100 Hours

100 HOURS EARLIER

GENESIS

You really came here on a private jet?

Samuel’s mouth is so close to Neda’s that they’re practically kissing, and that obviously makes her happy. No one in this tiny Cartagena dive bar knows she’s five pounds too heavy and four inches too short to ever have anything more than her face appear in Teen Vogue, even if her father did design the latest Hermès handbag. In Cartagena, she’s just another hot American tourist. Where everyone else sees anonymity, Neda thinks she’s projecting mystery.

Neda only sees what she wants to see. Cheerful delusion is part of her charm.

The rest of her charm is money.

There’s no other way to travel. Her lips brush Samuel’s cheek, and he’s so into it he’s breathing hard. His hand is on her thigh. She’s high on the power she has over him—I can see it in her eyes. Commercial is so . . . common.

In the chair to my right, Nico stiffens. He grew up in a five-hundred-square-foot bungalow just outside my grandmother’s neighborhood with his mother and three younger sisters.

As usual, Neda has no clue, but Samuel doesn’t care what she’s saying. He’s probably not even listening. He tugs her into the middle of the bar to join three other couples dancing to the strong, fast beat and brass notes of the cumbia-reggae fusion video playing on a small television mounted over the bar. She stumbles, but steadies herself without his help. She’s okay, for now. But just in case, I finish off her margarita. I’m doing her a favor. She can’t afford the calories and she can’t handle her liquor.

That’s a tourist drink. Try this. Nico pushes his bottle across the table toward me. Most of the locals are drinking rum, but he likes aguardiente, an anise-flavored liquor. He thinks I’ve never had it because my dress is expensive, my nails are perfect, and I call my grandmother Nana instead of abuela. But Nico has only seen what I’ve let him see.

He was surprised when I asked him to show my friends and me something outside the touristy Cartagena party scene. But that was the point. People can’t assume they know you if you keep them guessing.

I grab Nico’s bottle and pour an inch of aguardiente into my empty glass, then throw it back in one gulp.

His brows rise. Not your first time?

I sweep my long, dark hair over my shoulder, and I know he can’t look away. Nana sends my dad a case every Christmas. He doesn’t count the bottles. My dad only sees what I let him see too.

We drink half the bottle while Nico tells me about the hike he’s leading next week, to the ruins of an ancient city in Colombia’s Sierra Nevada. He moonlights as a tour guide because helping my grandmother around the house pays the bills, but it doesn’t pay for college.

Come on. Nico leans closer, and his eyes shine in the glow of colored lights strung over the bar. "You wanted to see the real Colombia. Let me take you to Ciudad Perdida."

We’re not going to be here that long. And I am not taking a generic tour with a dozen budget-traveling tourists, even if Nico is the guide. But maybe I’ll let you show me something special tomorrow. Something . . . secluded.

He leans back in his chair and gives me a slow smile. Now he gets it.

I take another sip of aguardiente and glance around the bar. The local guys in the corner booth are still watching us, but that’s no surprise. People watch my friends and me everywhere we go.

What is strange is that they’re watching Maddie, in her eco-friendly dress and vintage sandals that actually came from Goodwill.

Your cousin is having fun, Nico says.

She’s dancing with one of the local guys. The pretty one with bright hazel eyes and a scruffy, square jaw.

Paola, the bartender, pours with a heavy hand, and her generosity has miraculously dislodged the stick from my cousin’s ass. Really, it’s about time. Maddie was uptight before her father died, and since then, she’s elevated the role of buzzkill from a hobby to an art.

Fortunately, I don’t have to watch out for Maddie like I do Neda, because her brother, Ryan, would never let anything happen to her.

You’re bored, Nico says, drawing me out of my thoughts.

I cross my arms and lean back in my chair. Is that your best guess?

His gaze narrows as he studies me, trying to read my mood. Is this a game?

Isn’t everything? My glass is empty, so I take a sip from his, watching him over the rim as he tries to make sense of the puzzle that is me and my friends dropping cash in his neighborhood dive bar.

He nods at the dance floor, where Neda and Maddie are now dancing in a sloppy group with three guys. I thought your friend and your cousin didn’t get along.

They don’t. I raise his glass. This particular social discrepancy is brought to you by the miracle of tequila.

