Medellín

By morning, I felt like my brain had been dragged behind a truck.

 

The day started normal enough – sunlight through the curtains, the ceiling fan chopping the air, Doña Susana moving around downstairs like the house wasn’t full of secrets and bodyguards and invisible rules. But my body didn’t get the memo. My chest was tight, my stomach was hollow, and my phone felt like it weighed ten pounds in my hand.

 

I checked it anyway.

 

No new messages.

 

At school, I tried to act like I was fine – like I wasn’t carrying around this weird, buzzing dread that kept surging up out of nowhere. Like I didn’t feel one wrong look away from losing it.

 

And the worst part was the not-knowing. Not knowing what Yeison was thinking. Not knowing whether he was mad, hurt, done, or just… quiet. Not knowing what I was supposed to do next, or whether doing anything at all would only make it worse.

 

So I did what I always did when I didn’t know what to do.

 

I tried to focus on the next thing in front of me.

 

Chemistry. Notes. Equations. Anything simple. Anything with rules.

 

It almost worked.

 

And then the door opened.

 

*****

 

In the middle of chemistry class, the door creaked open, and there was Juan Camilo, standing in the doorway in his black jacket, sunglasses still perched on his head like a warning. He leaned in and exchanged hushed words with the teacher, who turned and looked directly at me. My stomach instantly twisted. Something was wrong.

 

“Hunter, grab your things,” Juan Camilo said flatly. “¡Vámonos!”

 

I didn’t move right away. My eyes darted to the clock, then to the windows, then back to him. My brain scrambled to make sense of what was happening. Had something happened to my dad? To one of my friends?

 

“I—I need to grab Yeison,” I stammered, already halfway rising from my chair.

 

“Impossible,” Juan Camilo said, already turning away. “Just you.”

 

Reluctantly, I shoved my books and laptop into my bag and followed him through the corridors, feeling every pair of eyes burn into my back. The SUV was parked right in front of the school. I threw my backpack into the back seat and climbed in.

 

“Juan Camilo, what the hell is going on?”

 

“There is a situation,” he said without looking at me. “I'll explain when we get home.”

 

Not helpful. Not even a hint of reassurance in his voice. I sat in silence the entire ride, my heart pounding like a drum. I kept imagining terrible scenarios. What if there had been another attack? What if my father had been killed?

 

When we pulled up to the house, Max came barreling out from the gate, barking excitedly until he saw our faces. He seemed to sense something was off and trotted quietly by my side as I entered. Inside, the air smelled faintly of bleach and onions – Doña Susana had been cleaning and cooking, like always. She was at the kitchen counter, laying out a plate with a sandwich and a glass of juice. She offered me a warm smile, but even that felt forced. Something was very wrong.

 

In the living room, my dad and his partner, Agent Sánchez, stood in front of the TV, which blared Colombian news. The volume was loud, and the screen was filled with chaotic scenes: buildings on fire, black smoke rising in plumes, people screaming and running in all directions, and body bags lined up on the sides of cracked and blood-slicked streets.

 

My breath caught in my throat.

 

On the screen, I saw shattered windows of a police station, the crumpled wreckage of a patrol car, and – worst of all – a wide shot of the bodies of at least three officers, face-down, their uniforms stained crimson. A ticker at the bottom scrolled in fast Spanish. The headline read: MASACRE EN TODO EL PAÍS: NARCOTERROR EN COLOMBIA.

 

I barely registered my dad stepping forward to put his arm around my shoulder.

 

Outside, I could hear firecrackers going off. They loved their firecrackers in Colombia, for every national holiday, birthday parties, and soccer matches. There were fireworks almost every day, and they annoyed the hell out of me.

 

“What the hell reason is there to be setting off firecrackers today?” I grumbled.

 

“Those aren’t firecrackers, son, it’s gunfire,” my dad explained softly. “We need to stay away from the windows.

 

“Oh my God, what’s going on?!” I practically shouted.

 

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

 

“I’d be holding up a lot better if you told me what’s going on?” I snapped, still glued to the television, although I could barely understand two words.

 

He gestured for me to sit. “The Clan de Bahía Sur – possibly with help from left-wing guerrilla groups supported by Venezuela – launched a coordinated attack last night. There were bombings, ambushes, and shootouts all across the country. So far, at least eight police stations have been hit. Over forty officers are confirmed dead. The government was caught totally unprepared. It’s bad, Hunter. Really bad.”

 

The room felt colder all of a sudden. I pulled my hoodie tighter around myself.

 

“Why now?” I asked. “Why all this at once? And it’s here in Medellín, too?”

