Confused, she takes the plastic cup and before I can truly process the insult, hat boy steps back to study us.
“That’s better.” He smiles as if he isn’t seconds away from sifting through the sand for the teeth I’m about to knock right out of his head. “Now that your hands are free . . .” He slides his left palm into my grip and tugs me toward the dancing crowd. I don’t truly understand what he’s done until we’re both moving to the music.
“You could have just asked me to dance,” I say, when the rhythm changes and he sways closer.
“Guys ask you to dance all the time, and you forget them before the music even fades. But you’ll remember me.”
I laugh as he twirls me, and the crowd backs away to give us space. “So, who exactly will I be remembering?”
He spins us in sync, with one hand at my back, and people are watching us now. “If I tell you my name, I lose my mysterious edge.”
“Fine. Then where are you from?”
“South Bend.” He pulls me closer when the music changes. His hand slides over my hair and down my back as we settle into a sexy Cuban salsa.
“You did not learn this in Indiana.”
His laugh is low and hot. “I learned this in Santa Clara. But I was born in Indiana.”
A Midwestern boy in a hat. Dancing sexy, street-style salsa on the beach.
I’m hooked.
We dance toward the edge of the crowd, and it closes in behind us. “So, Indiana, why were you in Santa Clara?” I ask, now that I can hear him better.
“Because that’s where the bus dropped me, after Havana.”
“Hey, Genesis, it’s getting dark.” Neda appears out of nowhere, staring nervously at the brilliant pink and orange sunset.
“Yes. That’s a nightly event.” I can’t look away from Indiana.
“Maybe we should head back to the cabana.”
“Relax. We won’t let anything eat you.” I turn her by both shoulders and point her back toward the crowd.
“You’re staying at Cañaveral?” Indiana frowns. “That’s a long hike in the dark.”
“Change of plans.” Who needs room service and real beds? “We’ll rent hammocks and stay here.”
“And you just decided that? For all your friends?”
“I always do.”
The song ends and he steps back to look down at me. “Every now and then, you should let people make up their own minds.” His gaze holds a strangely magnetic challenge. “That’s how adventures begin.”
Before I can figure out how much of that is innuendo and just how much adventure he might be up for, Holden materializes at my side.
“I won!” He less than subtly shows me the joint hidden in his palm—evidently the spoils from his cornhole battle.
“Congratulations.” I glance at the soldiers gathered near the restaurant, but they aren’t watching.
Holden’s gaze hardens as he looks at Indiana. He lays a possessive hand on my arm. “Dance with me.”
Before I can remind my boyfriend that he doesn’t own me, Indiana tips his straw hat, then heads down the beach to join the cornhole game.
Holden and I dance with Pen and the rest of our friends. But my gaze keeps wandering back to the salsa-dancing cowboy.
83 HOURS EARLIER
MADDIE
“You do know that the Palmyra ruins in Syria are thousands of years old?” Benard says. “Destroying a community’s history does just as much damage as destroying their homes and businesses. It’s a blow straight to the heart of the people.”
I sit back in my chair while I consider his point, then lean in to take a sip of my bright-red cocktail. I’m still not convinced, but Benard’s eyes and the beach, both less than two feet away, are a perfect view. And a perfect setting for a debate.
“Of course,” I concede. “But do you really think rebuilding some statues—”
“And temples!”
“Fine, rebuilding statues and temples will truly help people who have been displaced by years of war? Don’t you think they’re more concerned with necessities like food, shelter, and safety?”
He takes a drink from his beer, but his gaze never leaves my face. “I’m not saying those things aren’t important, but think about the message rebuilding cultural symbols sends to the terrorists who destroyed them. ‘Whatever you do, whatever pain you cause, you can’t destroy our culture. You can’t destroy who we are.’” He lifts one brow at me, punctuating his point. “That’s pretty powerful, n’est-ce pas?”
“Yes, but what good will these symbols do, if the people you’re building them for are dying of hunger and exposure?”
Milo chuckles. “You are not what we expected.”
“Then you should reassess your expectations.” I give them a half smile. Whatever is in this drink has definitely upped my sass factor. “D’accord?” My French accent is terrible—it sounds like I’m speaking Spanish—but I don’t care.
Benard grins at my effort. “Okay, d’accord. But surely you agree that the media should dedicate more coverage to the problems people are faced with every day in a war zone?”
Hot and intellectually engaging? I’d swoon if it weren’t cheesy.
Milo lifts his empty bottle. “I believe la mademoiselle needs another drink.”
I glance down and am surprised to notice I’ve nearly finished my cocktail. And the sun is setting.
“À votre service!” Benard gives me a brief bow, and as they wind their way through the now-crowded restaurant for another round, I realize I’m buzzing.
Genesis and her entourage have been all over the world, yet I’ve never heard them debate anything of more significance than whether the shopping is better in Milan or Paris.
“Maddie? Is that you?”
I turn to find a boy in neon orange swimming trunks and a faded tee sitting at the table behind me. I recognize him, but at first I can’t put a name to his face, because his face doesn’t belong in Colombia. It belongs in Miami.