And that one? His focus settles on the end of the bar, where Ryan and Holden are laughing at some story the bartender is telling them, as she refills my cousin’s glass with straight soda. Every time Paola bends over to grab a glass, they look down her shirt. My cousin is subtle. My boyfriend is not. Is that also the tequila?

I watch for a minute. Then I look away. That’s nothing. That’s Holden. I stand and take Nico’s hand. That’s . . . not what I came here to see.

MADDIE

The fast, heavy rhythm of the cumbia beat pounds through me, driving every spin and little kick, and each connection with Sebastián. His hands find my waist and I smile at the reckless thrill his touch sends through me.

The floor swells around me, then it begins to spin. I stumble. Sebastián laughs and pulls me in closer. Then we’re dancing again.

I am drunk for the second time in my life.

The first time, I almost died.

This bar isn’t the kind of place I expected Genesis to drag us to. There are no bright lights or throngs of international tourists. The bartender isn’t swamped and the local crowd doesn’t care what I’m wearing or how well I move. They just want to have a good time.

For the first time in nearly a year, I’m actually having fun. But Genesis doesn’t get credit for that.

In the pause between songs, I catch my breath, and movement from one of the tables catches my eye. My cousin tugs Nico out of his chair, her predatory gaze locked onto him like some kind of laser target.

He probably doesn’t even know he’s caught.

My phone buzzes, and I pull it from my pocket, but Genesis plucks it from my hand on her way past with Nico. Do you really think you should be drunk-texting your mommy? I promise she’ll survive without hearing from you for a few hours.

She drops my phone into her purse, and as the next song begins, I frown as I watch Genesis and Nico disappear into the back of the bar. But I can’t really say I’m surprised. The problem with being given everything in life is that you grow up thinking you can take whatever you want, whenever you want it. Even if your boyfriend is sitting half a room away.

Holden looks from me to Genesis’s empty table, and his jaw clenches. He slides off his stool.

It’s possible that my staring wasn’t as subtle as I thought.

"¿Qué pasa, hermosa?" Sebastián runs one warm hand up my arm.

"Nada. Lo siento," I tell him.

¿Quieres otra copa?

No, gracias. I would love another drink. But unlike my cousin, I know better than to take something just because it’s offered.

Sebastián shrugs as the music changes. This is a slower song, without the familiar cumbia moves.

I must look lost, because he smiles and dances closer. His hands find my hips, and I’m moving again. Then he kisses me, right there on the dance floor, and suddenly I’m kissing and dancing simultaneously. Even though my brother thinks I can’t walk and chew gum at the same time.

My head feels light. The rest of the bar has lost focus, and I don’t even care. I feel like anything could happen here, and all I have to do is let it.

GENESIS

The aguardiente has done its job, and Nico takes over where the alcohol has left off. I am drunk on him. I am drunk on the cumbia beat, and dark hallways, and calloused fingers. I am intoxicated by the way he presses me against the wall. By the way his lips trail from my mouth toward my ear, then down my neck. He’s not gentle. He is not hesitant, or apologetic, or so eager that the moment threatens brevity.

Nico is twenty. His problems are as substantial as his passions, and he knows what he wants.

He knows what I want.

Take me somewhere tomorrow, I whisper as his hand glides up from my waist, over my dress, and his tongue leaves a hot trail on my neck. Show me something beautiful. Something real.

His hand slides into my hair. Parque Tayrona, he suggests, his lips skimming my skin.

I frown and push him back. "It’s spring break. I’m over crowded beaches."

I know some secluded spots. He leans into me again, and his breath brushes my ear. "Vistas exclusivas."

I smile and run my hands over his chest. That’s what I want. The real Colombia. Places not listed on travel websites.

I’m not supposed to be in this bar. I’m not supposed to be in this country. But supposed to means less to me with every passing second. This is my life. This is my spring break.

There are no limits but those I set.

Nico tugs my head back with a loose handful of my hair. Our kiss is shameless and reckless and scandalous and all those other adventurous things that taste sweeter in the shadows.