 

“There was a big operation in Turbo,” he continued. “Colombian security forces seized over a thousand kilos of coke, plus weapons. It was a huge blow to the Clan. They’re retaliating. And…” he hesitated, “one of our DEA safe houses in Turbo was hit by a rocket-propelled grenade.”

 

My heart stopped. “Was anyone hurt?”

 

“No. Thankfully, it was empty. But they knew the location. That shouldn’t have been possible.”

 

There was a sharp silence after that. My sandwich sat untouched. My mouth had gone completely dry. I knew enough to know that the locations of DEA safe houses were kept top secret. The only plausible explanations were that someone leaked the information or that they hit it by accident, not knowing what it really was.

 

“There’ve been some minor skirmishes here in Medellín, too,” my father went on, “but nothing close to what’s happening in other parts of the country. The areas near the Venezuelan border are the hottest. The smaller-scale incidents in Medellín, Bogotá, Cartagena – they’re more about making noise, scaring people. The cartel and the guerrillas don’t have the manpower or the heavy weapons to launch a full-scale attack on those cities, not with the military presence already in place. But bombings, targeted strikes – things designed to terrorize both the public and the government – those are still very possible.”

 

“This is only the beginning,” Agent Sánchez said, arms crossed. “Clan de Bahía Sur isn’t playing by the old rules. They’re trying to send a message – to everyone.”

 

I sank deeper into the couch, Max curling up next to me as if sensing my distress. I reached out and buried my fingers in his warm fur.

 

“Fuck,” I muttered. “I hope this doesn’t mean they’re going to shut the whole city down with curfews and shelter-in-place orders and all that crap.”

 

“It’s possible,” my dad said, “although the local economy isn’t strong enough to withstand that for very long. COVID taught us some good lessons about that.”

 

“Are we in danger?” I finally asked.

 

“Not at the moment,” Dad said. “But things are changing. If it gets bad enough, the U.S. Embassy would make the call on evacuations, but we’re not there just yet, so relax. We’re going to have tighter protocols here. That means always listening to Juan Camilo, no arguments. No wandering around unaccompanied, even though we’d started giving you a little slack there. No telling your friends anything about what we’ve discussed here – not even Yeison.”

 

That part stung. I felt my chest tighten with guilt.

 

“I hate lying to them,” I muttered.

 

“I know,” he sighed. “It gets much easier with time, though it’s not about lying – it’s about protecting people. The less they know, the safer they are.”

 

I bit the inside of my cheek. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell Yeison everything, wrap my arms around him, and never let go. But I also knew my dad was right. These weren’t just school drama secrets. This was life and death. I grew up around this. I knew the score. And there wasn’t any telling if Yeison even wanted to talk to me anymore anyway.

Just when I thought I couldn’t handle any more, my dad dropped the next bomb.

 

“There’s one more thing, and it’s critical. There’s a man – very wealthy, very influential – whose son goes to your school. If we can bring him over to our side, his connections and his knowledge of cartel finances could give us a serious advantage. He’s been walking the line between legal and illegal for years. Your role is simple: become friends with his son. Just friends. Nothing else. Be careful, be subtle – no mention of the DEA, no slip-ups, and try not to get emotionally attached. Just do what you need to do to make it look natural. If it works, maybe you get invited to the house. Maybe he’ll have us over for a friendly barbecue to get to know the family of his son’s new best friend, maybe something else, depending on how this approach plays out. And then we’ll be in a position to ask the questions that matter. That’s all.”

 

I looked between him and Juan Camilo.

 

“Who?”

 

Juan Camilo sighed. “You know him already.”

 

My mouth suddenly felt like sandpaper.

 

“It’s Miguel.”

 

I blinked. Of course it was.

 

*****

 

By the time the last bell rang, the courtyard was buzzing with end-of-day chatter – half in Spanish, half in English – and none of it about the twenty-four-hour news cycle. The kids didn’t seem to care. Most of the parents waiting at the gates didn’t seem to either. The real fighting was still out in the jungles and borderlands, far from Medellín, and the few cracks of gunfire we’d heard here had been stamped out almost immediately. The police presence on the streets was heavier every day, checkpoints popping up like mushrooms after rain. On the surface, it all felt calm, almost normal. But that was the problem – almost. Medellín felt safe… for now. And “for now” didn’t exactly inspire confidence.

 

Despite the nonchalance, everyone had obviously heard about the attacks by now. They were all over the news and social media the night before – coordinated narco-related bombings in multiple cities, police officers gunned down in cold blood. Yet somehow, my classmates didn’t seem to care all that much. Some of them were still talking about weekend plans. A few even joked about how long it would take for the military to screw it all up again. It was as if violence were just part of the atmosphere here – another layer of humidity hanging in the air.

