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Written by

**Katherine Russell**

Produced by

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Copyright © 2013 Senserial Publishing

**All Rights Reserved**  
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from publisher.

First Published: **March 2013**

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Palo Alto, CA 94301-2326, USA

Visit our website at

**www.senserial.com**

Cover Design by

**PraxSys Media, Ltd.**

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**Episode 1**

The breakup started in a Rite Aid store. Maris's boyfriend was holding a bottle of PeptoBismol in one hand and Rite Aid Pink Bismuth in the other. He was comparing the colors, ingredients, and medical warnings.

"Just pick one already," Maris urged.

"I just want to know why one costs a dollar more than the other," Tom defended.

"Because it's a brand name. Come on, Tom. Let's just go." It had been a long day of this: Tom comparing shirts at the mall, Tom holding out on filling the gas tank in case they could find a station with gallons a few cents cheaper. He was always this way. He had his own special anal-retentive logic for every situation.

"I know that, but maybe there's a slight difference in the ingredients," he went on, ignoring her tugs.

"Damn it, Tom, I swear to God." She dropped her head into her hands. "I just want to get home. It's just one thing after another with you."

At that, Tom sighed, heavily placed the medicine bottles back on the shelf, and turned to leave.

"Tom, you dragged me all the way here. Let's at least buy the Pepto," she argued.

"You weren't giving me time to think," Tom said.

"Just get Pepto! I've used it my whole life. It's safe, reliable, effective..." Maris's tone was agitated, calling some attention from an elderly woman browsing the eye shadow palettes.

"That's just how you are, Maris. You try one thing, it works, so you stick with it forever. It doesn't matter if there are other options out there that make more sense."

"Oh? And this is coming from someone who thinks there is a difference between two blue polo shirts from the _same exact rack_!"

"The collar was sewn differently! What's wrong with putting a little thought into making the right choice?" Tom challenged. "Seriously, if you hate shopping with me so much, why do you come at all?"

Maris shrugged. "That's what normal couples do."

Tom turned. "Normal? No. _Normal_ couples like to be around each other."

"Well maybe we're having an off day," she said, feeling a little guilty that she didn't correct him. She was realizing more and more how much she didn't like to be around him, yet she was still waiting for things to improve. She'd come this far – why not go a little further?

"I don't know what it is. I like to think of myself as a laidback person. You're just agitated all the time." Tom snagged the Pink Bismuth and started for the checkout counter.

"No, I'm just stuck with Mr. Pros and Cons Checklist."

"It's not like you don't play it safe either."

"Play it safe? You think I play it safe?"

"Well, yeah," he said, blinking.

Suddenly they segued into a conversation about their relationship that oddly resembled their argument on antacids. The part that stung Maris the most was that Tom was right – 100% right. He was the first person she'd ever dated, and since her complaints were minimal, she never had the energy to break it off. They were two safe and practical people who liked comfort. There was nothing dysfunctional about that, but the realization that they were one in the same felt...wrong.

The faint, faux-jazz shopping music playing throughout the store filled the silence that ensued.

"This register is open," a woman called awkwardly from the checkout counter. She stuck her long fingernails into her curly bunches of hair and scratched.

Tom plopped the medicine on the counter and turned to Maris.

"Maybe it's just time to see other people," he said.

Maris froze, feeling hot under the fluorescent drugstore lights. She watched the cashier act busy with the register to avoid the awkwardness.

"You're doing this here?" Maris asked, panic churning her stomach. She pictured herself frantically opening that antacid and taking a few gulps to keep from vomiting.

"I'm sorry, Maris," Tom said more gently. "We'll discuss this later."

He paid the cashier and took the bag from her dainty fingers. The car ride home was silent.

When they got to their one-bedroom apartment, Maris fell into bed and buried her face in a pillow. She wasn't crying; she just wanted to think. All her life, she'd wanted to be carefree, silly, adventurous, and profound. But those qualities couldn't be forced on a person; they had to develop and emerge naturally. Instead, what developed and emerged were practicality, sensibility, and a fear of the unknown. She'd always felt that Tom wasn't her ideal, but a transparent glue called Comfort held them together. That's not to say they didn't have moments of happiness. He made her laugh in his own way, and he taught her how to make crème brulee with a cooking torch. They'd met in grad school, and their lives became so intertwined that it was difficult to extract themselves for any period of time. They were never _unhappy_ enough to say moving out was worth it either.

She felt, in a way, that she'd been cheating this whole time. She'd cheated Tom by not loving him as much as she claimed she did. She'd cheated herself by blindly stumbling through the last five years, always promising better but never seeking it. What about all that money she'd saved to travel? It was sitting in a bank, untouched. Her parents had traveled a lot together, and a part of Maris had always wanted to do the same with a significant other.

Tom had been right. She didn't take risks. She had never tasted true adventure; she'd only planned on it. She'd never soul-searched, never looked at someone else for perspective on herself, and never seen a world outside her own. She'd also never challenged herself to do anything mind-bending or new. Any challenges she'd faced in life were either circumstantial or imposed by someone else.

She heard a creak from the doorway. Tom was standing there, probably listening to see if she was crying.

"Maris, you okay?" he said softly.

"Yeah," she said, the pillow muffling her voice.

"Do you want to talk?" he asked.

She rolled over, taking in a burst of fresh air. "Is it really over?"

Tom seemed doubtful. He sat at the edge of the bed. "I don't know. I love you, Maris. I really do."

A part of her wanted to use those words as a jumping point to beg him to stay. _If you love me, then let's try. Let's make it work_. Then she asked herself why. What would they gain from trying?

"Maybe we've gotten too comfortable," Maris said.

Tom made an obvious expression. "I think we've gotten bored. Maybe fighting has become the most exciting thing for us."

"So that means it's over?" Maris said, feeling her anger rising. The thought of being boring terrified her.

"Maybe there are just other people out there who are better for us," Tom said.

"Yeah?" She questioned, biting her lip.

"Don't get angry."

"I'm not angry," she replied, trying not to raise her voice.

"Do you agree with me?" he asked, looking at her earnestly.

She drew a deep breath. Five years. _Five years!_ If they ended it now, would that mean it was all a waste? Did she waste all that time being boring and becoming the type of person she never wanted to become? At the same rate, her reason for saying 'no' were just as much of a reason to say that 'yes'. She agreed with him. Five years were already gone – but that was no reason to keep on making the same mistake.

She hugged her pillow close. "I do," she said detachedly. "I do agree with you."

And that was the end of their relationship.

For Maris, it was the end to "playing it safe."

~~*~~

The weeks after Tom moved out, Maristried to shed the remnants of her old life. She wanted newness to unfold like a carpet over stained hardwood. Where she met emptiness on the outside, she hoped that emptiness on the inside would be taken care of. She bought a Moroccan lamp and drank espresso for breakfast. She took long walks, offering smiles to strangers in hopes of cheering herself up. She read travel books and painted Japanese watercolors. She thought these changes would transport her somewhere. She thought they were ways to be adventurous.

It was interesting how quickly she fell back into routine. She didn't pursue "newness." She missed Tom. She started to think, _Well, what was so bad about what we had?_ Two weeks after the breakup, she met her friend Emily for lunch. She was in a bitter state.

"I almost called Tom last night," Maris confessed, bringing a glass of ice water to her mouth. She left a smudge of lipstick on the rim. It had been weeks since she'd tried to look nice. Her long brown hair was brushed straight, with the front ends pinned up. Her eyelashes were lengthened and darkened by mascara around her green eyes, though Maris had to apply it twice before leaving the house because she was caught off guard by a crying fit.

Emily slapped her palm to her forehead. She was a beautiful blond with a degree in banking and an extremely organized love life. She always seemed to find the right partners and get out of relationships at just the right time, yet this uncanny luck was met with a degree of immodesty that Maris couldn't stand.

"Maris, hon, that's pathetic."

Maris sighed. "I know," she said, but she didn't really believe it. "But what if I can make these changes _with_ Tom? I want to talk about it. I want to talk to him, even if it's just to get more closure."

"Closure? You want closure? Let me count the ways you weren't right for each other." Emily held up her fingers and began to count. "He didn't satisfy your desire for adventure. You didn't have any of the same interests. He drove you crazy – in a bad way. He never wanted to do anything you wanted to do, and he complained if you made him. You two just weren't compatible."

"In some ways, we were," Maris protested.

"Face it, Mar, you were like that awkward couple at the diner that eats in silence and eavesdrops on the other tables with envy."

"Not always." She felt her face flush. It was true, but she couldn't bring herself to admit it.

"Loneliness has a way of romanticizing the past," Emily pointed out. "You're lonely, and of course you miss the guy you dated for five years. You had a lot of special times together. But look, that doesn't mean you should repeat the same mistakes. You'll only rediscover unhappiness. This here," she said, waving a hand in front of Maris's sullen face, "is all temporary. It'll suck for a while, and then get better. But if you go back to Tom, you'll be choosing long-term unhappiness."

"How do you know?" Maris asked, grasping at straws.

Emily picked up a breadstick and took a hefty bite. "Maris, you spent five years complaining about wanting more. How will things ever change if you keep doing the same thing?"

Maris was silent.

"Exactly. You need to get what you want. Take all those complaints and turn them into fire."

Maris laughed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you gotta get out there and get what you want."

"I'm not sure I really know what I want," Maris said.

Emily raised her eyebrows. "Really? You don't have a clue? I doubt that."

Maris narrowed her eyes. Perhaps Emily was right. Deep down, Maris knew she wanted someone who was the opposite of Tom. She wanted passion and adventure. She wanted someone who did more than understand her; she wanted him to live out his ideas and inspire her to be more than average.

Emily leaned forward. "I want you to do something for me. Well, for yourself."

"What's that?"

"You need to make a list. Write down ten things you want in a man. By that, I mean write down your ideals. If Tom matches half of the things on your list, then you have my permission to call him."

"Ideals are unrealistic, Emily," Maris said. "It's about my history with—"

"You need to start thinking about what you want before you can get what you want." Emily took cash from her wallet and paid the bill. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she said, "I gotta run back to work, love." She pointed her finger in Maris's face and raised her eyebrow sternly. "Make that list."

That night, Maris started making lists. Things she always wanted to do but didn't. A bucket list. A list of men she'd turned down over the years. A list of friends she'd gained. A list of friends she'd lost. Things she liked about Tom. Things she hated about Tom. And finally, a list of qualities she'd always wanted in a man. It was scratched up with scribbles and crosses, but finally she had drafted something she felt was sincerely accurate.

_adventurous_

_appreciative of the arts_

_a man striving for greatness but not consumed with himself_

_in tune with his emotions_

_romantic_

_self-reflective_

_spontaneous_

_appreciative of nature_

_good manners/gentleman_

_good in bed_

When she stepped back and looked at the list, she couldn't help but laugh. Now, where to find a man like this? He certainly didn't exist in her circles.

Then a thought occurred to her – maybe she didn't have to look for all of these qualities at once. Maybe she needed to explore the men who embodied each ideal before knowing if she really wanted it. She looked from her bucket list to her "Ideal Man" list, and a connection formed.

Her mother once told her that she'd never understood Maris's father better than when they'd traveled together. She saw how he was similar to the other men around the world; she saw how he was culturally different. In that, she found a greater appreciation of him as a man. Once she understood how culture shapes an individual, in good and bad ways, she was able to accept her own culture.

Maris considered that maybe the ideal man she was looking for was nowhere near Boston. Maybe he was nowhere near the United States. Maybe she'd find a romantic man in Argentina, dancing the Tango. Maybe she'd find a self-reflective man in Turkey, praying five times a day to Allah in a mosque. Maybe she'd find a man of the arts in Italy, gazing at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

Her heart was beating with excitement. Before she knew it, she was pricing flights and pinning a route around the world.

It was the end of hoping, waiting, and planning. It was time to search.

~~*~~

The trip took a month to plan. Maris was set to leave in the summer, when she had two and a half months of vacation from her teaching job. She had enough money saved in the bank, and her parents were happy to chip in a little. Even Emily was happy to donate a little money to the cause.

"I've never been prouder," she said as she wrote a check.

Maris rolled her eyes. "I'm not doing this because of you, you know," she said stubbornly.

Emily looked up.

"Well, maybe a little," Maris said with a wink.

She packed a large traveler's backpack with her favorite heels, several cute dresses, hiking clothes, and comfortable yet stylish outfits for when she wouldn't mind looking like a tourist. She had an e-reader full of books, a healthy amount of protein bars, a stack of traveler's checks, and a toothbrush. She hoped that was all she needed.