I am breathing hard. My head is barely tethered to my shoulders. Then—

Nico is suddenly gone, and his absence throws me off balance. A hand grabs my shoulder, pinning me against the wall and I open my eyes. Holden has a handful of Nico’s shirt in his right fist, while his left digs into my skin. His brown eyes burn into me. Do your pleas for attention always have to be so pedestrian? Or is this some kind of ironic social commentary?

Nico pulls his shirt from my boyfriend’s grip. "Jealousy is an ugly emotion, mono. ¿Cierto?"

Holden’s pale face flushes. At home, insulting him is grounds for a fight. But at home, his father can make legal charges and public scandals disappear.

Holden is the right guy for Miami. There, he knows all the right people and says all the right things.

But we’re not in Miami.

Let go, Holden. He has no high ground to stand on. This is how we are.

He turns on me, and blond hair falls over his forehead. He’s so mad that for a second, he forgets I’m not someone he can push around. Don’t make this worse, Gen. He turns back to Nico.

Anger blazes up my spine and muscle memory kicks in. I grab his hand and twist, and the pressure on his wrist, elbow, and shoulder force him forward, bent at the waist. Holden clearly thought the Krav Maga black belt rolled up in my top drawer was just an accessory—another bullet point on my college applications.

Now he knows better.

Satisfaction warms me from the inside. Then I realize I can’t take it back. He won’t underestimate me anymore.

Damn it, Genesis! he snaps, and I let him go.

Nico laughs, and I silently curse myself for caving to such a revealing impulse. Tu novio es un tonto.

But he’s wrong. My boyfriend isn’t a fool. He’s just drunk.

What did he say? Holden demands, his cheeks still flaming. He stretches his arm to ease the pain, and I know I will have to do damage control. So I lie.

He said you drink too much.

Nico glances at me in surprise. "She is too hot for you, gringo." He grins at me.

Holden’s fists clench and he looks at Nico as if he’s large game fit for nothing but sport shooting.

I tug my boyfriend toward the front of the bar. Come remind me what I see in you. When I look back, I see Nico watching me, grinning. He thinks we’ve gotten away with something. That I might come back for more.

He’s the fool.

Holden and I get a dark booth near the door. His hands are everywhere. He needs to be in control of this moment, so I let him think he is, and the making up is so good I almost want to pick another fight, just so we can do it all over again.

This is what I like best about him. Holden’s temper runs hot, but so does the rest of him. When I have his full attention, it’s like we’re on fire. Nico was added fuel for the flames.

Why do you push my buttons? Holden murmurs against my neck.

I tilt my head back to give him better access. What are buttons for, if not to be pushed?

Holden groans, and his mouth trails lower.

Over his shoulder I watch Ryan coax the bartender out from behind the bar.

"Corazón, you don’t drink and you can’t dance! Paola calls as she follows him, hips swaying. What do you have to offer a woman?"

Come find out . . . My cousin backs onto the dance floor, his hips twitching in his best imitation of salsa dancing. I laugh. He actually has rhythm—he plays the drums—but his body doesn’t seem to know that.

Holden works his way up my neck again, and I’m breathing hard by the time he gets to my mouth. I didn’t get a very good look at that back hall, he murmurs against my lips as his hand slides up my leg. Why don’t you show me what I’ve been missing?

Before I can answer, my phone buzzes from my purse. I pull it out and glance at the text on my screen.

Why aren’t you in the Bahamas? Call me THIS INSTANT.

Holden frowns while I type. Who’s that?

Don’t worry. No pasa nada. Besos.

I’ll show you my texts when you show me yours. He doesn’t need to know it’s just my dad checking up on me.

Holden’s brows rise, as if I’ve just laid down a challenge. He reaches for my phone, but then Maddie slides into the booth across the table, saving us both from a scene I was almost looking forward to making.

We need to get Neda out of here, my cousin says. She’s drunk.

We’re all drunk, Holden points out.

But the rest of us haven’t decided to parade stunning cultural ignorance and a shockingly thick wad of cash down Cartagena’s unlit back streets in the middle of the night. Maddie’s disgusted huff hints at reemerging sobriety. But that’s no surprise, considering Neda still thinks she’s in Cart-a-gee-na.

I follow her pointed gaze to see Neda stagger as Samuel leads her toward the exit. She doesn’t even notice when she drips tequila on her twelve-hundred-dollar sandals.

