The Lost Girls Read Free

things with my relationship weren’t going so smoothly. In fact, I was bracing myself for a potential train wreck.
    After I had dated my boyfriend, Brian, for almost three years, the confidence to shout off the rooftops “Hallelujah! He’s the One!” still eluded me. Though many empathetic souls reminded me that I was still young, a growing number of onlookers had begun to pounce on my uncertainty. “Shit or get off the pot,” they’d say, invoking the single phrase I loathed more than any other. I mean, maybe I was just comfortable staying in a seated position longer than other people. Can’t a girl simply enjoy the feel of cool porcelain without being judged?
    While my romance with Brian hadn’t followed the traditional cinematic structure—boy sees girl, they lock eyes, share a passionate embrace, and fall head over heels in love—it had grown out of something stronger: a true friendship. We’d met at a business lunch halfway through my “freshman year” in New York. Network television sales assistant meets advertising client—an industry cliché that always made us laugh. Soon we grew from casual acquaintances to after-work happy hour buddies to true confidants who organized late-afternoon photo shoots in Central Park, signed up for salsa lessons, and dined in cute garden cafés on Restaurant Row.
    Before we knew it, we were a serious couple. And as the months turned into years, we never had a moment’s pause about progressing naturally from one level to the next. Becoming Exclusive. Meeting the Parents. Planning Vacations. Discussing Living Together. I was one of the lucky ones, shattering the Manhattan urban myth that it was impossible to find a sweet, gainfully employed city guy who wasn’t afraid to commit.
    But within the past few months, we’d hit the proverbial relationship wall. We had no real reason to break up, but also no real catalyst moving us forward. I knew that Brian and I would have to face the question of our future eventually, but at twenty-six (for another precious few months, anyway), I was more than content to take the safe road—present bus ride excluded. As we neared the park exit, the driver slammed into a pothole, sending me and my wandering thoughts sliding off the bench and into the aisle.
    Fortunately, the travel deities, it seemed, had decided to cut us yet another break: in the parking lot, we spotted the same snoring taxi driver who’d originally transported us across the border using a series of dusty back roads and convinced him to do the exact same thing in reverse. A few por favor s, 20 Argentine pesos (about $7), and we were on our way.
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    E ven after our mad dash through the jungle, none of us were quite ready to call it a night. By the time we’d reached our hotel—located within the national park on the Argentinean side—Holly had come up with a better alternative.
    Her green eyes glinted, and a mischievous smile crossed her face. “Hey, so now that we’ve gained an hour of time back, do you guys want to hike over to Devil’s Throat waterfall? When I spoke with the concierge this morning, he said it doesn’t take long to get there and the view is the best one.”
    â€œI’m definitely down for that. Schmanders?” I asked, invoking Amanda’s college nickname.
    â€œHey, why not?” she said, sweeping her blond curls off her neck and into a loose ponytail. “And at least we know we can’t get stranded on this side!”
    After smoothing on a fresh layer of sunblock (my fair skin tends to freckle and burn even in the light of sunset), I grabbed my day pack and we took off running down the trail.
    Giddy from our day’s adventure, Amanda, Holly, and I theatrically strutted across another set of Iguazú’s elevated catwalks, following the signs to Garganta del Diablo. We passed over marshy wetland grasses and under verdant green canopies