“Wait, what? Someone sent you the video?”
“Yeah. You thought I shot that?” Neda has the nerve to look offended. As if shooting the video herself is so much worse than airing it in front of the whole world.
“Who sent it?”
She rolls her eyes and tugs her designer bag higher on her shoulder. “I don’t know. That’s how anonymity works, Genesis.”
Panic makes my pulse race. Someone’s been watching me. Spying on me. Manipulating me through Neda.
Silvana? Uncle David?
I shake off paranoid thoughts and refocus on Neda, clutching my car keys so tightly they cut into my hand. “So you don’t even know who sent the video, but you put it on your show and felt justified speculating on who my new ‘boy toy’ is?”
“Okay, you can get mad about the video, but you can’t get mad about that. My coverage was totally flattering. I said you two make a hot couple, and I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t know who the guy is. We don’t even know his real name. Don’t you think that’s a little weird? Because Maddie, Luke, and I do.”
“I know his real name, Neda. I haven’t told anyone else because I don’t want him dragged into the spotlight—especially now. And since when are you friends with Maddie and Luke?” Have they been talking behind my back?
“I don’t know if I’d call them friends, but they answer my calls! And they went on my show!”
I cross my arms over my chest and press my lips together as a trio of girls walks by us on their way into the building, obviously trying to listen.
They probably didn’t expect me to come to school, because of the funeral this afternoon. But I won’t hide behind Ryan.
Valencias face their problems head-on.
“Okay.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath when I hear the door close at my back. “All of that is beside the point.”
“It is not beside the point. Friendship matters, Genesis! At least, it used to. And by the way, I didn’t just do this for me. I did it for Penelope too. Holden humiliated her on national television. He deserves to be humiliated in return.”
“Yeah. Only you haven’t humiliated Holden. You’ve turned him into some kind of romantic martyr. Girls are offering him their virginity in the comments!”
Neda shrugs, but I can see regret beginning to develop behind her eyes. She’s finally starting to get it. “Hey, it’s my job to report the news. I can’t be held responsible for what people do with it.”
“That is not your job—”
“Yes it is,” she snaps. “I’m getting paid by my sponsors.”
As if she needs money.
“Neda, do you have any idea what you’ve done?” I demand at last. But of course she doesn’t. Because she doesn’t understand the agreement Holden and I had, or what the consequences for me and my family will be, now that she’s stomped all over our tense truce.
She doesn’t understand that I was this close to putting him in his place, but that won’t be possible now, because when Holden gets mad, he wants to burn down the whole building. Even if he’s still standing in it.
3 DAYS, 7 HOURS EARLIER
It’s all we have.
MADDIE
My uncle, my mother, my abuela, Genesis, and I sit in the limo in silence punctuated by sniffles. We are a Franken-family—the patched-together pieces of two normal families somehow lumbering along in defiance of several natural laws.
This is not normal. But it’s all we have.
My mom is sedated. She stares blankly through tear-filled eyes, her head on my uncle’s shoulder. His arm around her back.
Genesis and I sit across from them, watching this parental grief play out with a mismatched set of parents. Abuela sits next to my uncle, and I want to ask her how much she truly understands about the twisted branches of our family tree, but this is not the right time.
There may never be a right time.
No one speaks. No one’s really crying. This drive to the cemetery is like putting the ceremony on pause, so we can relocate from the church to the graveside and start saying good-bye all over again.
I want this to be over. Yet I don’t want it to happen at all.
Ryan’s death has come at me in stages, from the sharp horror of the moment I saw him gunned down in defense of me to the miles and miles of denial while we were marched into the jungle by our captors. Since then, his absence has become a painful and constant ache, which is more pronounced with quiet and solitude.
But today . . .
Sitting through his funeral was like reopening that wound. Like twisting the knife in my gut.
Like losing him all over again.
“Oh, shit,” Genesis whispers as the limo turns into the cemetery. I follow her gaze to see that reporters have descended upon the grave site.
“Vultures,” Abuela murmurs.
“We anticipated this,” her father says, his voice soothing as he rubs my mother’s back. “Let security handle it.”
But security can only keep the photographers back, and distance won’t stop photography or filming.
I can feel cameras aimed at me as we get out of the car, my heels clicking a little on the pavement. Luke and Indiana join us for the short walk to the grave, where the rest of the mourners have already gathered, but there are only five graveside chairs.
Abuela, Genesis, her dad, my mother, and I sit. I try to focus on the prayer. On the beautiful things the pastor is saying about my brother. But I am hyperaware of the cameras. Of the blogs and gossip sites that will criticize my dress and declare that I’m either coldly unaffected by my brother’s death or completely crippled by grief.
Forget about them.
As if he can hear my thoughts, Luke puts his hand on my shoulder, a silent reminder that he’s there. That he’s with me.
On his left, Penelope and Neda wear black designer dresses and identical tearful expressions. They may be spoiled, but they did love Ryan.
On the edge of the crowd, Holden is alternately texting and glaring at Genesis. I wish he hadn’t come.