June rolled around quicker than she anticipated. Part of her regretted booking the trip. The thought of leaving Boston caused her severe anxiety. She would be all alone, exploring city after city, meeting strangers, and trying things she'd never tried before. Who could she trust? What if she needed help?

She often called Emily in those moments of panic. She'd greet her with, "What was I thinking? I'm not adventurous. I want to be, but I'm not. Case closed. Trip is canceled."

Emily would reply in her steady voice, "Maris, repeat after me: I will not be boring."

After a long pause, Maris managed to force the words through a tight jaw. "I will not be boring." She hated Emily in those moments, yet loved her all the same.

"I will not live with unhappiness."

Sigh. "I will not live with unhappiness."

"I will take chances, and I won't regret it because I deserve to find what I want."

The last part came easiest. "I will take chances, and I won't regret it because I deserve to find what I want."

"That's better," Emily would say.

Maris could practically hear her smile through the phone.

These phone calls ensued all the way up until June 18, the very day Maris's flight left for her first destination: Costa Rica. She was off to find a man who appreciated nature. She was positive she'd find what she was looking for while spending two weeks on an organic farm in a country with some of the most diverse wildlife in the world.

Emily saw her off at the airport with a firm embrace. "No chickening out now," she said with a laugh. "Or I'll kill you."

People were rushing past them with luggage and children in tow. All Maris had was a tall backpack, and occasionally oblivious travellers would knock into it as they hurried by. Maris tried to keep her balance. She squeezed Emily's hand with one last goodbye, then drew a deep breath and headed toward the airport security line.

~~*~~

After landing in San José, Maris had to take a puddle jumper to the Nicoya Peninsula. It was a fifteen-seat plane with the cockpit in clear site. Maris wondered if such a small thing was completely at the mercy of the wind. Her nails dug into the seat as the plane wobbled into takeoff.

The wings shook as they ascended, but Maris couldn't help but look out the window as if waiting to witness some great disaster. Instead, she witnessed something incredible. The smoggy city of San José grew sparser and sparser, and soon they were leveling off over thick forest and curvaceous landscapes. Rivers that had been shaped by gravity and erosion into winding blue ribbons, hills that dropped and rose in one breathless gesture, and lush vegetation that she could only wonder what ecosystems it beheld.

Suddenly, her curiosity and her excitement were reignited. She hadn't felt this way since she was seventeen and her mother took her to New York City to see _Wicked_ on Broadway. The buildings that encased her, the whirring traffic, the floods of pedestrians, and the myriad smells had all fascinated her. For someone who grew up in the suburbs of Boston, New York City was a whole new flavor.

As for Costa Rica, Maris was overwhelmed all over again, but in a different way. She was entirely alone, but this lent a sense of freedom she'd never felt before. What once scared her now excited her. She could meet anyone, do anything, and see whatever she wanted without someone else giving input. It was finally a chance to explore a new side of herself.

After the plane landed, she took a shuttle to the organic farm. She met the manager, who took her in with a great smile.

" _Bienvenido a Tierra Verde!"_ he exclaimed, offering a brisk handshake. "I'm Mr. Borguarde."

" _Encantada_ ," she replied, recalling some Spanish from high school. She took care of the general check-in procedures, and then hiked her backpack over her shoulder.

"Let me show you where you'll be sleeping," Mr. Borguarde said.

She followed him to the back of the check-in center, where a series of red canvas tents were set up. A couple of tourists were hanging up their clothes to dry. Maris was given a tent next to a scrawny, bearded man eating a sandwich.

"We're giving a tour of the farms at two o'clock, and you can look at our check-in center for a list of activities. We have conservation tours, bird watching, zip-lining..." He handed her a brochure. "Did you know that the sea turtles lay eggs on Nicoya Peninsula? Big projects to conserve the species."

"Thank you," she said.

" _De nada_ ," he replied with a smile. "We'll see you at two at the check-in center!" At that, Mr. Borguarde left Maris with her tent, cot, and a bearded man eating a sandwich and staring at her.

" _Buenos días_ ," he said with a slight Southern American accent.

Maris smiled. "Hi there. I'm Maris." When she shook his hand, she felt like she was crushing it. Her immediate thought was that he was _not_ the nature-loving man she was looking for. In a moment of weakness, she let herself overtly glance at his rustic sandals, sporting a pair of knee-high socks underneath.

"Ralf. What brings you to Costa Rica?" he asked, shoving the last of his sandwich crust in his mouth and chewing in a bovine manner.

_A bad breakup_ , she almost said. "Just wanted to travel." She laid her backpack on her cot and pulled out some of her toiletries to freshen up.

"You'll love it here. I've been here almost two weeks. I've been helping around the farm and such. Toured the canopies last week." He swallowed the rest of his food and grabbed a camera. "Saw thirty different bird species. Thirty! Want to take a look?"

Maris fidgeted with a compact case of facial cleanser wipes. "Maybe later," she said.

"Tomorrow I'm headed to the Ostional Wildlife Reserve to do some work for the sea turtles."

"Like what?" she asked, dabbing her face, wiping away hours worth of travel.

"Cleaning debris off the beach, mostly. They're not hatching anytime soon.Usually August to September for the Olive Ridley. The Leatherbacks hatched in January. Man, I wish I saw that. Did you know that only one in five thousand Sea Turtles make it to adulthood?"

"You sure know a lot about turtles," Maris said, humoring him.

"Oh, I studied conservation after high school," he said.

"Yeah?" she said.

"I read book after book," he said. "Then picked up a couple jobs in Florida with different organizations."

"Ah," she said, realizing he hadn't attended college. "Self-taught?"

"Sometimes that's the only real way to learn," he said.

She chuckled.

Ralf continued, "I think I'll stay in Costa Rica'til the Olive Ridley come. They'll start in July, but at the peak, you can see them every night. We're talking millions of eggs heaped across the beach, Maris. The turtles make their voyage out here, lay their eggs, and hope for the best."

"Hope for the best," she repeated.

"They have no choice. Mamas just disappear back in that water and wait for those eggs to hatch. Then all at once it seems, those babies start a pilgrimage from the beach to the Pacific. Most get picked off by crabs and coyotes and all those nasty predators, but a strong few make it through the waves."

"That's horribly sad," Maris said.

"It's nature's deal," Ralf countered. "Some animals get to eat, some get to escape, everybody wins."

Maris glanced at her watch. "Almost time for the tour," she said, standing.

"Hope I haven't talked your ear off," Ralf said.

"Not at all," Maris lied. "Later, Ralf."

"Later," he replied with a friendly wave.

At the front of the check-in building, Maris waited for the group to gather. She was twenty minutes early. Someone was hunched over, his back turned, pulling weeds around their front garden which was strung with vibrant flowers and soft ferns. She watched two strikingly colorful birds pick around the pebbled ground. She was speechless by their rainbow plumage: black and blue-tipped tails, green wings, and backs that resembled a Caribbean sunset.

"Excuse me?" she whispered toward the gardener. "Psst. Excuse me?"

The man turned with a frazzled expression. His eyes were dark, his hair a thick wave of brown, and his nose a gentle slope to his mouth. He was young, his chest built from farming, and his skin browned from the sun.

"I've never seen birds like that," she said, suddenly sheepish. She blushed. She'd been so excited about the colorful birds that she'd wanted to share it with someone, anyone.

" _Es un..._ Turquoise-browed Motmot. Beautiful, no?" He smiled and returned to gardening.

Maris found herself wanting to say more, but she was suddenly too shy. She stepped closer to the birds, but they got startled and took off.

"Ohp! I scared them." She laughed. She turned back to the gardener, who hadn't heard her. "Do you know when the tour starts?" she asked.

He turned back to her. "Tour? Oh, fifteen minutes." He stood, pulled off a pair of leather gloves, and tucked them in his pocket. He was tall and notably handsome. "Are you waiting?"

"Yeah," she said. "Do you work here, or..." Her voice drifted off.

"I'll be giving the tour. Just thought I'd straighten the garden up. I'm a permanent resident. I'm Estefan."

"Maris," she introduced. "You work on the farm?"

He smiled. "You'll see on the tour, it's much more than that." He glanced around. "Honestly, I think you might be the only person coming, so we can start it now, if you want."

A private tour with this beautiful man?She was eager, to say the least.

"Follow me," he said, leading her to a beaten path in the trees. The trees were alive with the sounds of chirping and rustling. Overhead, a twitchy squirrel was nibbling on a coconut. It wasn't grey like the ones in Boston; rather, it was chestnut brown with a black strip along its back and down its frizzy tail.

"At _Tierra Verde,_ we use the benefits of the land to grow bananas, grenadines, pineapples, and coffee. We supply to local hotels and participate in local farmers markets. Some of our food is exported, but for the most part, we grow food for Costa Rica." Estefan maintained a professional tone, which disappointed Maris slightly.

"Is there poverty around here?" she asked.

"Oh, no. Costa Rica has the lowest poverty rate in Central America. And where there is poverty, there is still food. Here, nature is truly our wealth and survival." He bent over to remove a stick that was blocking the trail. "It's why we work so hard to conserve."

"That's really what drew me to Costa Rica," Maris replied. "I've heard of how beautiful it is."

"I grew up here in Nicoya," Estefan said. He stopped and looked up into the trees. "And still, it has the ability to take my breath away."

Maris looked at his appreciative gaze until he caught her staring. He smiled politely, and then continued to move down the path.

They emerged in a small clearing with several rows of fence-like structures. Leafy greens were crawling upward and shooting off the structures. Maris could see fruit hanging in bunches here and there.

"As you know, we don't use pesticides and we only do sustainable farming. We use a local water source from a spring nearby to water our crops. We make sure the ripe produceare picked at the right time, and we see when plants aren't getting enough water. See? Look at this one." Estefan gestured for Maris to come over, and he pointed to a vine that was starting to shrivel.

When she leaned close, she could smell his sweat, see the earth on his hands, and at that point, a deep attraction was already forming. _He_ was the man she had come here for; she knew it.

Just then, she heard a rustling behind them, and they turned to see a pair of socks and sandals approaching them.

"Hi there!" he said, waving a pad of paper.

"Ralf!" Estefan exclaimed.

Ralf was out of breath. "You took off early!"

"I didn't expect you to need the basic tour," Estefan replied.

"I don't," Ralf said with a laugh. "I thought the nice lady would like a paper and pen to take some notes." He handed Maris the notepad.

"Thanks..." she said, taking it. She was a little perturbed by the interruption.

"Hey, have you told her about the thieves?" Ralf said with an eager smile.

"Was getting to that." Estefan turned to Maris with a smile. "The _Pizotes_ and _Mapaches_ like to take our fruit. You can tell they're _bandidos_ by the masks they wear."

"Raccoons," Ralf blurted. "We gotta keep an eye out."

"Ah," Maris said with a laugh. For a moment, she caught Estefan's eye. " _Bandidos_."

"Now the worst are the..." Just then, Estefan was distracted by a rustling to the side. He gently grabbed Maris's arm with a playful smile. "Maris, let's see how you treat the _bandidos_ in action. The Capuchins are the worst offenders of all."

It took her a few seconds, but soon Maris's eyes had spotted the evil culprit: a fuzzy black monkey with a cream-colored face and a thick, curled tail. His body was wrapped around a branch as he maneuvered toward a bright bunch of bananas.

"Don't let him get those bananas!" Ralf laughed.

Maris approached the monkey timidly. He didn't pay any attention to her. He was fixated on the bananas.

"Will it bite?" she asked.

"You're fine," Estefan said with a wave.

"Hey!" she called up to the Capuchin, waving her hand. "Hey, that's not yours!" She could hear the men snickering behind her. She turned to Estefan with mild embarrassment. "What do I do?"

"Take the banana!" Ralf egged on.

Maris turned and reached for the bananas.

"No, no, don't do that," Estefan said, coming toward her.

When Maris reached for the bananas, a small, furry hand slapped hers. The Capuchin cried out angrily. Terror surged through Maris, but Ralf was howling with laughter. Estefan finished the job by taking the fruit, then shooing away the angry monkey. They had a brief argument that escalated quickly, but eventually, Estefan won.

He touched Maris's shoulder. "I'm sorry about that. Are you afraid?" His eyes were apologetic and kind.

"My heart is beating out of my chest," Maris said, holding her heart.

"Capuchins won't hurt you. They're just obnoxious."

From a distance, the monkey was watching them with daggers in his eyes.

"That wasn't a nice trick," Maris said, aiming her words at Ralf, but then she began to laugh. She remembered the monkey's wild face opening to bear its plaque-covered teeth, its black eyes signaling betrayal. She still could feel its quibbling slap on her hand. She looked to Estefan, who was laughing with her.

"What a little brat!" she said, making a face at the Capuchin.