 

However, I couldn’t shake the feeling that things were only going to get worse – that the violence and fear were just beginning to escalate. Medellín had been through this before. Colombia had been through this before. For years, people had finally begun to breathe again, to live more normal lives, ever since the government signed the peace agreement with the FARC in 2016. The bloodshed had slowed to a trickle. Hope had begun to take root. But there were always shadows – flares of violence from dissident factions, narcos fighting each other for control over smuggling routes and territory, and guerrillas fighting other guerrillas, although all were supposed to be Communist. I think everyone was holding their breaths, praying this was just another isolated surge… not the start of a slide back into the darkness of the pre-2016 years, or worse, a return to the days of Escobar.

 

I lingered under the jacaranda tree with Zack, Ricardo, Carlos, Ferney, and a few other acquaintances. I hadn’t seen Yeison all day, although I couldn’t say I was surprised.

 

For a moment, I let myself pretend it was just a normal Friday. The tension in my chest wasn’t growing by the hour. That I wasn’t waiting for some invisible clock to run out. I was convinced that my dad would take care of it. He was one of the best at what he did.

 

“Let’s go for ice cream,” Zack said suddenly, pulling his hoodie over his head. “We all deserve a break from this horror show.”

 

Ricardo perked up. “I’m down for some helado. Prefer something that don’t taste like soap.”

 

“Ice cream sounds perfect,” I said.

 

That was when the black SUV pulled up.

 

Juan Camilo stepped out, already shaking his head.

 

“No.”

 

Zack blinked. “No to what?”

 

“No going out. Not today.”

 

Ricardo groaned. “¿En serio, hermano? We just going for a little bit. No social media. No drama.”

 

Juan Camilo crossed his arms. “You don’t understand. The situation is still unfolding. You post nothing, but someone else might. You walk too close to a protest or a patrol checkpoint, and some narcos are waiting to shoot it up, now we have a problem.”

 

I folded my arms. “So what? We’re prisoners now?”

 

“You’re under my protection,” he said firmly. “We already talked about this before. Now, Hunter, get in the car.”

 

I looked at the others helplessly. “Can I say goodbye first?”

 

He nodded once.

 

I stepped aside with Carlos near the shade of the tree.

 

“This really sucks,” he said, voice low. “We’ve hardly had the chance to hang out and get to know each other this week.”

 

“I know,” I said. “Believe me, I’m not choosing this.”

 

“When will I see you again?” he asked, eyes flicking to mine and then away, like he couldn’t stand to hold the look.

 

“I honestly don’t know. Juan Camilo’s pretty strict with me, and I don’t know what the end-game of this thing with Yeison is going to be like; there’s just a lot going on,” I sighed.

 

“Maybe we should cool it until you figure things out with Yeison. I’m not cool with ruining some other guy’s relationship,” he said, with a serious look on his face.

 

“Please don’t say that,” I pleaded. “For now, we just get to know each other over text, and by the time this bullshit narco stuff is over, I don’t think we’ll have any more problems to worry about.”

 

“Ya veremos,” he answered. “We’ll see.”

 

I quickly said goodbye to my other friends and gave them all hugs, then jumped into the SUV with Juan Camilo. I really hoped things would be back to normal in a day or two. I somehow figured out that I really liked having a life, and this threatened to take that away.

 

And, hopefully, the time away would help me figure out what to do about Yeison, Carlos, and now … Miguel.

 

The ride home was quiet for a while, the noise of traffic filling the silence between us. I could see Juan Camilo checking mirrors constantly, his jaw clenched. I noticed that we were taking a different, and much longer, route back home today than usual.

 

“You’re mad,” he said without looking at me.

 

“No kidding.”

 

“I’m not doing this to hurt you.”

 

“Then why does it feel like punishment?” I snapped. “All I wanted was to get ice cream with my friends. It’s not like I’m asking to go clubbing in Comuna 13 or El Centro at midnight.”

 

He sighed. “Do you think I like being the bad guy? I’m trying to keep you safe.”

 

“I know,” I muttered. “But what’s the point of being safe if I can’t live? And with you treating me like this, how much longer are my friends going to believe that I’m just the son of some no-name Department of Agriculture diplomat? They’re gonna get suspicious and figure something else is going on, which it is. They’re not idiots.”

 

“You make good points, and you deserve to have a life outside of school,” he said, with a little more empathy than I would have expected. “Just give me a little time to work things out with your dad and with our security teams. You may not believe it, but it takes a lot of resources, more than just me, to keep one grumpy, hormonal teenage boy safe.”

 

“I’m not hormonal. And I’m not a soldier. I didn’t sign up for this,” I complained.

 

He looked over. “No. But your father did. And now it touches you. I know it doesn’t seem fair, but it’s the reality.”