I wish I’d had the nerve to tell him not to.
My mother cries softly as the casket disappears into the ground. I should lean over and comfort her. At least take her hand. But Uncle Hernán already has his arm around her shoulders, and despite the part he unwittingly played in my brother’s death, I can’t bring myself to hate him today.
People are leaving. Uncle Hernán helps my mother up, and I rise with them, my gaze scanning the crowd. Kathryn Coppela stands on the other side of the grave, with some friends from school. The principal has come, and I recognize several of Ryan’s teachers.
Penelope and Neda are already heading for their car, balanced awkwardly on the toes of their stilettos so their heels won’t sink into the earth. Indiana stands next to Genesis with his hands in the pockets of his black suit pants.
My mother looks like she’d blow over in a strong breeze. I don’t think she’s eaten anything all day. I should help her to the car, but Uncle Hernán has one arm around her waist, already escorting her to the limo. He’s practically holding her up. Abuela follows them, dabbing her damp eyes with a tissue.
“You ready?” Luke whispers, and his hand slides into my grip.
I shake my head. It can’t be over already. I don’t want to leave Ryan.
Not again.
But when the workers remove the device that lowered the coffin, I realize I don’t want to see him buried again either. Luke and I head for the limo.
Abuela, my mother, my uncle, and my cousin are already inside, and as Indiana ducks in to take the seat next to Genesis, I notice a car idling across the way, on the narrow paved road that winds through the cemetery. The tinted window rolls up as I watch, but not before I catch a glimpse of the driver’s face.
Silvana.
Genesis isn’t imagining things. She’s real. She’s here, in Miami.
But why is she here?
Luke clears his throat, waiting for me to get into the car, and I t
urn back to the limo, rubbing the chill bumps that have risen on my arms. I need to talk to Genesis, both about Silvana and about the anonymous texts.
But this isn’t the time.
I’ve forgiven you.
GENESIS
My father insisted on holding the reception at our house. The caterers have set up a beautiful buffet and several waiters circulate unobtrusively, making sure everyone who wants a drink has one.
I take a single glass of white wine, and my dad only lets me have that because my hands are visibly shaking. Though the truth is that I could probably get away with much more.
My grandmother refuses to leave the kitchen, where she’s harassing the caterers in an attempt to be helpful, and every time I try to get her to come out she pats my arm and tells me what a handful Ryan was as a toddler, then tries to get me to eat something.
My dad’s responding to questions with monosyllabic answers and his eyes are unfocused. He hasn’t wandered more than two feet away from my aunt Daniela since the funeral. I’ve never seen him like this.
I was young when my mother died, but I remember her funeral, and I remember my father. He was shattered but strong. He never even cried in front of me.
On an intellectual level, I know that he buried his child today. But he never publicly acknowledged Ryan as his, so it never occurred to me that he would mourn him not as a nephew, but as a son. That he would be just as devastated as Maddie and Aunt Daniela are.
As I am.
Ryan is gone.
Somehow that feels more true now that I’ve seen the coffin.
“Want me to get you a plate?” Indiana sinks onto the couch next to me.
I shake my head and sip my wine, staring out at the beach through the wall of glass that defines the far side of my living room. The beach used to feel peaceful. Now it’s a reminder of everything that went down in the jungle. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” If anything, I need a painkiller.
My head is killing me, and my thoughts feel mushy—the mental equivalent of slurred speech.
Indiana nods and winds his fingers between mine, and I take a break from self-pity to be glad he’s not the kind of guy who tries to tell me how to take care of myself. I know I shouldn’t have wine on an empty stomach and I’ve decided to do it anyway.
Today we buried my brother and the internet declared me a whore.
I feel like drinking.
People mill all around us, eating and whispering to one another. Staring out at the waves and in at the mourners. Penelope and Neda are here, but they keep their distance. Indiana and I have turned this couch into a private island, and my expression is a clear warning for people to stay away.
Which is how I know, when someone sinks onto the couch on my other side, exactly who it is.
“Gen.” Holden doesn’t sound mad. I’m immediately suspicious. “Let’s talk.”
Indiana’s hand tightens around mine, and though I can feel true anger emanating from him for only the second time since we met, he says nothing. This is my decision.
I’m too tired to mentally spar with Holden. My head hurts. My heart hurts. But a Valencia never backs down from a fight.
I finish my wine and set the stemmed glass on the coffee table, an irregular slab of white granite on steel legs, then I stand. “I’ll be back in five,” I whisper to Indiana.
Holden follows me out the oversized sliding glass door, and I close it behind us, then lead him to a corner of the deck not visible from inside the house. The crash of waves over the sand is a clock counting down the seconds. The scent of the water takes me right back to Cabo San Juan.
“Are you really going to do this today?” I demand in as soft a voice as I can manage. “This is a new low.”
“You can’t blame me for the timing. This was all you. And Neda.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and opens the browser, then shows me the screen.