"You've already made an enemy!" Estefan said. "That's good. Maybe he'll stay away now. We call that little guy, Marcus. He's one of our regulars."

He took Maris by the hand and led her to another part of the garden. His touch came as a mixed signal. She couldn't tell if he was just being friendly, or if he was feeling something, too.

He showed her how to tell when fruit was ripe enough to pick. He explained how to tell the difference between a good plant and a weed. Of course, Ralf interjected from time to time with his two cents.

The tour ended at a little hut set up for dining. Estefan poured Maris and Ralf cups of coffee, and they chatted for a while about the history of the farm and the future of ecotourism. Maris was positive she had found her man.

When Ralf got up to retrieve some more sugar for his coffee, Estefan leaned toward Maris. "Tonight, you should see the sun set at the beach. The colors are magnificent," he suggested. "I'll show you the best place."

She had never been so sure someone was inviting her on a date. A smile broke across her face. "I'd love that," she said.

Then he added, "My wife and I go there all the time."

Mariscaught something in her throat at this information. She meant to clarify what his intentions were – if it was still a date, or if she was just being a fool – but Ralf came back at that moment. He plopped himself into the chair, rattling his coffee cup and nearly spilling it.

"Nothing like a strong cup of home-grown, organic coffee," he said. He held it up to Maris with a twinkle in his eye. "Cheers to your arrival in Costa Rica!"

She was so confused in that moment that all she could manage to do was robotically lift her cup and respond, "Cheers."

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**Episode 2**

She was a fool to have imagined it this way: her, on a Costa Rican beach, watching the sun slip into the ocean, and him, tan and chiseled, with his hand on hers, even though they'd just met. Maybe he'd whisper in her ear. Maybe she'd make him laugh. Maybe they'd swim as the tide rose and the moon lit the water.

Instead, it was her, on a Costa Rican beach, watching one of the most colorful sunsets she had ever seen, and she was accompanied by a scruffy man named Ralf who wore socks with his sandals, a beautiful man named Estefan, and his gorgeous wife.

She spent much of the time steeping in humiliation. Why did she think Estefan would invite her on a date after just meeting her? Even more, what made her expect to find a great single guy the second she stepped foot on foreign land, just weeks after a devastating breakup? Where did that optimism come from?

Estefan's wife, Sofia, had brown mermaid hair and exotic eyes. Her skin had been kissed by the sun; it was the perfect shade of bronze, and the sunset reflecting on the water caused it to light up vibrantly. As hard as Maris tried to pick up on any flaws, she had to admit Sofia was absolutely beautiful. She was even kind. She leaned over to look at Maris, and in her limited English, she tried to hold a conversation.

"Where are you from?" she asked shyly, perhaps afraid of accidentally speaking incorrectly.

"I grew up in Boston, Massachusetts. It's on the east coast," Maris replied, watching Sofia's eyes to see if she understood.

Sofia nodded in understanding. "My cousin move there six years ago. To the East Coast. New York."

"Ah, yes, everyone loves New York City."

Estefan spoke up. "Actually, it was Upstate New York. She married a man from..." He turned to his wife and exchanged several words in Spanish. "Niagara Falls. That area. The falls are practically in her backyard!"

"Have you been there?" Maris directed her question to Estefan.

"Not yet," he said. He placed his hand on Sofia's knee and looked at her tenderly. "Someday, no? _Algúndía_ _, amor._ " He leaned over and kissed Sofia on the cheek.

The scene left a feeling of longing in the pit of Maris's stomach. It wasn't Estefan, or memories of her ex-boyfriend Tom, but rather the feeling of having no one to kiss. She coveted their love and their comfort with each other – two things she no longer shared with anyone. They were lost and replaced by a horrible emptiness.

After the sun was gone and the sky started to dim, the stars emerged one by one. Estefan stood and pulled off his shirt.

"I'm going in for a swim. Sofia?" he turned to his wife with an extended hand.

She shook her head. " _No, no quiero_ _nadar. Hacedemasiadofrío._ "

"Please, Sofia?" He looked at her with his large, soft eyes, and Maris wondered how Sofia could ever say no to him.

She smiled and shook her head.

Maris let a moment pass before she spoke up. "I'll go," she offered.

Estefan looked pleasantly surprised. "So we'll go!" he said.

She kept on her shorts and an undershirt, then confidently strode toward the water. Estefan got halfway down the beach before he broke into a run. There were moderate waves, and he tossed his body into them as if they were his bed.

Maris touched the frothy tide with her toes and shivered. Now was not the time to chicken out on account of it being too cold. She turned back to see Sofia and Ralf watching her, as if expecting her to abandon her quest.

"Maris! Maris, come on!" Estefan said. "You scared?"

Maris could see the outline of his body in the waves. He was a shadow bobbing out there, beckoning for her to come in.

She drew a deep breath and charged forward, gasping for air as the water shocked her body. It wasn't as bad as she expected; in fact, it was soothing, in a way. Estefan splashed in her direction, and she swam out farther to him. The water was dark and eerie, but she kind of liked that mysterious appeal. She couldn't see anything. She could only feel the power of the ocean swaying her.

"The water's nice," she said.

"It's perfect this time of day," Estefan said, then ducked under a wave. When he resurfaced, he was several feet away.

"You're awfully brave," Maris said.

"Why's that?" Estefan playfully kicked up a frothy bit of water in Maris's direction.

"You don't know what's sleeping under there, what you might run into." The thought made her rethink what _she_ was doing in that black water.

"You're very right," he said, "but we come to the ocean to surrender ourselves." He moved to float on his back.

Maris copied him, lying on her back to feel the water swell then release, swell then release. She tried to surrender herself – her fears, her anger, her hurt, her very reasons for being there. She tried to let Tom dissolve from the back of her mind. It wasn't that easy. She still felt on edge.

Just then, she felt something grab her foot. She let out a screech, and as soon as she realized that it was Estefan, she began to laugh. Maris gave him a gentle push. "How cruel!"

"It wasn't me! It was a sea monster," Estefan said, smiling.

At that moment, they both heard Sofia's voice like a silver ribbon in the darkness. " _Estefan? Es la hora.Quierodejar._ "

Estefan made a mock-scared face to Maris, and she shook her head at him. Together, they let the waves sweep them to shore.

When they approached Sofia, she was standing with her arms outstretched, holding Estefan's dry shirt. He took it and kissed her softly on the cheek, then used it to pat himself dry. They exchanged several words, then Estefan turned to Ralf.

"Ralf, you know the way back, right? Why don't you go with Maris? Sofia and I are going to take the long way home."

"Sure thing! Hey, see you tomorrow. _Buenos noches, Sofia!_ " Ralf turned to Maris with a smile and offered his arm. "I guess it's just you and me out for a romantic moonlight stroll."

Maris ignored his invitation to lock arms. She waved goodbye to Estefan and Sofia and watched them walk off together, hands intertwined.

She sighed. "They're very much in love, aren't they?"

Ralf snickered. "Well, looks can be deceiving, that's for sure."

"What do you mean?"

"Sofia most definitely has him wrapped around her finger. But love?" He lowered his voice. "Let's just say Sofia is well aware she has a very...em...attractive husband. It's safe to say she already has her radar up on you."

Maris turned to Ralf. "On me?" She was glad the darkness concealed her flushed face. Had she been that obvious about finding Estefan attractive?

"Let's be honest here," Ralf said. "You're a beautiful woman who's about to work with her husband eight hours a day. She's going to keep a close eye on you."

Maris raised her eyebrows and tried to play it cool. "Seems a little paranoid to me. I mean, she's far more beautiful than me, if you'd even call me that."

"Yeah, beautiful and crazy." Ralf let out a laugh.

Maris cleared her throat. "So which way is back?"

"We're just going to take the trail up here. But I'll lead. Sometimes night critters like to hang out here."

"Night critters?" That was worse than not being able to see what she was swimming with.

"Just snakes. Nothing too bad, as long as you don't step on them. I brought a flashlight."

"Oh, good. A flashlight," she said with a little bit of an eye roll. If Ralf caught the sarcasm, he didn't acknowledge it.

~~*~~

For the next seven days, Maris learned about natural fertilizers, compost, pruning, pest management, and canning. She learned that you don't just "fertilize" soil. You first have to learn what it's lacking and what it has too much of between potassium, phosphorous, nitrogen, and acidity. She learned that handpicked fruit tastes nothing like what she'd get at the store. It was far more succulent and flavorful.

She learned, most of all, the shape of Estefan's body, how he walked, how he wiped sweat from his face with the back of his arm, and how he spoke to the wildlife.He was in love with the earth, the fruit, and the animals. He was in love with his country. Sometimes he would kneel down, toss the hoe aside, and just knead the soil with his hands, yard by yard. Sometimes, when Maris would walk by, he'd wipe the back of his hand on her sneaker, or he'd call out, "Watch your back for that Capuchin!"

"I'll send him on you if you don't bite your tongue," she'd reply with a smile.

Frequently, Ralf would chime in with his own joke on the matter, but he'd only get a laugh out of Estefan, not Maris. He often showed up at unexpected moments. Maris would look forward to talking to Estefan alone all day, and when they finally would find a moment together, Ralf would pop his bearded face into the picture like a genie appearing out of thin air. Even worse, however, were the unexpected visits from Sofia. She'd stop by with a picnic for Estefan or just to see how his day was going. She'd put on a little pout and ask if he'd be late again. Whenever she came around, Ralf would turn to Maris and whisper, "See what I'm saying? Keeping a close eye on him."

"Maybe she's just being sweet. What about that?" Maris would reply.

Ralf shook his head. "She didn't come around like this before you were here."

Still, Maris didn't keep her distance; she just kept a better lookout. She asked as many questions as she could think of. She learned the secrets to canning and preserving, how to read soil quality indicators, and how to measure pH levels in the ground. Estefan taught her about the value of rotating soil and replenishing its nutrients so that it didn't become barren.

"The land is like your greatest gift. You cannot use all in one day to harvest all benefits at once. It must be loved, cared for, nurtured. The fruits are gradually produced, but it will serve you for many seasons," he once said, his wrists deep in the soil as he pulled out infected roots.

When Estefan talked this way, Maris found it the most difficult to look him in the eye, lest it showed what she was thinking. "That's very poetic."

"What is your greatest gift?" he asked, pulling out his hands and turning to look at her.

She worried when he looked at her so intently, as if she were supposed to possess some answer that would open up new worlds. Especially with this question, she couldn't stop from squirming inside. The fact was, she had never identified her "greatest gift." She had never been extraordinary at anything, really. She liked to teach, but it wasn't a gift. Pulling off her gardening gloves, she sat on her ankles and took the tension off her back from hunching over the ground.

"I guess I haven't given it much thought," she said weakly.

"Let me give you an example, then," Estefan said. "When Sofia was seven, she loved to paint. She took her mother's watercolors and started doing landscapes and San José skylines – not the typical things a seven year old would paint. Then her parents discovered her. They found her portraits under her bed and they realized their daughter had talent." He returned to pulling out roots. "Most parents would kindly encourage their children, you know? But not Sofia's parents. They thought everything their daughter did was magic. They did more than post little pictures on the refrigerator. They printed books and had Sofia sell them on the streets." He wiped his brow. "It's not that they were poor. They just kept saying, 'Sofia, you're a prodigy! The world has to know!' They made her paint all day."

Maris tried to picture a young Sofia sitting in her room with a thick piece of paper and tubes of paints. She imagined the girl to be lonely, perhaps looking out her window at her friends playing.

"Were her paintings really that good?" she asked.

"Oh yes, I've seen them. They got attention from the newspapers, and for a while, she was a star in her town. But her parents pushed and pushed until finally, she refused to lift another paintbrush, and she hasn't touched one since."

"Never again? Doesn't she ever do it for fun?" Maris asked.

Estefan shook his head. "The thought of it makes her sick."

"Wow."

"So you see, you cannot force a tree to produce more fruit. You can only give it the best conditions to do what it sees fit for itself."

Maris reached out and touched Estefan's shoulder, squeezing it gently. She wasn't sure why she did it, except that his words were touching and she'd been looking for an excuse just to touch him. Her heart immediately flushed with excitement, happiness, and panic.

He turned to look at her, but his expression wasn't filled with his usual kindness. Instead he looked perturbed. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

Maris quickly withdrew her hand. "Nothing. Sorry," she barely managed to mutter. She left that plot of land to find a different task in order to look busy.

~~*~~

Later, she joined the other volunteers for dinner as usual. She usually remained quiet during the table conversations. Everyone seemed to know so much, not just about organic farming,but about environmental legislation and extreme hobbies like hang gliding. She was scared stiff that she'd walk right into saying something stupid. During those dinners, she missed the few hours during the day when she was with Estefan and conversation rolled so easily. And if there were no conversation at all, he'd look over from time to time with a smile and ask how she was doing. Granted, he treated everyone that way, but she felt she had found a friend in him.