 

I stared out the window, fists tight in my lap. He was quiet for a second. Then, softer: “Like I said, we’ll see if we can find a balance. Something that doesn’t make you feel like you’re all alone again.”

 

I didn’t answer. I just nodded. It wasn’t enough, but it was something.

 

Back in my room, I dropped my backpack by the door and collapsed face-first onto the bed. The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, the only thing that seemed to move at a normal pace. I had homework, sure. But I didn’t care. I felt like I was floating in limbo – no freedom, no plans, no control. And I felt the darkness coming back, the anxiety, the depression, my mind spiraling out of control. Even Max licking my face didn’t help.

 

And somewhere beneath the numbness… guilt.

 

Yeison. Ferney. Carlos. Miguel.

 

With Miguel, at least, I was sure about one thing – he was never going to be a love interest. Not in this lifetime. I’d heard too many stories, seen him be too cruel, too arrogant, too much of an asshole. Half the time, I could barely stand to look at him.

 

Whatever connection existed between us was poisoned before it even had a chance. I knew better. I wasn’t stupid enough to think it could ever turn into anything real.

 

And yet… there was still something there, some irritating spark I couldn’t quite snuff out, no matter how much I wanted to. We hadn’t really talked since our last unresolved chat. But he was still there, orbiting my thoughts like some unfinished sentence I couldn’t stop reading.

 

But now I had this new “mission,” or whatever it was, from my father and Juan Camilo to try to become friends with him. Just friends. Just friends? Was that even possible with Miguel? Was it even possible with me? It had to be, because I had no other choice.

 

I still had a boyfriend, Yeison, even though things ended badly after our last group get-together, but I was planning to try to fix it. And even if I didn’t have a boyfriend … Miguel would be on the very bottom of my list.

 

I wanted someone caring, sweet, kind, humble, and not locked so deep in the closet that he’d need a flashlight, a map, and a rescue team ever to find his way out.

 

So, begrudgingly, I picked up my phone and opened the chat.

 

Me: “¿Qué más pues?”

 

A few seconds later:

 

Miguel: “Wow. You're speaking to me now?”

 

Me: “I’m trying, although I have my doubts that it will end well.”

 

Miguel: “Why?”

 

Me: “I think it’s pretty obvio that we just don’t get along. We’re like fire and ice, oil and water … and whatever other things don’t mix together.”

 

There was a pause.

 

Then:

 

Miguel: “Why are you writing to me then? I thought you hated me and never wanted to see me again.”

 

Me: “Let’s just say I don’t like how we left things. I want to try to be friends … or something.”

 

Of course, I was lying through my teeth. Still, if this was something I needed to do to help, I didn’t exactly have a whole lot of choice. If I refused, my father could send me home, ruining the new life I was trying to build here. Not to mention, there was some part of me that wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps and become a DEA agent, even though I didn’t have much of a relationship with him anymore.

 

Miguel: “You already chose Yeison.”

 

Me: “That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. You just have to accept that we can’t be more than that. It has nothing to do with Yeison. It has to do with you and me.”

 

Miguel: “Maybe we can try, but I won’t hang out if Yeison is there. You know how I feel about you, and it would be too awkward. And I’m pretty sure the rest of your amigos all hate me, too.”

 

Me: “Look, this is hard for me too. And yeah – you’re an asshole. You bully kids, act like you’re king of the world… when really you’re just the king of shit mountain. That’s not hot. If you actually like me, prove it. Be better.”

 

Miguel: “Fine, I’ll do it. I’ll turn over a new leaf. You won’t even recognize the new Miguel.”

 

I could practically hear the huff between the typing bubbles. In my head, he tossed whatever he was holding onto the floor. Texts aren’t supposed to have tone, but this one did – “I’ll do it” came out grudging and heavy.

 

Me: “Yeah, right. I’ll believe that when hell freezes over.”

 

If this thing with Miguel – whatever the hell it even was – actually went anywhere, I couldn’t tell Yeison. Not about the “friendship,” not about the meetings, not about any of it. Honestly, I couldn’t tell any of my friends. They all hated him, and I couldn’t even blame them.

 

That’s what would tear me apart – the lying. I’d worked so hard not to be that guy anymore, the one who could juggle boys like they were nothing, who could lie through his teeth and not feel a thing. But here I was again, slipping back into old patterns I swore I’d left behind. Different reasons, same rotten feeling.

 

I didn’t want this. I didn’t want the secrets. And I hated – hated – that my own father was the one forcing me into this. He’d put me in an impossible position, and he knew it. Like he thought I was just another pawn he could move around the board to suit his little DEA mission.

 

If I could make it work with Miguel – if I could deliver the intel my dad and Juan Camilo wanted – maybe they’d finally ease up. Maybe they’d stop treating me like a liability, like a kid too stupid to trust with his own life. Maybe I’d get a little freedom back.

