100 Hours
Page 3
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 . . .”
“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 . . .”