As far as other friends went, Maris wasn't doing too well. The other volunteers were friendly, but her taciturnity at the table and in other social situations left them thinking she had nothing to say. The only other person to really give her the time of day was Ralf. He liked to walk with her from the dining cabana to the sleeping tents, despite her resolute coldness.

For the fifth consecutive night, Ralf ran to catch up with her after she cleared her plate and washed her dishes.

"Quiet again tonight!" he said with a smirk.

Maris mumbled something incoherent in reply.

"I know you've got things to say. We're an open group of people. Non-judgmental." He scrubbed his plates quickly before Maris could leave.

"I don't have things to say," she said, feeling truth in her words. All she could return to were the things Tom had said, and her fear of being boring was triggered yet again. Coming to a different country hadn't changed that. She was who she was.

"Sure you've got things to say. Everybody's got things to say," he said with irritating pep. "Look, I'll listen if you tell me one thing about yourself."

Maris stopped in her tracks. "Will you leave me alone if I do?"

Ralf's face fell. "Well, sure, if that's what you want."

"Okay.One thing about me? I'm boring, and I have nothing to say." She continued walking.

Ralf grappled for words as he followed her. She sensed what was coming next: a talk to boost her self-esteem with plenty of clichés and things she's heard a thousand times before. She needed straight-forward talk, the kind Emily would give her.

Instead, all that came was Ralf's steady voice saying, "I'd thought differently. Goodnight, Maris."

"Night," she nearly choked. It was early, but she threw on her pajamas and slid into her sleeping bag. She kept replaying Estefan's face earlier that day, then thinking about how wrong she'd been about his feelings. Why would _anyone_ find her interesting, attractive, or alluring? How had she been so foolish to think that Estefan would want her?

The more she thought, the more her heart sank further inside her. All the healing she was supposed to have done in the weeks leading up to this trip was wasted. She felt re-torn, her wounds open and raw as ever.

~~*~~

The next morning, a hand shook her awake. She turned to see a scraggly beard under a weathered baseball cap.

"Rise and shine, lady," Ralf said.

It was barely dawn. The sun hadn't risen, and she didn't feel rested.

"What? What are you doing, Ralf? We don't have to get up for another hour." She pulled her sleeping bag further up on her shoulders.

Ralf crouched beside her cot. "You think you're boring?"

A small groan escaped her throat. "I thought we were done talking about this."

"Does it make you sad that you're boring?" He sounded uncomfortable with his own words, as if he was afraid of overextending yet didn't want his words to go unsaid.

She lifted her head. "Um..."

"So what do you do when that happens?"

"What are you...?"

"What. Do you do. When that happens?"

She studied him with sudden intrigue.

"You make a change, that's what you do, and I know exactly how to help."

She squinted. "What would make you the expert on not being boring?"

With a humble laugh, he replied, "Apparently, I know a touch more about it than you, and that's all that matters right now." He slapped her sleeping bag and stood. "Now get up. You've got the day off. I talked to Mr. Borguarde. Won't be an issue with your fees to miss a day of work."

"A day? What are wedo...?"

"Just put some pants on," he said as he ducked under the flap of the tent.

She pulled on her damp clothes and tossed up her hair. She'd given up on looking and smelling pretty days ago, when she realized the damp Costa Rican climate wasn't very conducive to living in a tent. Farming all day in the hot sun didn't help, either.

When she exited, Ralf began to walk. She caught up with him and started to ask questions.

"Where are we going?"

"I don't think I'll tell you just yet," he said, smiling.

"Well I don't have to go with you, then, do I?" she said smartly.

He was unfazed. "Do what you want."

"Alright, then! Back to bed I go." She turned and made for her tent. A part of her was hesitant, but she wasn't very fond of being pushed around by Ralf.

He called after her. "Step one to not being boring? Take an active interest in things."

She stopped. The sun was playing with the trees, and she wondered if anyone else was awake.

"That means taking an interest in yourself, too. From what I can see, you are doing neither of those things."

She approached him with the intention of a dramatic slap, perhaps a quick speech about how he doesn't know the first thing about her. Instead, her eyes sank.

"Am I that transparent?" she asked.

"No," Ralf said, "not at all. But you know, I've spent time watching the slow maneuvers of sea turtles. I'm one to observe the subtleties of the things around me." He said this with a jocular tone, but he didn't get a smile out of Maris.

"I'm not a sea turtle," Maris said.

"You're right about that," he replied, his lips toying with some secret. "Sea turtles have purpose. Sea turtles know where to go every single year to lay their eggs, and even their young, just seconds after hatching, know to head to the ocean. You? You are standing before me with a choice – to start fixing your problem or to let it fester forever – and the answer, to me, is so _clear_. Yet still, you are having trouble choosing."

"It would help if I knew what you were planning," she argued, putting off the sea turtle argument for another time.

"That's what makes it exciting," he said. He jiggled a pair of keys in her face, then headed for the small lot near the check-in center.

She couldn't help but follow him.

"You're not going to kill me, are you?" she asked.

He let out a hearty laugh. "That's the spirit. A little humor."

They climbed into a dirt-spattered jeep, and he took off down the rocky road. In her side view mirror, Maris watched the lodgings grow smaller and smaller. A pang of regret at not seeing Estefan that day seized her. She had hoped to smooth over the awkwardness that came from the shoulder touch, or at least feel out if there was any awkwardness between them.

"Do you know you've been in Costa Rica eight days, but you've done nothing but farm?" Ralf piped.

"That's what I came here to do."

" _No one_ comes to Costa Rica just to farm. There's just too much to see and do. I mean, how can you come here and not go on a rainforest walk or kiteboarding?" He shook his head. "This is what I'm talking about. You have to be interested in things."

"I'm interested in farming," Maris defended.

Ralf coughed. "Or you're interested in the farmer."

Her jaw tightened. "That's none of your business."

"Well, it doesn't count as an interest. People will always be attracted to each other, but there's got to be more to us than that." The car shook along the uneven gravel. "That's what I'll help you figure out."

She huffed. "My problems are not your problems. Where are you taking me?"

Ralf finally entered a clearing and took a sharp turn onto a main road, which was much smoother.

"You're not my problem, that's correct."

"So why are you on my back?" The car jostled over a pothole. She tugged at her seatbelt to keep it from brush-burning her neck.

"I was like you once, full of self-pity," Ralf said. "My parents used to say I'd amount to nothing without a college education. What they didn't realize was that I was interested in learning, just not in a structured setting. I spent days in the library. I learned more than your average college student, guarantee it. I've had to work harder to prove myself, but I made it."

Maris furrowed her brow. "I don't see how that translates..."

"That idea that you're boring – how'd that get in your head?"

"Just me, I guess," she said, though Tom's name was at the tip of her tongue.

Ralf didn't buy her answer. "I'd bet anything that someone told you so, and you were already set up to believe it."

"What if they were right?" she wondered.

"So what? If it bothers you, then don't mope about it."

"I don't mope."

"Yes, you do. I see you mope all the time. You're not very open to anyone here, really, except Estefan," he pointed out.

"You have no tact," she said. "Don't assume you know the first thing about me."

They slid into silence for the next several minutes.They reached the coastline before she spoke again. They were near some resort. The beaches were full of tourists sunbathing and boogie boarding.

"What's your real reason for coming here?" Ralf asked, his voice softer.

Maris gazed out her window. A child was chasing his beach ball as the wind took it away. Every time he got close to it, some invisible force moved it farther from his grasp.

"I had a bad breakup," she said. "I thought I'd find something better out here."

"Why'd you stop looking?"

She blinked against the beach view. "What do you mean?"

"The second you got here, you stopped looking for better. At least, that's all I could tell. You got tunnel vision."

At that point, she caved a little. "Yeah, I guess I did a little bit."

"This is the real thing I want to share with you. Some advice I'll give you, from one stranger to another. If you're going to have an adventure, and if you want to meet worthwhile people who will open your eyes, you have to let go of yourself." Ralf made a swift turn onto a side road, and once again they were bouncing around over rocks.

Maris sort of liked that he described this advice as coming "from one stranger to another." She was put off by his concern over her happiness, but at least he wasn't pretending to be her close friend – though he very much reminded her of Emily in some ways.

"Let go of myself. Got it."

Ralf pulled into a small parking lot and found a spot. "You'll get it sooner or later. Hey, do you know what's _not_ boring?" He hopped out of the car and shut the door before she could answer. She scrambled out after him.

"What's that?"

"Ziplining through canopies of trees." He smiled.

"Ziplining?"

"You wanted to know what we're doing." He led her to a kiosk where they met a guide who measured them for harnesses and helmets.

Maris followed speechlessly, except to speak up when Ralf tried to pay for her. "This isn't a date," she said sternly. Ralf only stepped away with a shrug that implied, _I beg to differ._

Once they started on a trail, she couldn't control her nerves. "I've never done this before. Is it safe? What are we doing, exactly? Are you a trained guide? How often do people do this?"

Ralf laughed at her. "Very low risk, Maris. Relax. Let go."

So that's exactly what she did. She climbed jungle gyms linked to trees and crossed rickety bridges to enter a paradise of green. Birds flitted from branch to branch. The bark was alive with bugs. When Maris looked down, she realized she'd climbed very high up.

When they reached the platform beneath the zipline, Maris drew a deep breath.

"Want me to go first?" Ralf asked.

"Yes," she answered immediately.

Ralf laughed. "Too bad!"

The guide immediately started attaching Maris's harness to the zipline. It was only a matter of seconds before she was standing on the edge of a seventy-foot drop. Her head was spinning.

"Let's count to three. You got this, Maris." Ralf patted her back.

She inhaled sharply. "Ok."

"One...Two..."

With that, she took off. She stepped off the platform, and soon she was flying through the air, her hair blowing back and lungs screaming in terror and ecstasy. All she could hear was the zipping sound of her line; all she could see was a blur of green and brown. But what she felt? She felt this was the definition of letting go. If only she could recapture this feeling on the ground, she thought.

When Ralf met her at the end, he said she looked exhilarated. She admitted that she'd never felt anything like it.

"What's next, skydiving?" she said with a smile.

Ralf laughed. "Well, I was thinking more along the lines of lunch. That is, if you don't still hate me."

Maris looked at his unassuming face, and while she still felt strange accepting his kindness, she couldn't help but see where this would lead. "I could go for some lunch," she said.

They went to a small place, a cabana with plenty of shade and tall drinks. For _casado_ , they were each served large plates that appeared to hold more than they could eat. Sticky rice, refried beans, beef with onions, a stack of tortillas, diced tomatoes with cilantro, and fried plantains.

"Seems like a lot of food," she said.

"Trust me, it's not enough," Ralf said as he dug into his beef using a tortilla as a utensil.

He had a point; the food was absolutely delicious. Each bite tasted better than the last. Maris was hungrier from that zipline climb than she realized; she scarfed down the entire plate.

She and Ralf sat back contentedly. They'd talked about their exciting morning, and Ralf gave her a long-winded history of his adventure outings. She had to forgive him for his tendency to talk too much. Today, he'd created an experience just for her.

When the conversation ran dry, Maris caught Ralf staring at her.

"What is it?" she asked, automatically checking her mouth for any remnants of tomato. "Something on my face?"

"No," Ralf said, "nothing on your face." He folded his arms against his chest.

"Planning another lecture?" she asked half-jokingly.

"I didn't intend to lecture you. I just wanted to remind you of things you already knew."

"Why is that, again? Did you think you'd get in my pants or something?" she said but instantly regretted it.

Ralf raised his eyebrows. He took a sip of water as the moment settled down. His tone came out as contemplative as he said, "It's strange that two strangers – in an everyday situation, let's say – can sleep together for just one night, share the most guarded and vulnerable parts of their outer bodies and never speak again, yet if two strangers start being kind to one another, it becomes far too intimate." He played with his water glass, turning it in circles. "I'll be honest. I did have another motive. I think you're pretty, and I wanted to get to know you better. I also saw a very sad person, and I saw you were in a funk, and I wanted to help you out of it. After traveling for so long, I've come to immediately see strangers as kindred spirits."

She smiled. "Thanks, Ralf." There was a newfound guilt inside, something telling her she should have been more open to the people she'd met so far.

"And as far as Estefan goes, do what you want. Pursue him or don't, but I can tell you the reason why he's so hot and cold on you."

Maris leaned forward.