I wave at Ryan and nod in their direction. He says a polite farewell to Paola and joins us. I’ll take her, you take him, I whisper as I slide across the patched and sticky booth.

Hey, does Paola work tomorrow night? Ryan says as we sandwich them. When Samuel turns to answer, I ease Neda from his grip with one hand and take her drink from her with the other.

Where are we going? she asks as Holden opens the door for us.

Home. I set her glass on an empty table.

Neda looks confused. Back to Miami?

Maddie grabs Neda’s purse and rolls her eyes. Yes. Click your heels together and say, ‘There’s no place like my ten-bedroom beachfront estate.’

Outside, the lights are few and far between, and the street is nearly empty. There are no tourists here. No street vendors. I turn to ask Holden to call for a car, but he already has his phone pressed to his ear, giving our location to the car service. Aquí en cinco minutos, extra de cien. In his sad, broken Spanish, he’s offered the driver an extra hundred if he’s here in five minutes. He doesn’t like Nico’s neighborhood.

I wanna stay. Neda’s speech is slurred and her steps are the slushy scrape of sandals against pavement. Samuel and I were—

Don’t run out on me, Neda. Ryan slides one arm around her waist, taking most of the burden off me. "It’s not every day I get to walk with a gorgeous model on my arm, mi corazón. I’m drunk on your beauty."

Neda giggles and I hang back to let Ryan work his charm.

As we walk toward the corner, Holden slides his arm around my shoulders. Is the rest of spring break going to be so full of local color?

Why else would you come?

I came because you said Nassau was dull and Cancún was ‘obvious.’ And because you promised me nude beaches.

Admit it. I slide my hand up his chest as we walk down the cracked sidewalk, and the heat in his eyes resurges. You haven’t been bored for a second since we stepped off the plane.

93 HOURS EARLIER

MADDIE

I wake up at dawn and find Abuelita alone in the kitchen, pouring Masarepa cornmeal into a glass mixing bowl. A canister of salt and a small bowl of melted butter sit on the counter. The scents of black coffee and fresh mango trigger memories of childhood visits. Though Uncle Hernán flies her to Miami for most holidays, I haven’t been in my grandmother’s house since I was a small child.

"¡Buenos días, Madalena! She pulls me into a hug as soon as I step into the room, the brightly colored tiles cold against my bare feet. You’re up early for a Saturday."

"¿Arepas con huevo?" I guess.

Abuelita smiles. "Sí. Are they still your brother’s favorite?"

¡Por supuesto! Anything edible qualifies as Ryan’s favorite, but Abuelita’s egg-stuffed corn cakes hold a special place in his heart. And in his stomach.

"¡Qué triste que tu madre never mastered the art!" She says it with a smile, but she means every word. My mom is second-generation Cuban American, and in Abuelita’s eyes, Cuban food cannot compare.

"¿Van otra vez a la playa con tus amigos?" my grandmother asks as she forms small cakes from the cornmeal mixture.

"They aren’t my friends, Abuelita. Genesis and the Dior divas have appointments at some spa this morning, but they’ll probably want to party tonight. I doubt I’ll go." Not after the fool I made of myself in the bar last night.

"Your cheeks are pink, flaquita. My grandmother’s eyes brighten as she smiles. Did you meet a boy?"

Their tongues certainly met. My brother pads into the kitchen on bare feet and slides onto the bar stool next to mine.

Yes, I kissed Sebastián on the dance floor. But Genesis went into a dark hallway with Abuelita’s handyman, right in front of her asshole boyfriend, and no one seems to think that’s worthy of public broadcast.

The double standard in my family never seems to work in my favor.

You’re such a pretty girl. My grandmother smiles at me over a growing collection of arepas. A little too thin, maybe. You deserve some fun. You’ve been through so much . . .

I’m so sorry for your loss. The man gives my shoulder an awkward pat, and his words play on in my head as the sentiment echoes down the receiving line. I stare at his dress shirt. There’s a stain on the underside of his belly. He shuffles to my left to shake Ryan’s hand.

My brother smells like whiskey, and our mother hasn’t even noticed.

Maddie, please let us know if there’s anything we can do. The woman next in line takes my hand, but I hardly feel her grip. I’ve hardly felt anything in days. I stare at her shoes until she moves on.

The coffin is