 

But the cost of that freedom? Lying to my boyfriend. Lying to my friends. Lying to everyone who mattered. And as much as I wanted to tell myself I could handle it, deep down I knew the truth: the price was way too high. I was just a teenager, and not a particularly mentally stable one at that.

 

And still, thanks to him, I didn’t see another way out.

 

Miguel: “So, what now?”

 

Me: “Maybe we can get a coffee together or a boba tea. They just opened up a place in Viva Envigado. And we can talk, like normal teenagers, and you can tell me what your deal is.”

 

Miguel: “What the fuck is a boba tea? And what’s my deal?”

 

Me: “Try it – super popular in Asia. And your 'deal'? You act like an ass – you bully kids, taunt people, treat everyone like they’re beneath you. Why hurt people on purpose? If you didn’t, I might actually like you. As it is, it makes me sick. I’m just trying to understand why you’re like this.”

 

Miguel: “I don’t see the point. I don’t see myself opening up to you. We have nothing in common anyway. I was just kinda hoping for a good fuck, not to get psychoanalyzed. So maybe this isn’t the best idea.”

 

Me: “We do have a chance to be friends, if you can stop being such an asshole and treat my friends and me with respect. If you can do that, then I think we can be cool with each other. But I’m not gonna fuck you … EVER! And I don’t believe that’s all you ever wanted with me. So, anyway, it’s up to you.”

 

Miguel: “I’ll think about it.”

 

I stared at the last message for a long time.

 

I’ll think about it.

 

That was all he said – but somehow, it was enough to mess with my head. And now my hands were killing me from all that typing, probably for nothing. But at least I tried, and if he didn’t want anything to do with me, I could go back to Juan Camilo and my dad and tell them I gave it my best effort.

 

And what the hell was Miguel mixed up in that had the DEA’s attention? And now, what was I getting dragged into?

 

I was a kid—not an agent—and I sure as hell didn’t want to be one right now. I’d seen what that life did to families. To my family. I’d thought about it before, seriously, but Medellín was making it painfully clear: I didn’t have it in me. That job wrecked relationships. And someday I wanted something real—an actually healthy, long-term thing with a great guy—not another life where my work chewed it up and spit it out.

 

And then I wondered if this all had anything to do with the “Plan A” and the “target” I’d heard my dad and Juan Camilo discussing that one night. Was this all related? The whole idea of this, the whole plan, just smelled rotten and manipulative. I didn’t like it at all.

 

And if Miguel’s dad had some sort of connection to the cartel, even if he was just a paper-pusher and finance guy, how could my dad seriously get me directly involved like this?

 

All I could feel was anger.

 

My father was using me – manipulating me – for his own agenda. And I was supposed to be his son. If he needed intel, he could’ve found another way. Pulled strings. Sent someone else.

 

But instead, he threw me into the middle of this mess, like I was just another tool in his belt.

 

Pretty soon, he wasn’t going to have a son anymore. The day I turned eighteen, I would be gone, and he would never hear from me again.

 

I didn’t want any part of this insanity. Not the lies, not the pressure, not the manipulation, and definitely not the danger.

 

But part of me also figured it couldn’t be that serious. If it were, they wouldn’t really be sending me, would they? Would my dad and Juan Camilo really put me in that kind of situation? I didn’t think Juan Camilo would go for it, but my dad – the boss – was another story. He was obsessed with catching these guys, no matter the cost.

 

And thinking through all this just made me want to vomit.

 

I didn’t know who I could trust anymore, and I knew I wasn’t being told anything close to the whole story.

 

But still… it nagged at me. The unknown. The way Miguel had said I’ll think about it, like it didn’t even matter, like I was the one asking for too much, when I was trying to help him, get to know him better, maybe make a friend. What was he so paranoid and defensive about, especially since he’d been the one who supposedly liked me, was putting “love notes” in my locker, and was so clearly jealous of Yeison? And now he suddenly didn’t care?

 

But what scared me the most was the danger, the drama – just like before. I was scared I’d be weak. That I’d let him back in, and this time, I wouldn’t be able to find my way out.

So I hoped and prayed that the next message from Miguel would tell me he wasn’t interested. Then I could go back to my “normal” life, my normal friends, my normal (but with issues of his own) boyfriend, fantasize about another romp with Ferney, and maybe perv some more on Carlos.

 

*****

 

Friday morning, as Juan Camilo pulled the SUV into the school’s roundabout, he turned to me and said, “Oye, tell your friends they go straight home after school, pack their bags, and come back here at five-thirty. Santiago will pick them up.”

 

I blinked. “Wait – what? Why?”

