100 Hours

Neda complains about every step, and Nico’s jaw clenches tighter and tighter until I’m sure he’s going to dislocate his own jaw. Finally he pulls a small radio from his bag and drowns her out with salsa music. When the first song ends, a newsbreak reports that police found two bodies in a burned-out van on the edge of Cartagena last night.

  My insides twist into knots. My father’s body was discovered the same way, nearly a year ago.

  “What’s wrong?” Neda demands, and Nico summarizes the Spanish-language newscast.

  Her forehead furrows. “It’s probably guerrilla warfare,” she announces, turning to me with an “I told you so” expression.

  Genesis scowls at Nico. “Why would you translate that for her?”

  “It’s not guerrilla warfare,” he snaps at Neda, his accent thickened with irritation. “FARC has disbanded. It’s just an isolated incident.”

  He’s right. The conflict between activists and the Colombian government is all but over. This has to be a random act.

  “Then it must be drug violence,” she insists.

  I speak through clenched teeth. “Believe it or not, Neda, sometimes people in Colombia commit crimes unrelated to drug trafficking. Just like in the rest of the world.”

  Still, I wish Ryan hadn’t heard. The reminder of our father’s death might not send him into a backslide, but it won’t help him either.

  “Was it in the jungle?” Neda asks, as if she didn’t even hear us. “Guerrillas are always kidnapping and murdering people in the jungle.”

  “Kidnappings are passé,” Genesis assures her, before Nico’s head can explode. “Today’s fashionable guerrilla makes his money in illegal gold mining and extortion. Besides, anyone who tried to kidnap you would give you back within the hour.” She links her arm through Neda’s. “You’re an acquired taste.”

  Neda grins and flips her off. “Money is such a petty reason to ruin someone’s life.”

  “Not for those who can’t afford food and shelter,” Nico insists. “But the gang riots and school shootings in the States truly are pointless.”

  “I don’t condone any violence.” She stands straighter and looks down her nose at him. “I don’t even wear real fur.”

  “How very enlightened of you.” I can hear my voice getting sharper, yet I can’t seem to stop it. “But while American minks are running around with their precious skins intact, Colombian farmers are being driven out of business because of US interference.”

  Neda rolls her eyes at me. “The US does not put Colombian farmers out of business.”

  “Their economic policies do,” Nico insists. “They also pour millions into the ‘war on drugs,’ yet nothing into helping feed and clothe the impoverished masses they helped to disenfranchise.”

  For one long moment, Neda is quiet. Then she frowns down at the mud on her feet. “If this is the only way to get to the beach why haven’t they paved the path yet?” she whines.

  I step over an exposed root and push aside a tall fern reaching into the path. “Because pouring concrete wouldn’t exactly preserve the natural beauty of the jungle.”

  She stops in the middle of the trail to wipe a smudge of dirt from a delicate leaf detail on the strap of her left sandal. “I’m more interested in preserving my shoes.”

  “Why didn’t you change into your hiking boots?” Genesis asks, and the frustration in her voice makes me smile.

  Neda stares down at her manicured toenails, tucking a loose strand of straight, dark hair behind her ear. “Ferragamo says T-strap flats are perfect for any occasion.”

  Genesis sighs. “For any occasion that doesn’t involve thorns, snakes, rocks, and mud.” For the first time in the history of their couture-based friendship, Neda has failed at shopping, and my cousin seems to find no humor in the situation.

  I, on the other hand, think watching nature bitch slap a spoiled heiress is hilarious.

  GENESIS

  “How long is this hike?” Neda demands as we round another muddy curve in the path. “I can’t walk another half hour in these sandals.”

  “That’s too bad, because Cabo San Juan is two hours away.” Maddie looks smug as she passes us on the narrow trail. “Maybe you should head back to the parque entrance and call for a car to take you home.”

  “Nobody’s going home,” I snap at my cousin. “Nico, how many beaches will we pass on the way to Cabo?”

  “Two,” he says as he holds back a protruding branch for Penelope.

  “You’ll be fine,” I tell Neda.

