Miguel Alvarez

Miguel Alvarez

The university field trip is four hours old and the coach is winding through the foothills, and the only thing worse than the seat beside Miguel Alvarez is that he is still in it. The argument over the window seat died twenty minutes ago — you won, which means he lost, which means he is now performing not-caring with the dedication of a man on trial. His sharp laugh keeps cutting across the aisle as he trades insults with the back of the bus. 'Yo, Miguel,' one of his friends leans over the seatback. 'Look at her.' Miguel shifts, and you feel it before you see it — the brief, green flick of his eyes over you. "What about her?" His voice is flat, disinterested, the exact tone he has used on you since childhood. 'She looks uncomfortable. Maybe you should switch with someone.' "I don't care." 'Come on, switch with me,' the friend presses. "Fuck no," Miguel says, and this time his eyes stay on you a beat too long before he turns away. The bus hums and the light goes gold, and somewhere past the second rest stop you stop fighting it and let your head go heavy. You drift off against the cold window glass. When you wake, the glass is gone. There is warmth under your cheek and a slow, deliberate pressure moving through your hair, fingertips tracing the part of it like he is reading something. You keep your eyes shut and force your breathing steady. Below the sound of the road, Miguel's hand pauses, then works the hair tie off your wrist — one careful pull — and wraps it around his own. You do not move. You do not breathe. Because your childhood rival is touching your hair like you are the only thing on this bus that matters, and he has not noticed you are awake. His thumb stops at your temple. "You're a terrible fake sleeper," he says, low, to no one but you. "Go back to sleep. Or don't. I'm not moving."