”

 

Miguel answered them all with a smile, cool as a cucumber. He even complimented Juan Camilo on his SUV, which earned him a rare look of approval. One thing that surprised me a little was that Miguel didn’t even comment on why Juan Camilo was packing heat.

 

I started to let myself feel excited, but then I remembered everything Zack had told me about him at lunch, so my guard was up. I’d probably sleep with him – gay or not – but I didn’t see us becoming real friends. Like I said, I wasn’t a fan of assholes and bullies.

 

***

 

"No, you should definitely get this one," Miguel said, pointing excitedly at a pit bull puppy. He had this gleam in his eye, practically bouncing on his toes. I’ll admit, the puppy was adorable, but I’ve always been a little scared of pit bulls. So, we moved on.

 

I explained that I preferred mutts – less health problems, longer lifespans, and way more personality. Miguel tilted his head and gave me this look like I’d just explained quantum physics. "Okay, okay... but are you sure? That one was so lindo."

 

The pound itself was beyond depressing. Cracked walls, stained concrete, flickering lights, and a roof that leaked in a few places. The dogs were all packed into tiny kennels, barking and crying and pacing in endless loops. My heart ached just walking through it. Juan Camilo leaned close and said quietly, "Eh... this one is better than most, Mr. Hunter. Others? Much worse."

 

But watching Miguel run between cages like a kid in a toy store made everything feel a little brighter. His excitement was infectious. And today, he wore glasses. Thick, rectangular frames. He looked... well, less like the king of the school and more like someone I might actually be able to connect with. But appearances can be deceiving.

 

We checked out almost every dog in the place before settling on a short-haired mutt that looked part German Shepherd. He weighed around 50 kilos, maybe two years old, very friendly, and best of all, already housebroken. He would need a bath before letting him into the house, for sure, have his shots updated, and get him fixed.

 

Juan Camilo nodded with approval. "He looks strong. Good eyes. You made a good choice."

 

We found a doggy spa to get him bathed – complete with a small vet clinic to update his shots and perform the routine neutering. Juan Camilo left us there to wait while the dog recovered from the anesthesia, while he went to pick up food, a bed, and some toys. Miguel and I waited in the cool, lavender-scented lounge of the spa, sneaking peeks at the dog through the window.

 

"He is perfect," Miguel whispered, chin in his hand. "What are you going to call him?"

 

We tossed around a few names, but somehow, we landed on "Max." Not the most creative name, but it just seemed to fit him. I’d always wanted a dog, and Max would be my very first. Finally, a friend who would just listen, never criticize or judge me, and would always be willing to give me affection.

 

The drive back home took forever thanks to Medellín’s infamous traffic – or, as Juan Camilo called it, "taco." I grinned, proud of myself for understanding a new Colombianism. My Spanish was starting to come along. Now I just had to learn the long string of curse words that usually accompanied someone referring to the “taco” in Medellín.

 

Miguel hugged Max the whole way home, whispering in Spanish and laughing when the dog licked his chin. It was beyond adorable. Honestly, I didn’t know who I was falling for faster. It couldn’t have been Miguel. I didn’t fall in love with boys anymore.

 

Back at the house, Doña Susana had snacks ready. She gave Miguel a polite but curious once-over and then went back to slicing mango.

 

Juan Camilo, always the professional, didn’t waste any time. "So, Miguel... you want to spend more time with Mr. Hunter, ¿cierto?"

 

Miguel smiled, his dimples showing. "Yes. Of course. He’s cool."

 

"Bueno," Juan Camilo replied, pulling out a clipboard. "Then we have to do a quick background check, just for safety. You understand. I’ll need your cédula for a moment."

 

Miguel nodded easily, even as I flushed red with embarrassment. "It’s okay," he said, looking at me. "I don’t mind." He quickly pulled his cédula out of his wallet while Juan Camilo went to make a photocopy.

 

Dinner that night was back to basics – pollo sudado with potatoes, yuca, salad, and, of course, arepas. I forced mine down like a good guest, trying not to grimace. Miguel didn’t seem to notice. He’d been a total gentleman all afternoon, so I wasn’t sure where all the negative gossip was coming from, but I’d certainly try find out, as well as his apparent hatred of gringos, despite me being about as “gringo” as you could get.

 

Afterward, we took Max to the compound’s small dog park. He was a dream – friendly with people, calm around other dogs, obedient. We threw a tennis ball back and forth, and in the quiet moments, Miguel and I finally started opening up.