 

He shrugged, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “You kids deserve to be together. It is good for you. Safe. Familiar. I have already spoken with all their parents and Doña Susana. Everything is ready. It will be fun for you.”

 

I gave him a lopsided grin. “Thanks. I mean it.”

 

“De nada. But don’t ask me for permissions for crazy shit, okay?” He chuckled, then added in his dry way, “And no sneaking out. I see everything.”

 

He drove off, and I made my way into school, half-excited and half-exasperated. A sleepover sounded great in theory – five guys, junk food, freedom from parents – but in practice, I was already dreading another weekend stuck indoors watching the same movies, eating the same snacks, listening to Zack tell the same jokes, possibly more drama with Yeison, if he even came. I was afraid we’d get tired of each other really quickly. I liked having my own time and space to get lost in my thoughts.

 

On the bright side, though, I’d get to spend more time with all of them and could hopefully find out what made them all tick. Colombia was this beautiful, chaotic, magical place just waiting to be explored, and here I was locked behind security gates. I wanted plazas and mercados, music in the streets, people shouting in Spanish, fried food dripping in paper bags. I wanted life, not just... Netflix and playing fetch with Max a hundred times in a row.

 

At least I wouldn’t have to invite Miguel.

 

That afternoon at lunch, the conversation bounced between gossip about who was secretly dating whom and speculation about whether the president of Colombia was ever going to respond to the recent terrorist attacks. The consensus? Probably not. Everyone had seen the news footage by now. The police checkpoints. The bombed-out police stations. And yet most kids were talking about it as if it were just another bad headline, expecting little, if anything, to happen.

 

Something was happening “over there,” even if “there” wasn’t really that far away. Three police officers were even killed right here in Medellín. Gunned down on a street corner by a couple of teenage sicarios.

 

“I don’t get it,” Zack muttered over his empanada. “If that kind of shit happened back in Florida, we’d be losing our minds.”

 

“Here, people are used to it,” Yeison said. “It’s normal. Not good… but normal.”

 

The others nodded. The general vibe was fatigue. Like everyone was used to the background hum of violence. But I wasn’t. Not yet. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to be.

 

Still, we were more excited about the sleepover. Sort of. I could tell they’d all rather be going out to do something fun instead of being stuck inside at my house, too. But misery loves company, as they say.

 

At six o’clock sharp, Santiago pulled up in the black SUV, and out spilled the boys with their duffel bags and backpacks. Max barked like mad when he saw them, tail wagging violently, leaping at Ricardo and sniffing at Carlos’s crotch until he practically jumped back into the vehicle.

 

“¡Ay, parce!” Carlos shouted, laughing. “This dog is loco.”

 

“He just likes to say hi,” I said, grabbing Max’s collar and trying to pull him back. “With his nose.”

 

We dragged their bags to my room, which had somehow shrunk overnight. Between sleeping bags, pillows, and backpacks, it looked like a camping trip inside a department store.

 

Doña Susana outdid herself again. There were fried arepas with cheese (of course, not my favorite), hot dogs wrapped in dough, platters of fries and plantains, and two jugs of fresh juice – one of soursop and the other of tamarillo, both sweet and a little tangy, like sunshine in a glass.

 

We stuffed ourselves as if it were our last meal.

 

Afterward, Yeison pulled me aside into my bedroom while the others kept eating and fighting over who got the last pastelito.

 

He kissed me as soon as the door shut, hands around my waist, and whispered, “I missed you, papasito.”

 

“I saw you like four hours ago,” I murmured between kisses.

 

“I don’t care,” he said, his accent thick and his breath warm against my cheek. “It's too long.”

 

Even though he was being a little too clingy again, I wanted nothing more at that moment than to shut the door, shut out the world, and spend the whole weekend in bed with him, doing unspeakable things to each other. But I also felt the weight of the secrets I was keeping – about Miguel, about the DEA. It clung to the back of my throat like smoke.

 

He ran his hand under my shirt, and I flinched – not from discomfort, but guilt.

 

“I love you” was on the tip of my tongue, but for some reason, I just couldn’t get it out. Not the best sign for our long-term prospects, I thought. But for this weekend, he was here, he was still my boyfriend, and he was still incredibly hot.

 

“We really need to find a way to have sex this weekend,” I said, as I ran my fingers through his curly hair.

 

“We will,” he promised, before kissing me one more time.

 

From the other side of the room, Carlos spoke up.

 

“Bro, if we’re just watching movies again, I’m gonna lose it,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head. “Can we at least do something fun or active?”

 

“Truth or Dare?” Ricardo offered with a smirk.

 

“Ugh,” I groaned. “No more dares involving underwear or smelling Carlos’ feet.”