  Ryan hangs back to walk on her other side. “By the time your feet get sore, we’ll be at Piscine beach, and you can jump into the water to cool off. And if your sandals can’t hack it, there will be a piggyback ride in your future.” His smile mollifies her, and she picks up her pace.

  “I’m taking you everywhere I go from now on,” I whisper to Ryan as I step over a muddy patch in the trail.

  “Because I’m willing to give Neda a piggyback ride?”

  “Yes.” But mostly because Ryan is my most valuable asset out here where I can’t just send Maddie and Neda—or Holden and Nico—into separate corners.

  “She’s just feeling lost,” he says. “I’ve been there, and I wouldn’t have made it through without friends and family.”

  All I did was pick out the rehab facility. My dad paid for it, and Maddie convinced him to go, but ultimately, Ryan took control of his own future.

  He is a Valencia.

  By the last leg of our hike, Neda is squealing constantly, convinced that every vine is a snake and that within each shadow lurks a crouching jungle cat. Holden doesn’t complain much, but every root he has to step over and vine he has to push aside deepens his scowl.

  When the rest of us have to wade through a shallow stream, Penelope makes a show of crossing it on a narrow fallen log—walking on her hands.

  If I didn’t love her, I would totally hate her.

  I am ready to feed them all to jungle predators by the time we finally arrive at Cabo San Juan, the best beach in the national park for swimming, surfing, and snorkeling.

  As soon as we step onto the beach, I drop my bag and take off my boots so I can curl my toes in the sand. I breathe deeply, taking in the salt-scent of the air and the bright Caribbean sunshine. The waves here are gentle, and a couple dozen people are waist deep in them, throwing Frisbees and dunking each other.

  With one glance at the water, Neda seems to have forgotten everything she hates about hiking. “It’s beautiful,” she says when she’s caught her breath, and I nod.

  “This is why we’re here.”

  Suddenly, everyone’s smiling. Clothes land on the sand as we strip to our swimsuits, showing off tan, firm bodies sculpted by Olympic coaches, world-class personal trainers, or years on the soccer field.

  Naturally, people stare at us. Neda and Holden pretend not to notice, but I can see discomfort melt from their postures as they register the admiration of the small crowd.

  Maddie hangs back, still fully dressed, obviously trying to establish a distinction between herself and the rest of us. As if she were actually in danger of being mistaken for a world-class athlete or a fashion-forward trendsetter.

  I turn to thank Nico for bringing us to this exotic paradise, but he’s already fifty feet down the beach, talking to three of the half dozen patrolling soldiers. Like those who searched us for drugs and alcohol when we entered the park, they obviously know him. But they don’t seem happy with him.

  Nico is gesturing angrily. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but when he sees me watching, he cuts the argument off. He’s smiling as he rejoins our group, but his shoulders are tense.

  As two of the soldiers strike off down the beach, I realize the third isn’t a soldier at all. He’s the guy Maddie made out with on the dance floor last night, in Cartagena. Sebastián.

  What the hell is he doing at Cabo?

  86 HOURS EARLIER

  MADDIE

  The waves are fierce and foaming as they crash over the
rocks, as if the Caribbean is Mother Nature’s heart and the waves are its beating. Regardless of the advantages I’ve missed, not being born to the wealthy Valencia brother, this is the only privilege that matters.

  “Hey, Ryan, wanna hit the—” I turn, expecting to find my brother waiting for me, ready to dive into the water. Instead, I find him on a wide stretch of grass between the sand and the jungle, surrounded by tents. He’s kneeling in the dirt, using a hand pump to inflate a pretty stranger’s small air mattress while she expertly negotiates the arched poles and canvas of a bright yellow tent.

  “Wanna hit the water?” I drop onto the sand next to my brother.

  Ryan shades his eye from the sun as he looks at me. “You go ahead. I told Domenica I’d play soccer with her, if she can find a ball.”

  Domenica gives me an amused look. “I said I’d play with him if he found some balls.” She is tall and athletic, with a pouf of dark curls and beautiful brown eyes. I have no doubt she can hold her own against my brother, in any sport.

  “Oh. Okay.” Even I can hear how disappointed I sound, and suddenly I feel like an idiot.