“It’s me.” He lays one hand over his chest, as if that will help. “Luke Hazelwood, from your calculus class.”
“Oh, right.” Seeing him here is disorienting. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He shrugs with a glance at the last half of a sandwich on the plate in front of him. “Eating dinner. It’s this habit I have.”
“No, what are you doing in Colombia?” Parque Tayrona isn’t a typical American spring break destination—not that Luke is the party type.
Luke resettles his scruffy baseball cap over a headful of brown curls. “I’m on vacation.” He shrugs. “My parents are snorkeling.”
Of course he’s traveling with his parents.
Though to be fair, if my uncle hadn’t offered Ryan and me seats on his jet, we’d be at home with our mom right now. Swimming in our apartment complex’s concrete pool.
“I saw you from behind, but I wasn’t sure that was you until I noticed your arm.”
Humiliation warms my cheeks. My hand slides over the jagged pink line of scar tissue on my left triceps.
Two seconds with Luke and I’m flashing back to the second worst night of my life.
Maybe he’d like to bring up my dad’s death too?
“Not that the scar’s your defining characteristic. You’re definitely better known for your—”
I open my eyes to find him blushing furiously beneath the brim of his cap. His gaze drops from my face, and when he sees that I’m wearing a bikini, he looks away again, and his flush deepens.
Do I look this awkward to Genesis and her friends?
Luke’s flush finally fades and he makes another valiant effort at communication. “You’re not going to drink that, are you?”
My hand tightens around my nearly empty cup. “It’s just one drink.”
“I mean that one.” He looks at something over my shoulder, and I turn to see Benard and Milo heading toward us with my second cocktail and two beer bottles. Luke glances at my insulin pump, and I bristle again.
br /> “What do you know about it?” I already have a brother, mother, and grandmother looking over my shoulder. I don’t need some boy from my math class telling me what to do.
Luke shrugs. “My dad has type one. He always eats when he drinks.”
“Voilà!” Benard sets the fresh, bright-red cocktail on our table. I should apologize and tell him I can’t have another one. But the heat in his eyes—and the sunlight gleaming on his broad chest—reminds me why I’m here in the first place.
“Thanks.” I pick up the new drink and take a long sip through the straw.
Luke stands and sets his plate in front of me. “Ham and cheese.”
I blink at the neatly cut sandwich half, then look up at him.
“I haven’t touched that part.” He steps off the wood plank floor and wanders off down the beach.
Benard sinks into the chair next to mine and places two bottles of water on the table. “Who was that?”
“Just a boy from my school.” But I’ve already forgotten about Luke.
“You two have fun.” Milo clinks his beer against Benard’s and gives him a look I can’t interpret. “The music calls . . .” He heads for a crowd gathered around an Afro-Colombian band playing outside the restaurant.
The sun continues to sink below the horizon while we talk. When I realize my cup is empty again, I look up to see that we’re the only ones left in the restaurant. The owners are wiping tables.
Benard rises and pulls out my chair for me as I stand. Vertigo washes over me, and I clutch the table, waiting for it to pass.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and when I nod, he leaves the issue alone. He doesn’t even glance at my insulin pump.
“Shall we find a spot on the sand?”
I grab my towel from where I left it hours before and follow Benard to a secluded spot on the dark beach. He spreads out the towel and sits, then laughs as I drop onto it next to him, still trying to find my balance. We’re out of sight from the crowd, but we can still hear the music.
His arm around my waist steadies me. The rhythm of the waves lapping the beach lines up with the beat of the drums behind us. This moment is perfect.
“Tu es très belle.” Benard’s lips brush my ear, and the warmth of his breath makes me catch mine. His fingers trail lightly up my neck and into my hair, and I shiver from the touch.
I close my eyes.
He kisses the back of my jaw, and a sigh slips from my throat. For a second, I feel embarrassed by my own inexperience, but Benard only groans and turns my face toward his.
His mouth finds mine, and suddenly I am kissing a beautiful Belgian boy on a moonlit night at the edge of the Caribbean Sea.
79 HOURS EARLIER
GENESIS
I take a hit and pass the joint to Neda, then I turn back to the window. A breeze blows through the two-story open-air hut, bringing with it the scent of the ocean. The hut sits at the top of a rock outcrop, jutting into the water, and the view is spectacular, even at night.
I feel like I’m floating high above the ocean, looking down at the rest of the world.
“Mind if I join you?”
I spin to find Indiana standing behind me. The crooked hat is gone, but the crooked smile is out in full force.
“I’m not going to forget you. You can stop stalking me now.”
He laughs and takes the joint, then gestures with it to his hat, cradled in a blue-striped rental hammock. “I’ve been sleeping there for the past two nights.”
Eleven other hammocks ring the center support column of the round hut like the spokes of a wheel, flickering in candlelight. My group has rented half of them. Ryan and Domenica are already huddled up in one.
I lay one hand over my heart. “So you’re saying I’m stalking you?”
He shrugs. “I think the evidence speaks for itself.”
Neda giggles as Indiana passes the joint to her. “This is why you gave up the cabana,” she whispers to me, loud enough for the whole world to hear. Then she takes a hit and leaves us alone at the window.