 

Zack grinned. “What about board games? I’ve got a whole bunch back at home. Like Risk or Monopoly!”

 

“No.” We all groaned at once.

 

“Well,” I offered, “we can use the pool. And the mini soccer field. And Doña Susana always makes a killer dinner.”

 

“Okay, okay,” Carlos nodded. “If there’s food and fútbol, I’m in. Swimming’s cool, too.”

 

“Plus,” Yeison said, resting his hand on mine under the table, “we can cuddle after.”

 

I blushed, and Zack dramatically faked a gagging sound. “Get a room.”

 

“I have a room, but you all never leave it,” I retorted.

 

We all cracked up.

 

When Yeison and I rejoined the others, the sugar and grease had kicked in. No one wanted to sit still. We headed out to the compound’s small soccer field, where Ricardo insisted on another round of “tackle soccer.” It started as goofing off – Carlos and Zack crashing into each other (it didn’t turn out well for Zack), Yeison showing off his footwork – but things escalated quickly. At one point, Carlos tackled Ricardo a little too hard, and Ricardo hit the ground with a dull thud and didn’t get up right away.

 

Everyone froze.

 

“¿Estás bien?” Yeison asked, kneeling beside him.

 

Ricardo winced. “Sí… I think. Solo… dame un momento.”

 

Carlos looked horrified, like he was about to cry. “Parce, I didn’t mean to – shit, I’m so sorry, bro.”

 

“I’m okay,” Ricardo said, rubbing his side. “Maybe let’s just chill for now?”

 

“Agreed,” I said.

 

We shuffled back inside just as twilight was settling over the hills, golden light bouncing off the buildings and casting the valley in orange and blue. From the living room, we could hear the TV blasting from behind the closed door of my dad’s office. Juan Camilo stepped out, his face tight.

 

“You boys, come,” he said, waving us toward the living room.

 

On the screen, images of helicopters, explosions, and soldiers in the streets. It had finally happened. The Colombian government was fighting back.

 

*****

 

Juan Camilo stood off to the side, arms crossed, translating for me in his usual terse, clipped tone – but even he couldn’t hide the flicker of surprise behind his eyes.

 

“The Army and Policía Nacional launched raids in four departamentos,” he explained, nodding toward the screen. “Helicopters, special forces, arrests. Lots.”

 

Images flashed across the TV – grainy night vision footage of soldiers fast-roping from helicopters into jungle clearings, footage of burned-out labs with piles of bagged white powder, crates of rifles, and plastic drums still smoldering. One clip showed men being dragged out of a warehouse in cuffs, some of them barefoot, faces covered.

 

“They hit labs, safe houses. Storage, too,” Juan Camilo continued. “In Medellín, GAULA units attacked a hostage site in Barrio Antioquia – freeing five people. Was… very clean.”

 

His voice tightened in something like admiration. “They used Kfir fighter jets. Israeli-made. Bombed a guerrilla base. Boom. Gone.”

 

“Damn,” Carlos muttered from the couch, eyes wide.

 

Zack leaned toward me. “I didn’t even know Colombia had fighter jets.”

 

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Neither did I.”

 

“They are very obsolete and need to be replaced soon,” Juan Camilo interjected. “I think we will buy the Gripen fighter jets from Sweden to replace them.”

 

Juan Camilo fell quiet for a moment as the Colombian President appeared on screen, live, flanked by stern-faced military officials. He spoke with practiced charisma – delivering the kind of address that looked good on paper and would be clipped for YouTube montages.

 

“We have begun a national offensive,” Juan Camilo translated. “Against the Clan de Bahía Sur, Los Herederos, BACRIM, ELN, and other criminal networks. This will not be a war of words. This is a war to take back our nation.”

 

He paused, glancing at me. “Your Spanish is getting better. Listen now.”

 

I leaned in, trying to follow. I caught phrases like paz verdadera and seguridad ciudadana – true peace and citizen security. He promised Colombians that they would “soon walk freely again,” without fear of violence or extortion. He said the government had taken the gloves off.

 

It sounded inspiring. Hopeful. But as I watched the footage – the soldiers, the fire, the ruins – it was hard not to think about the cycle I’d already seen hinted at in this country: something gets destroyed, something else takes its place. For every narco who gets gunned down, another two teenage boys from the barrios step up with even more to prove. Yeah, that’s right, many of the narcos’ soldiers were our age. It was horrific.

 

Still… a part of me wanted to believe him, for the sake of my friends’ futures.

 

I thought about what it would mean if he was right. If this really was the beginning of the end for the Clan de Bahía Sur. Maybe I could walk around the city again with my friends. Maybe we could go to Plaza Botero, or take the Metrocable into the hills, or eat greasy chicharrón on the side of the road without armored convoys or hidden pistols. Or maybe I could just be a normal kid for once.