 

"So, why do you wanna be friends with me?" I asked, perhaps a little too bluntly.

 

He blinked. "Why not? I never had gringo friend before. You are different. I like different."

 

“I heard you didn’t like gringos,” I said, perhaps a little too accusatory.

 

“That’s not true. I just don’t like all the tourists and backpackers who come through here all the time, making everything more expensive, and they act like they own the place. You’re not like that.”

 

I laughed. "I bet the girls here love you."

 

He winced. "Too much. They... they don’t know me. They like how I look, not the real me. I want to meet someone special. Someone who sees me, you know?"

 

He paused, then asked, "And you? You have a girlfriend back home?"

 

I snorted. "No way. Too much drama."

 

He laughed so hard I thought he might fall over. "It's true!"

 

We talked music – he loved Karol G, Maluma, J Balvin, Shakira. I vaguely recognized all the names, but I definitely didn’t listen to them. He liked Cumbia, Vallenato, Reggaeton. I preferred classic rock, maybe some alternative pop. He liked dancing. I didn’t.

 

"Maybe we don’t have much in common," he said, sounding a little disappointed.

 

"We’ll find other stuff. Stuff we both like," I suggested. I was desperate not to lose my chance with Miguel, despite the things I had heard about him from Zack. I didn’t necessarily like it, but I was desperate. And he was drop-dead gorgeous. Maybe if we became friends, I could gradually try to change him for the better.

 

He smiled. "Sí. We can try. I will try."

 

Around nine, Juan Camilo came to pick him up. Miguel surprised me with a short hug and whispered, "Keep your weekend free, okay? We can go do something."

 

I barely managed a coherent response. As soon as the door shut behind him, I collapsed onto my bed, rolling back and forth, grinning like an idiot.

 

Maybe this move wouldn’t be so bad after all.

 

***

 

By Wednesday, I was pretty settled into my routines. Living so close to the school was great, because it meant I could sleep in a little later – something I never took for granted. Max had already claimed his spot on my queen-sized bed every night, curling up against my legs or chest like some oversized stuffed animal. He wasn’t just comforting; he made me feel safe. Whenever he heard the slightest sound in the hallway or street, his ears perked up and his head shot toward the window. I could already tell he was going to be a great guard dog – and my best buddy.

 

He also had his silly side. Some mornings, he’d sprint through the house like a maniac with one of his toys in his mouth, tail wagging like a windshield wiper on high speed. It was adorable. He also loved to play fetch, and our small backyard area was perfect for him.

 

At school, mornings and break periods usually meant hanging out with Zack. He introduced me to a few of his friends – other gringos, mostly – but they weren’t really my type of people. Loud, arrogant, and constantly trying to one-up each other with travel stories or expensive gadgets. Still, I liked Zack. He was sweet, a little awkward, but in a cute, genuine way. I figured I’d try to plan something for us to do after school or on the weekend and get to know him better. Not in the same way I liked Miguel – or even Yeison – but Zack seemed like someone I could count on.

 

Lunchtimes were usually spent with Miguel and his crew. I’d bring leftovers from whatever Doña Susana had whipped up the night before, and we’d all hang out under the shade trees or near the outdoor fountain. The conversation was usually light – sports, music, memes – but I got quiet whenever the talk shifted to girls. Miguel usually had the most to say, which made my stomach twist a little. It was frustrating. He was flirty, charming, and funny – and straight. Or at least, he acted that way.

 

After school, I’d walk Max around the housing complex, take him to the small dog park, knock out my homework, then veg out in front of the TV while casually texting friends once in a while. I was still waiting for an opportunity to really explore Medellín, to see more than my townhouse, the compound, and the school courtyard. I was itching for an adventure.

 

I’d only been in Colombia a short time, but I was feeling lucky that the darkness hadn’t hit me yet. I’d been in a generally good mood so far. No depression, anxiety, or self-destructive thoughts yet. I just hoped it would last.

 

On Thursday, just as we were all packing up our bags at the end of the day, Miguel turned to me.

 

"You want to hang out this weekend?" he asked, flashing that killer grin that made my heart jump.

 

"Sure," I said, trying to play it cool. "What d’you have in mind?"

 

"There’s a party. Should be a lot of fun. Dancing, drinks, girls…"

 

And there it was. Every word he said was like a pin to a balloon. Pop. Pop. Pop.