"When I first came here, the other farmers, the ones who've been here several months, told me he'd been seeing this girl on the side. She was a tourist, so no strings attached. He said the usual poetic things he says, like his line about the soil being like our greatest gift. Things heated up fast, apparently, and knowing Sofia..."

Maris interrupted. "Hang on. What was it that he said about the soil?"

Ralf got an expression of recognition. "Oh! He said it to you, too?"

"So you're saying he's been pursuing me?" Her heart was beating hard, and she felt eager to get back to the farm again.

Ralf shook his head in confusion. "That wasn't the point I was trying to make at all."

"Well, if he's told that metaphor to other women of interest to impress them, then he was clearly trying to get my attention."

He looked even more discouraged. "What I was trying to say was that Sofia caught them, and he was in the doghouse for a while, if you know what I mean. That's not the worst of it. She practically chased that other girl out of the country with a butcher's knife. From what I heard, she had vengeance in her eyes. There wasn't anything stopping her from killing any seductress who couldn't outrun her." He shook his head. "I told you, she's a little nutty. It's advisable to steer clear."

However, Maris wasn't hearing any of that. She was nodding her head, but all she could focus on was her relief that she hadn't totally misread Estefan's signals. Perhaps, she thought, he was just pushing her away to protect her. As she blocked out Ralf's warnings, she immediately started thinking of what she could say to Estefan to get him alone.

#

** **

###

**Episode 3**

Picture Maris caught on a harness and snag line, dangling midair against a rocky façade. The sun is beating down, and she wipes her hands on the sides of her jean shorts. Nearby, a hawk circles over a sweeping valley. She calls up for help, but her voice echoes back alone.

"Is anyone up there?" Her legs push against the rust-colored rock for leverage, and she tries to glimpse a shadow, a figure, any sign that she hasn't been left alone. "Hello?"

How did she get into this mess? She can barely remember. This is all a result of a wild adrenaline rush, an adventure binge over the past three days – a crazy woman chasing her out of Costa Rica and into the mountains of Peru, away from a taken man and into the blazing path of a wildman.

Below, there was only a ten foot drop, but the landing would be steep. It could still be an easy broken ankle or fractured leg.She leaned back into the harness, dipped back her head, and closed her eyes. This was the first moment she'd slowed down since...well, since she'd kissed Estefan in the canning cabana.

~~*~~

"Where were you yesterday?" he asked, sneaking behind her and pulling an empty jar from her stack. "We missed you."

She'd been alone, canning her day's picks, making some souvenirs to ship to her family. _Look what I grew_ , she wanted to tell them. _This is something new I know all about._

She was there for another reason though, too. She'd left Estefan a note. She'd written, _I can keep a secret_ , and slipped it in a pocket of dirt as if planting a seed. He'd seen her, uprooted it with a playful smile, then his expression turned serious.

He'd seen her go into the canning area, and she waited for him to follow. She knew it was only a matter of time.

"I went on an adventure with Ralf," she said nonchalantly.

Estefan tossed the jar from hand to hand. "What does this mean, you can keep a secret?"

She turned around to see he was closer than she realized. Their mouths were so close she could barely breathe.

"I know your situation with your wife is...complicated. And I'm only here for a few more days. The thing is, I feel something for you, and I think that...I think you feel something too."

Her arms were shaking, and she hoped he couldn't see, but he touched her shoulder with such tenderness as to calm her.

"I'm trying to be a different man for Sofia," he said. He looked disappointed.

"Is that a good thing?" she asked. For a second, she hated herself for playing with words, but Estefan's eyes changed.

"That's the thing – no. It's not good. It's not happiness." He shook his head. "The way you speak to me, Maris. It makes it so hard to control myself."

She felt her insides steady briefly, and within her she found a voice that hadn't existed before. She'd never heard it; Tom had sure never heard it; no man had ever seen this boldness from Miss Maris Levi before.

"So don't," she said.

Estefan let go at that point. He kissed her hard and deep, and his arms wrapped around her as if he wanted to kiss her forever.

Then there was a clatter in the doorway and they turned. Call it bad timing, call it the work of the Universe or well-executed espionage, but Sofia was standing there, her eyes conflagrant. Jars began to shatter. Fruit smeared across the floor and glass skittered along the tiles. Maris backed against the wall, and Estefan held out his hand.

"It's not what it looks like, Sofia. She kissed me. It was the first time this happened. It was nothing." He repeated excuse after excuse, approaching his wife like an animal tamer.

She was ready to kill Maris, but she took a moment to turn to her husband, her eyes melting to sadness. "Why you do this? Time after time?"

She spoke those words in English so Maris could hear and understand her pain; that was for sure. Still, Maris was unapologetic. She used those sentimental moments to sneak toward the door. All she could think of was Ralf's story about Sofia chasing another woman with a knife. Her heart was pounding as she slipped out, and that was when a hefty piece of fruit knocked her square in the left shoulder blade. Sofia was on her heels.

That was the initial shock of adrenaline. From that point on, Maris didn't stop running. She took the trail back to the camp, jumping over tree roots and fighting shortness of breath. It was her last walk along that beautiful, mossy trail, but she wasn't taking in a single memorable sight. Sofia was no longer chasing her, but she didn't know at which point she'd jump out and ambush her.

When she got to the tents, Ralf was reading a book on his cot. When she frantically started stuffing her sleeping bag, he sat up and looked at her knowingly.

"You didn't," he said.

"I did," she replied without looking up.

"And she caught you," he confirmed.

"Yep." She tied up her bag and started to take down the clothes she'd hung to dry on a clothesline.

"I thought I'd made some progress with you yesterday!" Ralf said with a laugh. When Maris didn't respond, he turned serious. "So you have to leave?"

"I don't have much choice, do I?" she said breathlessly.

Ralf scratched his head. "I'll drive you to the airport," he offered.

"I couldn't put you out like that," Maris said. "I'll get a shuttle."

"No, I'll drive," Ralf insisted. "It seems weird to just let you take off this way."

Maris heaved as she lifted her travel pack over her shoulder. "Ready to go then?"

Ralf reached for his keys.

~~*~~

Maris quickly squared things away with Mr. Borguarde at the front desk, then dashed out to Ralf's rental car. Sofia was waiting. She stood by the garden where Maris first saw Estefan. Her arms were folded, and she stared daggers at Maris.

Maris's heart squeezed. She pulled her hands from her pockets in order to defend herself in case Sofia came forward.

"Get in!" Ralf called through the open window, sounding urgent.

She hurried her pace and slid into the front seat. Ralf took off, and she watched Sofia disappear in the side view mirror. She was still shaking with excitement. She felt Sofia's stare like hot beams, but even more, she felt that last kiss from Estefan, his passionate lips on hers, the smell of earth on his face.

For the entire ride, she was abuzz. She couldn't stop raving about that kiss and about how Ralf had been right, that Estefan had been holding back from what he really wanted that entire time.

"It's strange how things come together, huh?" she said, sitting back, shaking her head.

Ralf got that look of discouragement that she'd seen come over him during _casada_ yesterday. He had wanted to teach her something, but it wasn't going through. For a moment, she wanted to ask him to speak his mind, to lecture her again, but it was too late for all that, and she knew it.

He stopped in front of the small airport so she could catch a puddle jumper back to San José. He watched her rummage through her backpack for her passport.

"Where are you headed next?" he asked.

"Peru," she said.

"For a Peruvian man," Ralf said, as if declaring it.

"No," she corrected. "For adventure. From now on, I'm chasing more than that." She leaned over and hugged Ralf. It was an awkward embrace, her reaching over the small car space and him caught completely off guard.

"Thank you, Ralf," she said.

He patted her shoulder. "Yeah, Maris. Good luck."

From there, it was two quick flights to Peru. She downed two gin and tonics, spilled her guts to the person sitting next to her with frequent repetitions of _I am NOT a selfish woman,_ and practically stumbled off the plane into Cuzco.

Thing was, she hadn't truly done her research. It's recommended that you adjust to the climate before going on a trek to Machu Picchu. A few days of rest and plenty of water – and certainly avoiding gin and tonics – is highly recommended. However, Maris's adrenaline was pumping, and she'd called up the tour agency to see if she could arrive a couple days early. The man who answered the phone was a former mountaineer whom she was immediately eager to meet.

It was arranged that the next morning a bus would pick her up from her hotel, along with the other tour group members, and snake up through old villages to the start of the trail. Maris could hardly sleep from excitement.

The next morning was a different story, however. She woke with a harrowing hangover and altitude sickness like she'd never felt before. She overslept, grabbed her damp collection of panties from the shower rod that she'd washed the night before, stuffed her backpack full, and ran downstairs to grab some oats for breakfast. The bus had to wait ten minutes for her to get her act together. By the time she flopped into her seat, the other tourists were looking at her with pity.

"Honey, you look green," a silver-haired woman said.

Maris felt an edge of anger at this comment, especially coming from an older woman who seemed to be handling the altitude just fine. She held her tongue, aware that her mood was making her bitter. _I am NOT a selfish woman_ , she found herself repeating in her head.

"Do you have any remedies for that altitude sickness?" the woman asked kindly.

Maris shook her head. "Remedies?"

"Oh, dear." The woman pulled out her pack and rummaged through. "When we stop at Urubamba, you'll have to load up on these things. First, take this extra bottle of water."

"Oh, no. I couldn't," Maris refused.

The woman insisted. "Please, believe me. It's in my interest, too, that everyone in this group be able to keep up." She laughed. "At the village market, you'll want Maca powder for your immune health and some coca leaves to chew. For now, put this rag to your nose and breathe in."

Maris took the rag without question. Her head was spinning, and her stomach felt ready to hurl. The rag held the strong scent of rubbing alcohol, and it made her woozy at first. Eventually, though, her body calmed.

"Don't overdo it, now," the woman said. She pulled Maris's arm back to remove the cloth. "Just a little at a time. My name is Beth, by the way."

"Maris," she managed to reply. At that, she closed her eyes for a while as the bus rolled forth.

It might have been thirty minutes or an hour when Beth shook Maris awake.

"You don't want to miss all this!" She said eagerly.

As Maris turned her head, dizziness overtook her all at once. It was a matter of seconds before that rubbing alcohol was back at her nose. Out of the side window, Maris watched spectacular views pass. They were approaching an old town, and she noted a hand-carved sign that said _Chinchero_. Colorfully-dressed women were leading mules down the road, and they barely flinched at the passing of the bus. Maris noticed the vast patches of wildflowers springing up along the walkways, then the opening of green farmland. Closer to the village, she saw thatched market stands, stucco churches bearing wooden crosses, and stone walls surrounding homes.

"Charming, isn't it?" Beth leaned over to ask.

"Very," Maris said.

The bus passed through the village and made its way further up to Urubamba. They stopped there for breakfast, and Maris stocked up on her recommended remedies. Then it was back on the bus and moving along the gradually inclining roads.

The start of the trail began at an old bridge. The group of seven tourists filed off the bus and into a small lodging, where their guide was waiting for them.

There he was – Maris's mountaineer, the man of adventure she hoped to find. Her first thought was that he was Tom's polar opposite. He had a rugged look about him, somewhat worn down. He was scrawnier than she'd imagined – or hoped – but she reluctantly tried to follow Ralf's advice to keep an open mind.

She liked his smile, his sweet accent, and the way he confidently addressed the group. He spoke like an experienced veteran.

"Some of you have never hiked like this before, I'm sure. My name is Marcos. I am your guide, remember. I can answer questions and lead you away from danger, but I can't protect you from everything. You have to keep a sharp wit and an observant eye."

She liked his clean-shaven face, with its scars that indicated he used a real razor and soap.

"And I want you to know, I am very comfortable out here. I know the terrain like the back of my hand. You, however, do not," he announced to the group. "You can follow my directions, but you can't always follow my example."

Maris felt a return of that adrenaline feeling. She thought perhaps this was her chance to make up for everything she'd left in Costa Rica. Her mind wandered, tuning Marcos's words in and out.

His words flowed in bits and pieces. "You're about to take on the Incan trail...four days...challenging...sacred."

She took a seat and popped some coca leaves in her mouth. She chewed it a moment, then pressed it against her cheek. Its bitter, herbal flavor filled her saliva. Before she could begin to relax, the tour group was on the move.

The first part of the trail was steep, and Maris couldn't get the taste of coca out of her mouth. She kept spitting off to the side and hoping no one noticed.

Beth checked on her from time to time. She was traveling with her boyfriend, who was American like her. The other four tourists were two couples from Belgium who spoke very little English.

They trail provided panoramic views of the Cordillera Urubamba. Marcos pointed to their green caps and said, "That is where I used to work as a mountaineer." He dropped back to the center of the group. "I once rescued a climber who'd been lost out there for five days. On the verge of death" He shook his head. "You can't be out of shape or ill-equipped for that trek." As if to show off, he leapt up on a large boulder and ran across it to the front of the group. "This trail is cake compared to it," he said with a smile.