  “You’re welcome to join us,” Domenica adds as she slides a flexible pole into the slot forming the apex of her small tent. Her accent isn’t Colombian like my father’s or Cuban like my mother’s. Maybe . . . Peruvian?

  Her offer seems genuine, but Ryan gives me a small headshake. He clearly wants time alone with his new friend.

  “That’s okay. You guys have fun.” I let my gaze wander the beach again, where several dozen people are surfing, swimming, wading, throwing Frisbees, and sunbathing.

  Sand sticks to my feet as I head down the beach, to where Genesis is laying out designer Italian beach towels.

  “I really admire the fashion risks you take, Maddie,” Neda says in a tone so convincing I’m not entirely sure I’m being mocked until she continues. “I could never pull off ‘discount chic.’”

  I clench my jaw and let a retort die on my tongue. I swear, Genesis collects designer companions like some girls collect shoes or handbags. Though she collects those too.

  She and the Versace vixens are the only other people I know here, but I’d rather puncture my own eardrum with a tent pole than listen to Neda’s voice for one more second.

  We’re in one of the most beautiful places in the world, surrounded by travelers from every corner of the globe. If Ryan can make new friends, so can I. I pluck my bag from the sand, but before I’ve taken three steps away from my cousin, something hard crashes into my hip. “Ow!” I look up to find two guys jogging toward me, backlit by the afternoon sun.

  “Pardon!” The guys stop two feet away and one smiles as he bends to reclaim his Frisbee. “Benard has terrible aim.”

  The second guy runs one hand through dark, tousled waves. “Casse-toi! I hit what I was aiming for.” He winks at me, and my breath catches in my throat. Benard is gorgeous. His gaze takes a tour of my body with a thrilling boldness, and despite two years on my school’s debate team and a year in Youth and Government, I can’t think of a single intelligent thing to say.

  “You’re French?” I finally ask, after several seconds of dumbfounded staring.

  “Belgian. I’m Benard and this is Milo. Come play with us, belle.”

  I glance back to see Penelope elbow Genesis, and suddenly all three of the Burberry brats are watching, waiting for me to fall on my face or frighten off both of the beautiful globetrotters with some other act of social ineptitude.

  “I’d love to.” I smile up at Benard.

  But Milo’s attention has snagged on the device clipped at my waist. “You are ill?”

  I swallow a familiar, bitter lump of irritation. “I’m diabetic. Don’t worry. It doesn’t slow me down.” I snatch the Frisbee from Milo and take off down the beach to prove my point. Near the water’s edge, I spin to throw the Frisbee to Benard, and before I know it, I’m laughing as I jog up and down the beach with the two hottest guys I’ve ever met.

  “You’re pretty good,” Benard says as I jump to snatch the Frisbee from the air.

  “My brother started putting my toys on high shelves when I was four. I wouldn’t have survived childhood without a little vertical reach.” I shrug and push hair back from my face as he crosses the sand toward me, sunlight highlighting every plane of his bare chest. He’s shiny. I can’t tell if that’s sunscreen or sweat, but I’m struck by the sudden urge to touch him and find out.

  “I’m thirsty.” Sand flies from beneath Milo’s feet as he skids to a stop. “Let’s get a drink.”

  I follow his gaze to see that the open-air restaurant is serving dinner. There isn’t much of a line yet, but that won’t last long. “Sounds good.”

  Benard puts one hand on my lower back, escorting me toward the long pavilion thatched with palm leaves, and leans in to whisper conspiratorially. “You get a table, and we’ll order. D’accord?”

  I choose an empty white plastic table near the back.

  A few minutes later, the Belgian boys come back from the bar carrying two bottles of beer and a bright red cocktail in a clear plastic cup, garnished with a slice of starfruit. “The selection is limited,” Benard says as he sets the cup in front of me. “Just beer and a couple of fruity cocktails. This one is sparkling wine and corozo berry–infused gin. They say it’s a local specialty.”

  I take a sip. The cocktail is both sweet and tart, yet much stronger than the margaritas I had at the bar last night. “Delicious.” My voice comes out hoarse. “Thank you.” I’ll have to adjust my insulin intake to make up for the sugar and alcohol, but a beautiful cocktail with a beautiful Belgian boy is totally worth it.