 

I hesitated, then said carefully, "I’m not really into parties, or clubs, or anything like that anymore. It’s just not my vibe. I hope you have fun, though."

 

Miguel frowned a little and tilted his head. "Then what do you like to do?"

 

I shrugged. "I really want to see the city. Maybe check out the countryside a bit. I’m into quieter stuff – movies, culture, learning about new places, good food. That kind of thing."

 

Miguel smirked. "Sounds like you want a date," he said with a laugh, rolling his eyes. Before I could say anything else, he tossed a quick "Ciao" over his shoulder and walked off with his friends.

 

I stood there, stunned and deflated. What had just happened? He just dumped me like that? What a jerk …

 

As I made my way toward Juan Camilo’s SUV, Yeison jogged up behind me. "Oye! You aren’t going to the party this weekend?"

 

"Nah," I said. "Not really my thing."

 

He thought for a moment. "You want to hang out with me instead? Something quiet. We can go out, chill a little. Nothing loco."

 

I blinked. "You think Miguel would mind?"

 

Yeison smirked. "Miguel does not control me. I do what I want."

 

Fair enough.

 

"Well," I said, "Juan Camilo would just need to do a quick background check on you. You know, security and all."

 

"Sí, no hay problema." Yeison handed over his cédula without blinking, and Juan Camilo quietly stepped aside to run the basics.

 

As we rode home, I had another thought.

 

What if I invited Zack to do something with me this weekend? Something simple. Cultural. Chill. So, I texted him:

 

“Hey, want to check out the zoo or Pueblito Paisa on Saturday?”

 

His reply came back almost instantly:

 

“YES!!! Sounds awesome.”

 

Perfect. My weekend was looking up after all. A quiet hangout with Yeison and an adventure with Zack. Maybe I didn’t need to chase after Miguel to make this Colombia thing work.

 

Sorry, Miguel. He seemed like an asshole anyway.

 

***

 

When my alarm went off at 6:30 AM, I was actually happy for once – because it was Friday. Finally, I was going to start hanging out with my new friends in Colombia instead of just sitting at home or zoning out in class. I didn’t know Yeison very well yet, but I liked his energy. He was laid-back, maybe a little shy, but obviously bold enough to ask the "gringo" to hang out. And yeah, the fact that he was super cute didn’t hurt either.

 

Exactly my type.

 

The real question was whether I just wanted to sleep with him – or if I was actually dumb enough to try for something more. First complication: he was one of Miguel’s friends, which could totally piss Miguel off. But honestly? Not my problem. He’d had his chance and blew it. Second complication: Yeison might not even be gay. But the signals were there – loud, flashing-neon-sign kind of signals. Then again, Miguel gave off plenty of those, too, despite everyone insisting he was some big “playa” with all the girls. Right. Because nothing screams “straight” like the way he kept looking at me.

 

Saturday with Zack was also shaping up to be fun. He was eager to show me the city, and I knew he’d have plenty of stories. It felt like the weekend might be fun for once. Plus, little by little, I was growing more comfortable in my new environment. The constant presence of armed guards – at nearly every store and building – wasn’t as jarring anymore. Neither were the barbed wire fences nor the security checkpoints at the entrances of residential compounds. I hadn’t felt unsafe, not even once. Sure, having Juan Camilo with me helped, but lately, he felt more like a ride service than a bodyguard. I was starting to hope that sometime soon, they might loosen the reins and let me go out with my few friends on my own.

 

Maybe the universe decided I needed a little reminder of why those reins existed. During my mid-morning break, I was sitting under the guayacán tree with Zack when he casually asked, "Did you hear about that huge coke bust in Turbo? Near the Darién Gap?"

 

I blinked. "No, what happened?"

 

"Like, over a thousand kilos. Supposedly from that cartel – the Clan de Bahía Sur? The military, the Colombian National Police, and helicopters were involved; it was all over the news this morning. They haven’t had that big of a bust in a long time."

 

My stomach dropped. That was the cartel my dad was after. I wondered if he was there during the operation. I really hoped he was okay. I would try to call him tonight. Most likely, he was fine – the DEA usually stayed behind the scenes in big operations like that – but still, it nagged at me. I was tempted to tell Zack that my dad was a DEA agent and that he was working the case, but I knew I couldn’t. Not yet. Probably not ever. No matter how trustworthy I thought he was.