"I beg to differ," Maris said tiredly.

Marcos turned to her, studying her closely. "You'll adjust to the altitude soon. The first day of this trek is a day of training."

She flashed him a smile, and he looked away.

"I'm hoping it gets better from here," Maris said.

Beth glanced at her and nodded. "It should. By the way, sweetie, your teeth are green."

Maris's hand flew up to her mouth to cover it.

"From the coca leaves," Beth said with a laugh, shaking her head.

~~*~~

That night, they shacked up in the small village of Wayllabamba. The climate was frigid at night, but Marcos built a bonfire and invited everyone to sit with him. Some of the villagers joined with large wool blankets, dyed with those signature Peruvian oranges, reds, and purples.

Maris took a seat next to Marcos.

"You're cold," he noted, observing how her arms were wrapped tightly around her body.

"I didn't bring a warm enough sweater, I guess," she admitted.

"Take part of my blanket," he offered. He swung part of it over her shoulder, and immediately his warmth flowed into her. At a different time, this would've seemed like a romantic gesture, if it weren't for the fact that warmth was a bare necessity at that point and Marcos was somewhat responsible for her wellbeing.

"Thank you," Maris said, inching closer.

The fire crackled and spit out several sparks.

"You should tell us a story from your police rescue mountaineering days. Your most adventurous one," Maris challenged.

Marcos looked pleased. "There are so many,I wouldn't know which to pick!" he said.

The group urged him on politely.

Marcos seemed to go somewhere deep and dark, and when he emerged, his voice sounded like it belonged to another man.

"It was back in Cordillera Blanca, the white mountain peaks in the Ancash Region. I patrolled seven peaks, six thousand meters up, and I can't tell you the amount of incompetents I had to risk my life for. There's no red tape in the Andes. If you want to go mountaineering, nothing can stop you. You pack a _burro_ with some fancy supplies, and off you go." He took a swig of water. "Some people do it right. They use the fixed ropes and camp at different destinations. Then there are the wild ones. They go off the beaten trail to climb without ropes, and they pull their _burros_ along the thinnest paths along the cliff sides. Sometimes they get stuck and have to back up, which is not the easiest task for a donkey."

Someone threw another log on the fire, and it burst with orange vibrancy.

Marcos continued. "I'd wander for days in case I'd come across someone in need. I'd pitch a tent in blizzards or make my way down to the rocky greenery. Either way, the nights were cold and dark beyond belief. I was in the midway region when I pitched a fire for the night. Not long after, I heard a faint call for help. At first I didn't want to leave my campsite at night, but the call was clear and persistent, so I knew to go." He pulled his blanket closer. Maris felt it tighten around her shoulders.

"The voice was hard to locate. We were in a part of the Andes encased by mountainsides, and every time it echoed, I pursued a different direction. I came across the donkey first. His body was mangled, legs split open from a high fall."

Maris cringed at the image. When she looked up, she didn't see any other faces with registered disgust.

"When I looked up, sure enough there was a mountaineer dangling from his rope two hundred feet up. His buddy was unconscious and dangling below him. I knew it was a dangerous climb and that I should wait until morning, but I imagined the unconscious man might freeze to death. So I began my ascent."

He paused dramatically, and the group held its breath for more.

"When I reached the two travelers, I saw the situation was far worse than I'd imagined. A boulder had fallen, knocked the one man unconscious, and trapped the other man's leg underneath. On one hand, it had saved them from a nasty fall. On the other, that man must've known he was about to lose his leg."

"What?" Maris blurted.

Marcos was nonchalant. "I had to amputate him."

"Dear god!" Maris's jaw dropped. "Did he live?"

Marcos nodded. "Yes, he survived. His friend, not so lucky. With a conscious amputated man and an unconscious man who might've been dead, I had to make a choice. I couldn't carry them both down."

Maris gasped. "So you left him?"

Marcos shook his head, his expression full of enjoyment at Maris's shock. "I cut him down. If he survived the fall, I could carry him to my camp. If not, at least one man had lived." He looked up at the group with a nod to signify his story had been told.

Everyone let out a collective sigh. A few chuckles went around to ease the atmosphere, but Maris was left feeling uneasy.

"There was no way you could've saved him? What about lowering him down on the harness he was connected to?"

Marcos shrugged. "Not enough rope," he said.

"But what about calling for more help?"

Now, he seemed slightly bothered. He readjusted the blanket around his shoulders and furrowed his brow. "You're suggesting I should've brought an amputated man back to camp, left him to go get help, retrieve another patrol to risk his life for someone who might've already been dead."

Maris brushed it off. "What an awful experience," she said.

Marcos leaned back with a smile. "Awful?" He laughed, looking out at the group for approval. "I loved it."

~~*~~

They climbed along the left bank of a river to a monument called "TresPiedres," or Three Stones. The views were only getting better. They passed a waterfall in a cloud forest; a misty stretch of mossy trees and lush wildlife.

Marcos announced to the group that the hike was going to get much more advanced from that point on. They were headed into Andean climate.

He then dropped back, where Maris was trailing behind. She was caught in awe of nature and refused to keep the group's determined pace.

"So, did I scare you last night?" he asked teasingly.

Maris had to be honest. "It was...unexpected." She tried to smile at him, then remembered that she'd been chewing coca leaves.

"You work as a guide and patrol as long as I have, you build thick skin." He swooped down and grasped a walking stick for Maris. "No one leaves the Andes the same if they can help it."

"I wouldn't say I'm doing anything as extreme as sawing someone's leg off," she said.

Marcos laughed. "But you're here for adventure. I can feel it in you," he said.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that," she said, her pulse quickening.

"I'm going to challenge you to the adventure," Marcos announced to her. "There's a place called 'Dead Woman's Pass.'"

"Ominous," Maris said.

"I know a shortcut, and I know this group will be up for it. Except maybe you," he said, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

"What does it involve?"

"It's a steep cliff. We'll harness up and scale it. Otherwise, we have to walk around the pass," he explained.

Maris swallowed. She'd never been climbing – never been close to anything like it. "Is it dangerous?"

Marcos waved his hand. "If you get stuck, we'll pull you up the rest of the way."

"You won't cut me down?" Maris asked.

Marcos laughed. "Come on, did you bring your sense of adventure to Peru? Are you going to tell your people back home that you trekked the Incan Trail, or are you going to tell them _you trekked the Incan Trail_?" He said the second part with such emphasis as to describe a vast improvement in her journey. Maris, however, felt like he was just itching for something more thrilling than a straightforward trail.

"Alright," Maris caved. She was thinking of Ralf, of the way he'd asked her if she was merely chasing a 'Peruvian Man.' She realized this wasn't necessarily the case, though a part of her wanted to prove that she was, indeed, here for adventure.

"You sure?" Marcos said, but she knew if she went back on the agreement, she'd be bombarded with more persuasive talk.

"Yeah, I'll give it a try," she said with more confidence.

At that, Marcos called gleefully up to the group, as if they'd all been in on this big conspiracy, saying, "She's in!"

_See_ _,_ she thought to herself. _You are NOT a selfish woman._

~~*~~

When they reached the last stretch to the Andean summit, Maris was standing face-to-face with a vertical wall. She turned to Beth and asked if she was a seasoned climber. It seemed unlikely, considering her age, but the woman responded without trepidation.

"This won't be difficult. See how the rock has good holds? It's scary that it's vertical, I know, but as long as your feet and hands have a place, you'll be fine." She slipped into her harness and tightened it with an aggressive tug.

Maris sheepishly pulled hers on.

Marcos approached her and said, "You'll go last, in case we need to pull you up. Plus you'll be able to see where we're putting our feet so you can follow the example."

Maris nodded weakly.

They went as two groups of four, with Marcos leading Maris's flight. Each climber stayed about ten feet apart, and every little bit, they hooked their karabiners on new loops for security.

The cliff side was a series of slopes and landings. Sometimes the climb was slanted, other times completely vertical. They'd climb about fifteen feet, then get to rest on an open landing. The sun was getting hotter and hotter. They split bags of peanuts and sipped their water.

Dripping in sweat, Marcos laid a damp hand on Maris's shoulder. "You hanging in there?"

She nodded.

"From now on, don't look down," he advised.

At that, Maris looked down.

The view made her stomach drop. They were getting higher, that was for sure. Everything that expanded outward from that peak made her feel so small.

The climb continued to a sloped landing that was rather slippery. With each step, Maris could feel how sore her calves would be the next day. Then the slope turned vertical, and they were climbing again.

The group ahead made it up fine, tossing her more slack as she requested it. She watched them disappear over the edge of the landing, and that's when she looked down again. She was struck by a horrible wave of vertigo. Fear seized her, and she found herself clutching to the rock for dear life. This was an adrenaline rush beyond being chased by a jealous wife. This, she realized, could be life or death.

The dizzying height caused her stomach to plummet, and her muscles clamped up tightly.

_This is a joke_ , she thought. _A complete joke_.

A moment passed like an hour. She looked up, the sun practically blinding her. Was anyone up there? Had her group forgotten about her and left?

"Hello?" she called, her voice echoing. "Up there?"

No answer.

"I need a lift!" she said, anger and impatience rising in her voice. She looked up at her karabiner and wondered if it was secure. A quick headshake later, and she promised to think more positive thoughts.

It was only her and the occasional gust of wind that hit her skin with aggressive vigor. She became skilled at predicting when the gusts would come, and she'd press herself flat against the rock as best she could. She thought of her bed at home, of a cold glass of iced tea, and of Tom.

Finally, she gave up. She let go of the rock, and sat back. She felt the rope tighten against her weight with an eerie creaking sound and thought, _Oh well._

She tried one more call, as loud as she could manage. "Anyone up there? Yo!"

Through the blazing sun, a shadow emerged. She saw the outline of a man's head as he looked over the edge to take a look.

"What are you doing, Maris?" Marcos called.

Fury built inside her. "What does it look like?"

She swore she heard a laugh as he said something to the rest of the group.

"So climb!" he said. "Conquer this!"

She grasped the rope. "Pull me!" she insisted, feeling like a toddler.

Marcos continued to look down. "Breathe, Maris. Just breathe out everything you are and climb."

Her muscles were still cramped up, but she reached for her previous holds.

"You can do it!" another voice piped. It was Beth's husband.

Maris placed her feet.

Soon, the rest of the group was chiming in. Her arms were shaking and her back ached, but for each meter she conquered, she felt stronger.

"Yes, Maris! That's it!" Marcos said.

Three feet away from the edge, she felt them tugging the rope up. They helped her that last bit of the way and pulled her onto the landing. She lay there breathlessly, letting the sun melt into her skin.

There were cheers of pride, even from the Belgian couple. They'd reached the end of the shortcut, and there was only a little bit left to go.

While they weren't climbing the last stretch, it was still rather nasty. The hot air turned to cold gusts of wind blown from the Andes. Everyone pulled on their jackets to cover their skin.

At the summit, they celebrated. They toasted with water and basked in the breathtaking view. Maris even took a picture with Marcos.

After the descent, they set up camp at Pacamayo. They were halfway there.

In her dormitory, Maris began crafting a postcard. She surprised herself from the moment she addressed it.

_To Ralf:_

_I don't know if I've proven you right or proven you wrong..._

She detailed that day as much as the space on the postcard would allow, and just as she signed her name, there was a rap at her door.

She looked up in the flickering candlelight and said, "It's open." She expected Beth to walk in, perhaps with a cup of coca tea. Instead, a very different face appeared at the door. He was smiling almost expectantly and holding two beers. The second Marcos stepped in, she realized he was singling her out.

"I think you and I should celebrate," he said.

She sat there motionlessly for a while. Her first thought was, _No, this man is crazy, and he'll only lead you to more craziness._

Her second thought was, _Maybe that i_ _sn't such a bad thing._

#

** **

###

**Episode 4**

If you accept a beer from a wild man, he's going to expect a toast.

If you propose a toast with a wild man, you're going to be sorry.

Maris woke up with a sore head and a mild recollection of the night before. She remembered the long hiss of her beer as Marcos popped the top. She remembered the bottle necks clinking and Marcos winking, saying, "To the climb."She remembered the first sip going straight to her dehydrated and tired head. She remembered Marcos telling a story for a long time, but she wasn't sure about what. Then words had spilled from her mouth for a while (a part of her felt that it must have been about Tom and her quest around the world for the perfect man) and Marcos listened in a surprisingly attentive way. She remembered his hand on her shoulder, a sloppy kiss that left her chin wet, then the abrupt realization that her beer was empty.