Indiana exhales, and the breeze steals his smoke. Laughter erupts behind us as the rest of my friends get high with the West Coast bros from the cornhole game.
“You’re not really with them, are you?” I glance over his shoulder at the other West Coast bros, who are trying—and failing—to pass a joint completely around their circle before someone laughs or exhales.
“I met them at the park entrance a couple of days ago. They’re entertaining and well supplied, so . . .” He shrugs, then looks right into my eyes. “I’ve met a lot of interesting people here.”
“I’ve only met one.” I can practically feel the air crackle between us. “Let’s take a walk on the beach,” I say as I take his arm.
He shakes his head slowly, holding my gaze. “I like the view from up here.” Finally he turns back to the window. “The moon’s reflecting in the water so clearly that it looks like there are two of them.”
I follow his gaze. He’s right about the moon.
“So, how long are you here?” I ask as I stare at the water.
Indiana’s shoulder brushes mine as he shrugs. “Until I get bored or run out of money.”
I turn to him, surprised. “You’re not in school?”
“I’ll probably go back for my senior year next fall. But for now, I’m taking a break from the drama.”
Maybe it’s the pot talking, but for the first time in my life, that sounds kind of peaceful, rather than boring.
Movement at the stairs catches my attention, and when I turn, I see my best friend and my boyfriend on the top step, their backs to us. Holden has his left hand in the air, and Penelope is practically climbing onto his shoulder, trying to get to the joint he’s holding.
She laughs and grasps for his hand again, but every time she reaches, he pulls the joint farther out of her range. He’s playing keep-away.
But she’s not keeping away. She is all over him.
Alarm slices through me. It’s a small pain. But like a paper cut, it stings.
“Where are you from?” Indiana asks, and there’s a strange tone in his voice. It sounds like . . . sympathy.
“Miami.” But I hardly hear myself speak, because Penelope has climbed onto Holden’s lap to pull his arm back into reach. She smiles as she looks down at him. His hand is on her hip.
“Genesis,” Indiana whispers, and I have to blink to keep my eyes in focus.
“They’re just high.” I can’t look away. It’s like staring at a train wreck.
Indiana exhales. “Things aren’t always what they look like.”
But it’s exactly what it looks like—my boyfriend and my best friend are drunk and high, and moments away from hooking up right in front of me. Which is why Indiana pointed me toward the window, instead of down the stairs to the beach.
Penelope settles onto the top step, and Holden holds the joint for her while she sucks on it. There’s something intimate and familiar about the way they touch each other. As if it’s not happening for the first time. As if I’m watching something I was never meant to see.
They’re together.
My face burns. I inhale, trying to put out the fire kindling deep in my chest.
My relationship with Holden may not conform to standard norms and boundaries—we’re hardly your standard couple—but we do have boundaries. And he will pay for breaching them.
I square my shoulders.
“I’ve been where you are,” Indiana whispers. “Acting on impulse cost me two friendships.”
I squeeze his hand lightly as I remove it from my arm. “I never act on impulse.”
I walk across the room as if nothing’s wrong—as if my best friend and my boyfriend haven’t crossed a line none of us can ever uncross. Holden and Pen are laughing. They don’t know I’m there until I lean down between them and pluck the joint from Penelope’s hand.
“Thanks.” I take a long hit and hold it for a second. Then I blow it into their faces. “Since we’re ob
viously sharing things now.”
I leave them staring after me as I head down the stairs toward the beach.
75 HOURS EARLIER
MADDIE
Something pokes me in the side. My eyes open, and bright bolts of sunlight spear my head. “Wha . . . ?”
Someone groans near my ear, and the entire world seems to sway around me. And beneath me.
“Maddie!”
I freeze, then roll my eyes to see as much of my surroundings as possible without triggering another nauseating sway.
Ryan stares down at me through a fine sheet of mesh, which my groggy mind labels “mosquito netting.” Because I’m in Parque Tayrona, in a hut on the beach. In a hammock.
That groan comes again, and an arm falls over my bare stomach.
Oh, shit. I’m in a hammock with a guy.
“Help me up,” I whisper, humiliation burning in my cheeks. How did I wind up in a hammock with a guy half wrapped around me?
My brother pulls back the mosquito netting and helps me climb out of the hammock without waking . . . Um . . .
Benard.
The boy from Belgium who speaks French, Spanish, English, and German. Who knows about Greek philosophy, French wine, and Caribbean tides.
The boy I spent the night with.
No no no no . . . Panicked, I glance down and am relieved to see that I’m still wearing my bikini and board shorts. The rest of my memory falls into place as Ryan shoves my T-shirt at me.
Benard and I shared a couple of puffs of whatever Nico passed us, then came back to his hammock, where we made out for a while, then . . .
Did I fall asleep in the middle of a hookup?
My flush deepens. Two drinks and a couple of hits shouldn’t have been enough to knock me out. Should they?
I check my insulin level as I follow my brother down the steps to the beach. It’s a little low, but not terrible.
“Are you okay?” Ryan drops a granola bar at my feet as I plop down on the sand. “Do I need to go beat some manners into that predator?”
“Relax. Nothing happened.”