 

“So, are you looking forward to Saturday?” Zack asked, thankfully changing the subject.

 

“I am, actually,” I replied. “I haven’t gotten out to do anything since I’ve been here, so it should be fun.”

 

“Yeah, we’ll have a great time!” he exclaimed.

 

“As long as you don’t mind having my bodyguard-slash-driver babysitting us all day,” I muttered.

 

At lunch, I returned to my usual spot under “my” tree. Doña Susana had packed me a much-appreciated American-style meal: two tuna salad sandwiches, a couple of pickles, Margarita sour cream & onion chips, and a Jet chocolate bar. Huge improvement.

 

Just as I was halfway through my sandwich, Miguel dropped down beside me without warning. He looked... off. Quiet. Not his usual charming self. He was still hot as hell, though.

 

"Can we talk?" he asked, looking unusually shy given his normal, more bombastic temperament.

 

I nodded, mouth full.

 

He sighed, brushing his hand through his hair. "I wanted to say sorry. For yesterday. I acted like a jerk. You are the guest in my country, and I should show you around the city, not just invite you to go to some crazy party with too much noise and alcohol, if that’s not your thing. I was being selfish, and I don’t really know how to do this."

 

“Do what?” I asked, now really curious.

 

“Make friends,” he shrugged. “Usually, everyone wants to be my friend, and I don’t even have to try. Now, I want to be your friend, and I don’t know what to do.”

 

His accent got even thicker when he was nervous, and I caught the faintest blush creeping up his neck. And damn it, that did something to me. Not that I wanted it to. Because I’d seen the other side of him – the arrogance, the way he could turn on people, even the friends who trailed after him like puppies. The last thing I needed was to get sucked into the Miguel vortex. I wasn’t the type to fall all over some guy just because he was hot – especially not when this city seemed to be overflowing with hot guys who weren’t assholes.

 

But Miguel wasn’t like them. There was something about him I couldn’t shake – an energy, a charisma that pulled at me even when I wanted to roll my eyes and walk away. He made me want to hate him, and want him, in the same breath. And that was the problem.

 

"You're forgiven," I said, finally. "I get it. No hard feelings."

 

His smile could have set off every streetlight in Medellín at once.

 

“So, what is it exactly that you want from me, Miguel?” I asked him with a loud sigh. I was tired of the games and just wanted to get to the heart of the matter. Did he really want to be friends? Did he just want to have sex? I didn’t really care either way, but I wanted an honest answer.

 

His face lit up slightly. "You still have time this weekend? Maybe we can do something better this time?"

 

I had to laugh. "I’ve got plans tonight and Saturday, but maybe I can squeeze you in on Sunday or Saturday night – if my dad’s around, though, that could change."

 

"Tonight you’re going out with Yeison, ¿cierto?" he asked, eyes narrowing just a little.

 

I nodded. "Yeah, and then tomorrow, I'm hanging out with another friend – Zack. He’s another gringo like me. He’s going to show me around the city."

 

Miguel looked annoyed, though I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed at himself or at me.

 

"Maybe I have time Saturday night? We could hang out then?" he offered.

 

"I thought you had another party?"

 

"I do," he said, shrugging, "but maybe I can skip it if we do something."

 

I raised an eyebrow, teasing. "Skip a party with a dozen surgically-enhanced Colombian girls all over you? Why would you do that?"

 

He looked offended. "That’s what people think, but that’s not really me. I want to know someone real. Not just noise, fake tetas, and a fake smile. You don’t know me yet."

 

"Fair enough," I said, nodding. "I’ll text you Saturday afternoon, see how my day goes."

 

He gave me a wan smile, then stood and jogged back to his friends.

 

As I headed toward Juan Camilo’s car, I could hardly believe how chaotic my first weekend in Medellín was already turning out to be. Zack had locked in plans for either the zoo or Pueblito Paisa – both touristy, sure, but at least a decent excuse to get out and see the city. The zoo wasn’t supposed to be anything spectacular, but it had penguins, and Pueblito Paisa sounded cheesy enough to be fun.

 

And then there was Miguel – maybe Saturday night, maybe Sunday. Unless Yeison made a move first. Or unless I actually did fall in love with a penguin and decided to settle down. Either way, jerk or not, Miguel was still cute, and that was hard to ignore.

 

Crazy how fast everything was moving – and I hadn’t even unpacked all my stuff yet.

 

 

 

 

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