 

Eventually, the coverage looped and began repeating, and the excitement started to wear off. Zack yawned loudly. Ricardo asked if we were going to put on another movie. Ferney was already shirtless and curled up in the fetal position, and Carlos was already halfway asleep on the floor, sprawled out like a starfish with Max curled up protectively beside him.

 

We dimmed the lights and put on something forgettable – Jumanji, I think – but I didn’t really care. What mattered was that Yeison and I were curled up together on my bed, wrapped in the same blanket, his bare chest warm against my skin. I ran my fingers slowly across it, tracing the lines of his muscles and feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath my hand. It still felt good being with him. I didn’t understand why my mind kept fucking with me all the time, causing me to doubt my feelings.

 

He wore only gym shorts. So did Carlos. And Ricardo. And Ferney. It was just how it was here – shirts were optional when you were at home or among friends. I wasn’t complaining. The heat gave me excuses to admire them more openly, even if it made it harder not to want more, and the guilt crept in again because, at that moment, I was with my boyfriend, curled up in bed together.

 

Zack, of course, was still fully clothed. Pajama pants. T-shirt. Even socks. He claimed it was “for hygiene reasons.” More likely, he just wasn’t as comfortable with his body – or maybe with the rest of us being so free with ours.

 

Everyone started drifting off during the second half of the movie. Zack was the first to nod off in the beanbag, snoring lightly. Ricardo and Carlos lay head-to-head on a pile of blankets, Carlos’ arm stretched lazily over Ricardo’s back. Perhaps because of the scare they got when Ricardo got injured during our game of “tackle soccer” earlier. Max eventually wandered next to them and plopped himself right down, snout resting on Carlos’s leg like a pillow. Ferney was passed out on the floor next to my side of the bed, with just a small pillow and a thin blanket to cover him. It was an adorable scene, but I couldn’t help the pang of jealousy in the pit of my stomach.

 

That left Yeison and me, still half-awake in the darkness, our bodies entangled under the blanket.

 

I turned toward him and whispered, “Do you think things will get better now?”

 

He shrugged softly. “Maybe. But narcos… they don’t go away easily. It’s like – how you say – cockroach. You kill one, three more come out.”

 

I smiled faintly. “That’s disgusting.”

 

“It's true.”

 

“And is it true that you love me?” I asked.

 

“Very true,” he said, kissing the tip of my nose. “I never imagined before that I would be with a yanqui, but here you are, and I love this gringuito.”

 

My heart melted just a little bit. His words were insufferably romantic, and I secretly (or not so secretly) loved how cheesy he could get.

 

There was a long pause.

 

“But maybe,” he said, “this time, it's different. You saw it – they hit hard. Like, for real.”

 

“I hope so,” I said. “I want to do things. Go places. Not just hide behind walls.”

 

Yeison turned on his side to face me. “Then I can take you to see my country.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Sí. We go to visit the pueblos, the towns and villages outside of the city. Guatapé, first. It’s so beautiful. Bright colors everywhere, a big lake, and a big rock with a view. You will love it.”

 

I closed my eyes, trying to imagine it.

 

“We can go glamping, too,” he added. “They have this – how do you say – like a big clear tent, but fancy. Like a hotel inside.”

 

I opened one eye. “Wait, the bubble thing? With the king-sized bed under the stars? I’ve heard about that!”

 

“Sí,” he whispered, pressing his lips gently to my jaw. “We can go, you and me. And we can go in the hot tub, drink hot chocolate, and then… I can show you how Colombians make love in the outdoors.”

 

“Would that involve you clinging desperately to a tree while I fuck you roughly from behind?” I asked with a giggle.

 

“Maybe,” he said, teasing me.

 

I laughed into his neck. “That sounds magical.”

 

He pulled me closer. “Because you are magic, gringuito.”

 

I kissed him softly, the last flicker of the movie reflecting in the shine of his eyes. Outside, the world was still dangerous. Large parts of the country were at total war. But here, wrapped in each other’s arms, it felt like we had carved out a corner of peace.

 

I didn’t know how long it would last – but for now, I would show Yeison a little of my own “magic” under the covers as our friends slept soundly around us.

 

 

 

 

If you've enjoyed this chapter, please send any feedback, comments, or suggestions to littlebuddhatw@proton.me

We authors thrive on feedback of any kind, so whether you're loving the story, have constructive criticism, have questions, or whatever, please drop me a line, and I always reply to all my emails!

And don't forget to follow me on Twitter/X: @littlebuddhatw for story updates and extra goodies for my followers!

You can also check out my other complete novel at The Story Lover's, Swing for the Fences!