She was relieved, however, to see that Marcos was not beside her in bed. Her watch read 4:16 am: too early for him to have secretly slipped away. Besides, despite the headache and choppy memory, she was sure she would have remembered if they had...you know.

Then the second part of the night started coming back in bits and pieces. The empty beer. Her conscience saying, "No, no, no, no, no." Marcos explaining where he'd gotten the beer, and where she could retrieve another. And – oh shit! Did that really happen?

She sat there in disbelief of the situation, of herself, of what she'd been capable of last night. Maybe she'd been high from the altitude, or just high from her climb. Last night, when she learned that Marcos had taken the beer from a local's kitchen, she couldn't stop laughing. Now, however, it didn't strike her as very funny.

Marcos convinced her that neighbors lived communally around the village, and that was why people left their doors unlocked.

"Go in, grab a few more beers. They'll only mind if you wake them up," he said. Which was partially true – if they woke up, they would mind because they would realize they were being robbed.

Maris nodded, wide-eyed, taking in his every word. He pushed her in the direction of the house he'd found the beer in, and she trotted along. She turned back with a flash of uncertainty and caught a wide grin on Marcos's face. She'd said something along the lines of, "Are you checking out my butt?"

The house was dark, and she could hear snoring in the room beside the kitchen. The effect was immediately sobering. As quietly as possible, she dug around the cabinets to find the beer. She found it stored just below the window, where the night draft kept it chilled. As she stacked a few bottles into her arms, all she could hear was the audible clatter of glass against glass. When she turned to leave, she noticed the snoring had stopped.

As Maris recalled this, she felt her face flush with utter embarrassment. _What had been going through her head?!_

A man caught her at the doorway. He was short and stocky but nonetheless intimidating. His face was scrunched with confusion and anger. Then the rapid Spanish began pouring out.

Thank goodness Marcos had the decency to come to her rescue. He argued with the man until things seemed to calm down. Maris replaced the beers below the windowsill, and they took their leave.

When they got back to Maris's room, Marcos was in stitches, and he tossed her a beer magically produced from his sweatshirt. "I bet you need this," he'd said.

Her jaw fell slack.

"I took it as we left," he explained with a laugh.

"You're crazy," she said. "That man wanted to have me arrested."

He waved his hand. "He doesn't count his bottles. He drinks like a fish, so he'll probably think that was all a dream."

Maris had felt sick to her stomach, but she accepted the beer nonetheless. She needed to calm her nerves. The second beer didn't add to her buzz. It just made her feel drowsy. The conversation slowed, and Marcos had stretched across her bed to make himself more comfortable. She leaned her head back against his bony ribcage, and she thought about how easily he could take advantage of her now that he knew about her list of ideal qualities in a man.

Truth was, though, that list was beginning to change. As much as she found herself bored with life when she was with Tom, she questioned whether she was really looking for an "adventurous" man in the purest form. Maybe, to her, adequate "adventure" meant the occasional attendance of a rock concert – not a four day hike to Incan ruins.

Noticing that Maris had finished the beer, Marcos commented, "Careful, that stuff is homemade. Who knows the alcohol content of it."

"Thanks," she'd said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. "I realized how strong it was after the first one." She noticed his hand on her thigh, so she wiggled away, got into her sleeping bag, and zipped it up tightly. She nodded at him to say goodnight, then closed her eyes in hopes that he would leave.Not long after, she heard her door click closed,and she drifted into sleep.

~~*~~

Marcos rallied the group earlier than expected the next morning. Perhaps he wanted to get out of town before anyone heard about the previous night's incidents (including the man he'd stolen from). They were on their way to a small set of ruins at Runkuracay and a long trail to the ruins of Wiñay Wayna. They ate their breakfast of nuts and granola on the trail.

Their third day was filled with beauty that Maris had never experienced before. The snow-capped peaks and the dropping cliffs along the ruins were one thing. However, the most breathtaking part was the section of cloud forests full of natural orchids and hanging mosses. They passed through a hand-dug tunnel and some Incan baths. Then they stopped in a village for a dinner of corn tamales, lima bean salads, fried steaks, rice, beans, and three-milk cakes for dessert. After that, fatigue set in. Maris's muscles were sore from the previous day's hike, and her night had caught up to her in a way she didn't expect. Luckily, Marcos seemed to be avoiding her just as much as she was avoiding him.

They camped out on the third night, and luckily Maris was sharing a tent with Beth and her husband, so no run-ins with Marcos were possible. She went to bed at eight and fell hard into sleep.

The campers arose at six the next morning. The air was still cold, leaving Maris's limbs stiff, but the good news was that Machu Picchu was only a two hour hike from where they were.

They trekked narrow paths around a mountainside until they came across a flight of fifty stairs. It was steeper than anything Maris had ever climbed, and her aching legs protested every step of the way. Those steps were at the cusp of Maris quitting and throwing a fit. She was exhausted and ready to sleep in a real bed. A joke she'd been repeating throughout the hike had been the phrase, "Are we there yet?" It was on the tip of her tongue yet again when she realized _she was there_.

When she got to the top, she saw it was all worth it – not just the exhaustion and the soreness, but all the fears she'd conquered throughout the past four days. There it was, sprawling and magnificent in the old, angular hands of the Andes: Machu Picchu. A gentle fog had settled along the high peak behind the old ruins, and the morning sun was soft on her back.

As Maris stepped toward the ruins, she felt the sensation of falling into their expansive beauty. The sloping tiers of old stone were alive with vibrant, green grass that was still groomed to perfection.She drew in a deep breath of the mountain air as she tried to comprehend the history behind it. How many people had cleared this pass and taken in this view? How many journeyers have surveyed that peak and the busy metropolis below? She imagined Incans bustling in and out of their homes, carrying satchels and pushing carts of food. What were their lives like two thousand years ago? Did they argue with each other about petty things; did they laugh at each other's jokes; did they love?

Questions swam in Maris's head as the group descended down into the ruins, into the old homes where people used to raise their families and the crumbling temples where they used to pray. Masons had built these places brick by brick, and still they stood.

Her heart had never felt so full yet simultaneously, so longing.

~~*~~

On the bus ride back to Cusco, Maris decided that Machu Picchu was the only love she needed in Peru. When Marcos took a seat next to her, she played it cool.

"So you've seen it," he said, that grin back on his face.

"It was unbelievable," she said.

He nodded. "What now?"

Deep within her, she worried he meant, _What now for you and me?_ She had no plans to include him further in her travels. She'd had her fill of "Mr. Adventurous."

"So you're on your way to Argentina to find a romantic," he said.

She narrowed her eyes, unable to stop a smile from forming at her lips. "I guess I remember telling you that."

"What makes you think you can't find a romantic in Peru?" he asked.

She knew he was only flirting and that she couldn't possibly be expected to give him a shot with her. After all, she was scheduled to leave in a few days. However, she had planned on checking into a five star hotel and sleeping off the pain in her limbs. Any love affairs would be between Maris alone and a hot bath. Marcos was not in the picture if she planned on recuperating at all.

"When I was a girl," she explained, "I saw this old black and white movie on Turner Classics. It's this TV channel in the US that shows old films. Anyway, this lady was eating dinner with this nice fellow, and she got up to dance. She took the hand of this other suave-looking guy and they did this really sensuous dance. Something I'll never forget, the way his hands moved on her body and the way her feet wrapped around his, and the way they were looking at each other." She glanced out the window as they passed a flock of llamas. She wanted to dig her fingers into their bushy, thick fur.

Marcos pulled her from her distraction. "They were dancing the Tango."

She turned from the llamas and cleared her throat. "Yes. I turned to my dad and asked which guy she was in love with – the one she was dancing with, or the one she'd been eating dinner with who was now sitting at the table like a chump. My dad said it was hard to tell."

"Well, usually Tango dancers are just partners. You can't fall in love over a dance," Marcos said.

Maris shrugged. "That's not what I was expecting anyway." She didn't explain what she did expect: if a man knows how to dance the Tango, he'll know how to love a woman. She wanted to be looked at the same romantic way that actress was looked at when she danced.

"It's a pity," Marcos said.

"What is?"

"I had a fun time with you the other night," he confessed.

Maris frowned at first, but then she thought back to that angry neighbor's scrunched face, the clattering of the beer as she apologized and put it back, and how her heart raced as she ran back to her hostel with Marcos. A smile overtook her face, and she replied sincerely, "Yeah, Marcos. I had a good time, too. You're a liar and a thief apparently, but I can't say you don't know how to make things interesting."

He leaned back with a contented expression. To him, that was a great compliment.

~~*~~

Maris flew into Argentina well-rested and completely recuperated, only to lose it all once again.

She'd signed up for two weeks of lessons at a Tango studio, and she was pretty sure she'd be mastering all the dips and spins as that actress in that movie. She pictured herself being pulled around the floor by a handsome Argentinian man, her long stilettoes flying against the hardwood.

On the first day of dance class, those daydreams were dashed.

The instructor, however, was not lacking in the looks department. He was pushing fifty, but he had sophisticated features about him. With a trim frame, white beard, gray eyes, and a thick Argentinian accent, he walked into the studio with confidence. Maris was in a class of seven other students – mostly couples and other single females. There was one student named Arman who was already familiar with the dance, and he made that as clear as rain to the Beginner group with loud comments and ostentatious movements.

The instructor's name was Vladimir Rivero, and he marched in there with assertiveness, not acknowledging Arman's eager waves.

The first thing he said was this: "If you think you can learn the Tango in two weeks, you're sorely mistaken. You'll be lucky if you can do the basic step without faltering. I've been dancing the Tango for fifteen years, and still I can't compete with the masters."

He walked to the other side of the room, his shiny black shoes clicking with each step, and turned on the radio. An accordion, violin, bass, and piano filled the atmosphere with that unmistakable Tango beat.

At that moment, a woman in a stunning silk red dress entered, completely on cue, and Vladimir immediately pulled her into his arms. She sidestepped him, he chased her, she tossed her head back dramatically, he stepped between her legs, she fell into him gracefully, he spun her out. Together they moved to narrate a story, and by the end, their eyes were locked and they stepped with easy fluidity. That last piano chord struck, and they disconnected, took their bows, and the woman left. For something that looked so personal and romantic, it ended very abruptly.

The instructor observed the group carefully and asked, "Does anyone know where the Tango originated?"

The class answered with an uncertain echo. "Argentina."

"Right. The dance originated in the port neighborhoods of Buenos Aires, by the African communities in the mid-1800's. The music, however, has a story of its own. It is the outcome of techniques blending together: African rhythms with European instruments. We have Payada, Milonga, and Candombe influences. A lot of the music you hear now was produced in the 1930's to the 50's, when the trend of Tango was a worldwide phenomenon. Astor Piazzolla?" He looked up to see if anyone recognized the name. Arman, of course, was all over that.

"Yep, yep. He's the man. _Adiós Nonino_ ," he piped.

Vladimir nodded slowly. "Very good. Thank you, Arman." He looked back at the group. "You will hear plenty of Astor Piazzolla, and I want you to familiarize yourself with composers of Tango. Go home from these lessons and listen, listen, listen. In fact, our studio will let you know about the live concerts around Buenos Aires so you can get a taste of live Tango."

He pulled a stool up and took a seat. "Now, what is so difficult about the Argentine Tango? To dance with passion, you must first learn its delicacies and subtleties. Here, we will learn the embrace, the walk, eye communication, waltz, and milonga. If you're lucky, we'll get into the improvisation aspect of this dance, but first you must learn the step figures. But let's not get too complex with words. Let's break down the step."

He counted them off into partners, and of course, Maris ended up with Arman. His breath smelled like onions and his hands were sweaty, but Maris tried to keep her mind open. She felt sorry for the two other single women who were paired with each other. They'd probably thought they were coming to meet some men, then ended up in a class like this one.

They began with the basic step. Left foot forward, side step, through. Back, cross, back, side step, feet together. Tango close. Repeat.

That was it: the first two hour lesson was a struggle to learn those steps and coordinate them with a partner, then do them perfectly to the syncopated rhythm. Vladimir clapped loudly as their feet changed. He called out the steps. He called out their names. By the end, Maris's hands were sweating on her partner, too.

Over the next several days, she danced until her feet and back were sore. Vladimir liked to stress posture, posture, posture. To keep things interesting, the class broke down the basic figures that could work with improvisation: figure-eights, leg hooks, cuts, turns, displacements, and breaks. Move your left foot to your partner's right foot. Step together with _llevadas de pie_ , step apart for _cruce_. Spin in that direction for _giros_ , then the other direction for _contra_ _giros_.