  Benard and Milo don’t know me as the lesser cousin of Genesis Valencia, heiress to a shipping empire. They aren’t intimidated by my father’s recent death. They’re taking me at face value, and they seem to like what they see.

  I like what they see.

  Is this what life is like for Genesis all the time?

  84 HOURS EARLIER

  GENESIS

  Holden sets his empty beer bottle in the sand, next to his towel. “Why isn’t there anything to do here?” he demands, shooting an irritated look at Nico over me, Pen, and Neda. “I thought there’d be more . . . recreation.”

  “There’s cornhole,” Nico suggests. “Or Frisbee. Or swimming. Or soccer. Or cards. Or conversation.” But I can tell from the sardonic upturn of one side of his mouth that he knows exactly what Holden means by “recreation.”

  My boyfriend knows Nico snuck something into the park, but his pride won’t let him ask for a hit from the guy he caught kissing his girlfriend.

  I haven’t told him I have a joint tucked into my tampon case because I’d much rather watch this social experiment unfold.

  “Why don’t you guys go snorkeling?” Neda says.

  I laugh. “Holden won’t—”

  “What, and mess up his hair?” Nico quips.

  “That’s a great idea.” Penelope stands and holds one hand out to Holden. “Come snorkel with me.”

  To my surprise, he lets her pull him to his feet, then digs my snorkeling gear from my bag. Halfway down the beach, she snatches his mask and he chases her all the way into the water.

  “Look!” Neda sits up on her towel, and I follow her gaze to see that two men with drums and marimbas have pulled plastic chairs from the restaurant onto the sand. They begin improvising a lively rhythm, and a small crowd gathers. “What’s that?” Neda asks when a woman joins them with a small wooden flute.

  “It’s called a gaita,” Nico tells her as the first playful, airy notes mix with the marimba’s melody.

  The crowd grows, and people start dancing. The beat is infectious.

  “Come on!” I pull Neda off her towel. She, Nico, and I head down to the spontaneous party, and I’m dancing before I even join the crowd. I can’t help it. The sand is warm beneath my feet and the ocean breeze cools my skin. This place is the heart of Colombia. It’s still a part of my father, even
if he won’t admit it. And now it’s a part of me.

  Neda, Nico, and I dance in a cluster, laughing and lost in the rhythm. The setting sun paints my shadow on the sand.

  I don’t see Holden and Penelope, but Maddie’s laughing and drinking with two guys at one of the tables.

  She’s finally remembered how to have fun.

  “Hey!” Penelope slides into the circle next to me. “The water’s amazing! You should go in!”

  “I will later. Where’s Holden?” The crowd has doubled since we arrived this afternoon. So much for our exclusive retreat.

  “He found some like-minded individuals.” Penelope points across the beach, and in the dying light from the setting sun, I see my very high boyfriend clutching a fresh beer as he tosses beanbags with half a dozen guys who seem to be enjoying cornhole with more enthusiasm than it deserves.

  “You want to get a drink?” I ask, and when Pen nods, we duck out of the crowd.

  Penelope groans over the length of the line at the bar, but my gaze has snagged on a guy at the front, waiting for whatever he’s ordered. Light beard scruff outlines his strong jaw. A narrow-brimmed straw hat blocks the setting sun from his hazel eyes.

  The bartender sets an unopened beer and two bright red cocktails garnished with slices of starfruit on the bar. The guy in the hat slides the beer into a pocket of his cargo shorts, then takes both plastic cups. He stops in front of us, on his way to the beach.

  “I over-ordered.” The tilt of his smile mirrors the angle of his hat brim. “Could you two could help me out with these?” He holds up the cocktails.

  Penelope’s hesitation is no surprise. Until she retired from gymnastics, she didn’t have time for a social life, and she’s still behind the curve in experience. In fact, Holden is the only guy she seems truly comfortable with.

  Which makes her the perfect wingman. She knows when to bow out and is willing to keep my boyfriend company.

  “Happy to help.” I take the drinks and hand one to Pen.

  “Thanks.” She takes a sip.

  “Wait, I did that wrong.” The guy in the hat takes the drink from me and turns to Pen. “These are both for you.”