It’s the home page of an online tabloid, and there at the top is a still shot of Indiana and me making out in the school parking lot.
The headline reads:
Trouble in Paradise? America’s Sweetheart Betrays National Hero.
“The print version is even more . . . impactful,” he tells me.
The world no longer makes sense.
If he’s expecting an apology, he’s about to be sorely disappointed.
I shrug. “You and I are not a couple. You’re the one who’s been lying on national television.”
“You went along with it,” he points out. “We both look like idiots today. So here’s what’s going to happen. Raina’s booked us on a talk show at eight tomorrow morning. We’re going to go on and say that trauma and the stress of the spotlight has gotten to us both. To you especially. That you’re still suffering from PTSD and that you’re seeing things. We’ll tell them that you’re in therapy, and that I’ve forgiven you. That I’m dedicated to helping you through this difficult time.” He shrugs with a smile, as if I should be proud of the bullshit “solution” he—or maybe Raina—has come up with. “Lemons into lemonade.”
I can’t believe this is happening. He’s giving me detailed instructions on how to participate in my own humiliation, twenty feet from where two hundred people are gathered to mourn my brother. Holden truly has no shame.
“No.” I should probably start with something less directly oppositional, considering the ammunition he has against me, but I can’t. “This is a funeral, Holden. Get out, before I have you thrown out.”
“Gen . . .” His eyes narrow and his jaw clenches. He runs one finger down my cheek, and I slap his hand away, fuming. “They just put Ryan in the ground. Your aunt just tried to kill herself. How is she going to react to the world knowing that her ‘dead’ husband is actually a living terrorist?” He shrugs. “I’m sure the stress won’t make her want to try again with a bigger bottle.”
I’m supposed to be afraid of him, but I’m actually a little relieved by how predictable his threat is. This is the Holden of old. The one who only needs to think he’s won.
“Why do you even want people to think we’re a couple?” So that he can be the one to dump me? Or just to keep Indiana and me from being happy?
I put one hand on his arm and swallow my revulsion. “The whole country loves you, Holden. This is your chance to enjoy being an eligible hero instead of being stuck with your ex. So you go on TV and tell the world that you’re newly single. Laugh it off. The video will be an inside joke between you and the rest of the world, and they’ll love it. They’ll feel like they know you personally.” My father taught me that. It’s one of the best ways to manipulate a wannabe. “You’re the world’s most eligible bachelor, but you’re not ready to settle down. You want to take your time. Find the right girl. And girls will line up for the chance to prove they’re the one.”
Holden’s brows dip. “You just don’t want to answer questions about the video.”
“Yes, and you shouldn’t want me to either. It’ll look like you lost me to Indiana. Don’t be the victim, Holden. Be the victor. Show them this is my loss.” I pause and give him a thoughtful frown. “This is a solid PR move, Holden. I’m surprised it’s not what Raina’s suggesting.”
He blinks, trying a little too hard to hide his thoughts, and I realize that’s exactly what his publicist has suggested. But he was too stubborn to let me go on my own terms rather than keeping me at his mercy. Or dumping me in some publicly humiliating way.
Or both.
He studies me, obviously suspicious. “You’re okay with the world calling you a slut and me a hero?”
For a moment, I can only stare at him. “People see what they want to see. I couldn’t change that even if you went on TV with the letter A drawn on your chest in your own blood.” And the world has been in love with the slut-hero dichotomy since long before women had the legal right to make their own decisions. “So I’ll be the girl who cheated on you until I fade out of the spotlight. This way we both win. You get fame, and I get anonymity.”
Hol
den thinks about that, and I can practically see the gears turning behind his eyes. Then he nods slowly. “Okay, I’ll give you anonymity,” he agrees, and I want to smack the magnanimous look off his face. “But you’re still coming on the show. We’ll just announce that we’re parting ways and we’ll show that it’s amicable. That way I look even better. For not holding a grudge.”
“Holden—”
His gaze hardens. “This will be the last time. If you show up, you’ll be done with me. If you don’t, I will destroy your whole family on national television.”
I nod, because I clearly have no choice. Still, I’m a little surprised that we’ve actually come to an agreement, because Holden typically considers compromise to be a subcategory of loss. But he’s talked me into doing television with him again, so in his mind, he’s probably won. And the truth is that if I don’t perform to his satisfaction on the air, there’s nothing to stop him from painting me as a devious slut in front of the entire world.
As he leaves, flaunting a victorious strut wholly inappropriate for a funeral, I realize that this time, he may be right.
In compromising with Holden, I might very well have accepted a loss.
I need to be alone.
MADDIE
The crowd is too much. The continuous line of friends and strangers all telling me how much my brother meant to them—as if the fact that they’ve suffered a loss too could possibly make me feel better about my own. . . .
I know they mean well. But I don’t care.
I push my way through the crowd toward one of the sliding glass doors and exhale as I step off the porch onto the private stretch of beach. I’ve always found it obscene that a strip of beach can be declared off-limits to the public, but suddenly I’m grateful that this one is.