It was hard to keep straight. It was one thing to hear the steps and see a professional do them, it was another thing to make her body do them. Maris would stumble and misstep and belt out a laugh, but the problem was, Arman was deathly serious. He liked to correct her, breathe heavily on her face as he explained what _he_ already knew.

The only time she felt relief was when Vladimir approached them, observing their footwork.

"Very nice, Maris," he said.

She felt a swell of pride at that. Until then, she hadn't been sure her teacher even knew who she was.

"May I cut in?" he asked.

At that, she felt an even bigger swell – one of nervousness. However, when she consented, Vladimir didn't take her arms into a dance. He took Arman's. They moved across the dance floor in a surprisingly natural way. As much as the Old Maris would have found amusement in this, she realized Argentinian culture wasn't as homophobic as her own. In fact, the two men looked like they were supposed to be dancing the Tango together. It also gave her a little pleasure that Vladimir was lecturing Arman the entire time, schooling him in his missteps, where Arman had been lecturing her thus far.

At the end of class, Vladimir stood before them all and announced, "Congratulations on completing your first week. So many of you are understanding the basics of Tango, so I'm very proud. Next week, we take the passion to a whole new level."

The class exchanged excited glances.

"But first, I want you to get a taste of Tango culture. If you're feeling brave, you can come to _La Danza_ at midnight with me tonight. Let's just say I won't be the most experienced person there."

From the tone of his voice, Maris knew the opportunity wasn't something she was going to pass up. She turned to Arman as they packed up their shoes.

"You think you'll go? To _La Danza_?" Maris asked, her tone friendly.

Arman raised his eyebrows. "Maybe."

"Well, maybe we can get a dance in, partner. Would be fun, right?"

Arman cocked his head with skepticism. "Sweetie, you're only a week into this thing, so let's get a couple things clear. The people at this club are going to be close to professional. You're not going to want to get in their way. As for me – this studio is the only place we'll be doing the Tango."

A little taken aback, Maris turned her chin down and focused on tying her sneakers without a reply.

~~*~~

In the back of La Danza, a live band was set up. The shined hardwoods reflected the dazzling lights set up around the dance floor, and men in crisp suits were paired with women in flowing knee-length dresses. It appeared they were all seasoned dancers, moving in their own bubbles together without stepping on the heels of anyone around them.

Maris kept close to the wall, avoiding eye contact lest someone ask her to dance. She grabbed some _caña_ from the bar, which the bartender recommended as a quintessential Argentinian drink made of sugar cane. Then she stood in the corner and watched.

The dancers kept intense facial expressions, but something told Maris they were having the time of their lives. Her first clue was that they refused to leave the dance floor. The less experienced dancers were pushed off to the side as if an entire unspoken hierarchy had been established.

She spotted Vladimir in the mix of it all and watched him for a while. He moved from partner to partner each time the song changed. Seeing him made her want to dance, but she was constantly reminded of where she was.

She didn't notice the man standing next to her until he blatantly looked her up and down and blew out a long exhale of smoke. Maris waved it away and pretended not to notice.

He didn't give up that easily.

" _Es de Buenos Aires?_ " he said.

She heard it but didn't process that he was asking her a question.

He leaned closer and gave her elbow a little tap. _"Es de Buenos Aires?"_

She nearly jumped. "Oh! Oh, um... _Soy de los Estados Unidos._ " That was the best she could do as far as Spanish went.

His expression changed. "I knew it!" he said. "It's not obvious, but I just had a feeling..."

"Are you from Buenos Aires?" Maris asked.

"Uruguay," he said. He nodded toward the front of the room. "You want to dance?"

She looked at the bottom of her empty _caña_ and couldn't hold back a smile. Yes, she wanted to dance, but no, she didn't want to be laughed off the dance floor.

"I'm sorry. I just started to learn a week ago," she said, shaking her head. "I'd embarrass myself."

"That's alright," he said. "You're a beautiful woman in a blue dress. You don't need to worry about looking good out there."

And before she knew it, she was being pulled from her safe spot on the wall and into the moving crowd.

At first, she forgot everything she had learned that week. Her mystery man wrapped his arm around her and grabbed her hand with the other.

She felt his warm whisper in her ear. "Just relax. The steps will come to you."

He moved far smoother than Arman. His walk was polished, and he took Maris with him. He kept her back straight when she forgot about her posture; he moved around her missteps; he warned her with his eyes before he dipped her nearly to the floor. When they knocked into a couple other dancers, he smiled warmly and said, "That's fine! Just keep going."

By the end of the piece, Maris could feel the beat within her, and her feet were moving without her thinking. She even improvised a leg hook at the end. He lit up when she did it.

"That's the idea!" he cried, smiling through gapped teeth.

"You really know what you're doing," Maris said.

"You're a fast learner," he said.

He invited her for a drink, and Maris gladly accepted. On her way to the bar, she passed Arman, who was looking rather misplaced on the wall. From the expression on his face, she knew he had seen the whole dance. As she walked by him, she slowed her pace.

"Arman! How nice to see you!" she said in a saccharine voice. "What's wrong – can't find a partner?"

This time, it was Arman's turn to look down without a word.

Her Romance Man was named Ignacio. They found a table at La Danza, and he bought her a pomegranate martini. They connected on two points of passion: Machu Picchu and the Tango.

Maris described the feelings she'd had at the ruins, and Ignacio echoed them wholeheartedly.

"I've been all around South America. I left home when I was sixteen and went everywhere from São Paulo to Punta Arenas. Then Central America – I lived in Belize for a while and moved all around there."

"Why did you leave home so young?" She asked, then stopped herself. "If you don't mind telling."

She noticed Ignacio blush.

"My parents had died, and I had nothing rooting me down. I belonged to the world," he said, taking a sip of his wine. "But that is a sad story for a happy night. What brings a beautiful woman to Argentina to learn the Tango?"

She shrugged. "I belong to the world now!" She laughed and lifted her glass.

It was two in the morning when they left the beats of La Danza to go seek out a jazz club. The band's sound was low-key, and they took a seat at the bar, where the bartender greeted Ignacio like an old friend.

He gestured toward Maris. " _Y quién es esta bella?_ "

"This is Maris. She danced the Tango with me tonight," he said.

The bartender chuckled in acknowledgement and turned to Maris. "You let him charm you with his dancing?" He slung his bar rag over his shoulder.

Maris laughed, glancing at Ignacio's rich brown eyes, dark flowing hair, and stubbled chin. He was a scraggly-looking man on close observance, his clothes nice but oddly unkempt and a touch dirty, but they fit him nicely to show his build was strong, perhaps from years of dancing. He'd charmed her with a little more than the Tango.

"Oh, so he brings women around often?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

The bartender flapped the rag on his shoulder with a laugh. It was a boisterous and contagious laugh, one that likely made his customers love him. "No, _Señorita_ , you are the first."

Maris smiled at Ignacio. "I highly doubt that," she said, feeling it was true, but she didn't mind. Ignacio was hardly her first. How were her intentions any different?

Ignacio took her hand and kissed it. "The woman is looking for romance. I will let her have it," he said.

Maris turned away as he said these words. Little did he know that she was looking for romance in a way he would never guess. She wanted to do more than experience it; she wanted to define it for the rest of her life.

She leaned forward with stars in her eyes and ordered a glass of Argentinian red wine. The music was loud enough to make her skin tingle, and the soft beat was stirring her soul. The night was young.

They talked about Ignacio's travels and Maris's plans. They talked of home, of missing it, and of moving on from failures. Best of all, they swapped uninhibited stories of love. Maris told him about her escapade in Costa Rica, and he told her about a woman who broke his heart in Belize. They laughed, and they felt each other's underlying sorrow.

"I haven't settled down in one place since," he said. "I move several months at a time, or sometimes I leave just after a few weeks."

Feeling bold from the wine, she blurted, "How do you afford it? I mean, I've been saving up for years, and that's how I can afford my trip. I guess it pays to do nothing for most your life."

Ignacio put his wine glass to his lips with a wince. "I inherited some when my parents passed," he said.

Maris leaned forward with interest. "What did they do for a living?"

They locked eyes for a moment that passed with uncertainty. Maris wasn't sure how to read him – were they caught in each other's eyes, or was his mind lost in other thoughts?

Just then, the band struck up an old classic bossa nova, "Girl from Ipanema." Without warning, Ignacio jumped from his swiveling barstool and offered his hand. "You know this song," he declared.

"Everyone knows this song," she said with a smile.

"So you've danced to it in _LosEstados Unidos_?" he asked.

"Not in public!" she replied.

"Throw everything you know about the Tango away. I want to see your American dance moves."

She took his hand with mock reluctance. Again, they were on the dance floor, but it had a different feel. Her palms weren't sweating nervously, and her feet moved naturally. Their chests were touching, and she could feel him breathing into each step. He spun her slowly, then drew her close again. The singer purred the words to the song at _adagio_ sweetly.

_Ah, por que estou tão sozinho?_

_Ah, por que tudo é tão triste?_

_Ah, a beleza que existe,_

_A beleza que não é só minha,_

_Que também passa sozinha._

By the end of the dance, he whispered to her, "Are you hungry?"

She nodded into his chest.

He knew of a place they could get a snack this late.They grabbed a cab and made it to a hole-in-the wall place that smelled of sweet peppers and charred grill.

"Do you know about Argentinians, that they're very serious about their beef?" Ignacio asked.

Maris had gotten this idea on her first day, when she ordered a steak for dinner and was served, well, an entire plate of steak with nothing else but its succulent juices pooling next to it. Hands down, it was the best meat she had ever tasted, but the waiter gave her a judgmental look when she couldn't finish it.

They took a seat at a rickety table, and Maris kicked off her heels. She allowed Ignacio to order for her. He brought over _empanadas_ with _chimichurri_. It was a flaky pastry stuffed with seasoned onions and beef, dipped in a parsley lemon garlic sauce, and it simply melted in her mouth. From the first bite, the _empanada_ pocket steamed up her mouth with wonderful flavor.

Ignacio lit a cigarette. "I'd like to take you to a nicer place this week," he said, then held in a drag as if charging courage. "Can I give you my number?"

Maris stopped herself from one of her sarcastic comments – _Oh, so this isn't a one-night thing for you?_

"Please do," she said, realizing that her mouth full of food wasn't very graceful.

Ignacio looked pleased nonetheless. "It's hard for me to say goodnight just yet," he said.

At first she thought he was inviting her to his place. Instead, he proposed they walk the streets of Buenos Aires. Since they were in a touristy and rather safe neighborhood, Maris agreed to the idea. They passed other late-night partiers stumbling from dance clubs, observed the old and new architecture converging under soft lights, and sat by a staggering sculpture fountain, one of detailed horses, gods, and sea nymphs. When the sky turned a golden, rosy hue, Maris jumped to check the time.

"Is it really morning?" she gasped, nearly jumping from her seat on the fountain's stone ledge. She had a Tango lesson at ten to attend.

Ignacio took her arm. "Please, Maris. I've wanted to kiss you all night."

She stopped worrying briefly as he leaned in to smell her hair. He kissed her neck, under her chin, on her cheek. She fell into it with rapture. It had occurred to her to kiss him earlier, but she'd been so caught up in their conversation, in the beautiful sights of the city, and the sounds of everything new.

When their kiss ended, she saw he was looking at her the same way those Tango dancers looked at each other in that movie. Her heart practically floated into the fountain where they sat and nestled into the palms of Poseidon. The gods could crush it for all she cared – in that moment, she was completely content.

"I wish I could stay longer," she said, unsure if she meant stay in that moment or stay in Argentina.

"So stay," Ignacio said, caressing her hair.

Maris considered it for a moment and decided she meant she wanted to stay right there, by the fountain, for just a little longer. At least, that was what she meant for the time being.

She leaned her head on the shoulder of her Romance Man with a content sigh. He was a stranger – just a stranger – but she had finally understood what Ralf had been trying to accomplish in Costa Rica. It _was_ possible to make a connection to someone in very little time.

Thing was, there were a lot of things about Ignacio that she didn't know – lies that only a true stranger could conceal.

#

**Credits**

Written by

**Katherine Russell**

Producer

**Christian** **Jorda**

Executive Producer

**Manja** **Haensel**

Technical Director

**Baljeet** **Singh** **Kalsi**

Music

**Johnny Lucas**

Editorial

**Kate** **Teng**

Project Co – Director

**Adam** **Azani**

Art Director

**Abner** **Dumandan** **Jr**

Marketing

**Liliya** **Dimitrova**

Customer Support

**Erin Bell**

Voice over

**Eric Saint John**

Production Management

**Christian** **Jorda**

**Manja** **Haensel**

**Adam** **Azani**
