“I didn’t—” Dani groans. “Never mind. You’re not going to listen to me anyway.”
“What gave you that idea?” At the gate, we find two seats, and I ease the pack down next to her before dropping my own bag at my feet. When we’re shoulder to shoulder, I give her arm a little nudge. “I always listened to you, Dani. Always wanted to, anyway.”
Her sigh is a sound I fell in love with back in high school. It usually meant I’d won the argument. And when back in those days, we had some spectacular ones.
“This interview, Trevor…it’s going to be the hardest one I’ve ever done. You’re going to have to give me some space here.” She peers up at me with so much emotion churning in her eyes, I want to wrap my arms around her and hold her until all that sadness and uncertainty fades away.
Too bad I lost that right years ago. So instead, I nod and touch my coffee cup to hers. “I amend what I said last night. Caracas is a shit-show. Has been for years. One wrong turn, and you disappear forever.” Lowering my head so our foreheads are almost touching, I hold her gaze. “You do what I say, when I say it. Whenever we leave the hotel, you aregluedto my side. No arguments. But as long as you’re in your room, you should be safe. And I won’t bother you. You won’t even see me unless you want to.”
Dani relaxes a fraction and stares down at her feet. Small and delicate, clad in a pair of plain black shoes with neatly tied laces. Good soles too, from what little I can see. She’s being smart. Sheissmart, and I need to stop treating her like she’s still that bullied, out-of-her-element little girl I met all those years ago.
“Thanks, TJ.”
The genuine gratitude in her tone, along with the old nickname, stirs memories of that feeling I used to get whenever we’d race for the Pritchard’s kitchen table and I’d pretend to trip on the one loose floorboard and stumble. Just enough to let her win. I felt like fucking Superman those times. Like I could do no wrong in her world.
I want that feeling again. But Dani Monroe won’t be the one to give it to me. Not after all that’s come between us. She makes that abundantly clear when she pulls a book from her messenger bag, tucks her feet under her, and starts to read.
I guess we’re done talking. Probably for the best. The last thing I need is to keep reminding myself how much I once loved her and how badly I broke her heart.
Chapter Six
Dani
Fifteen hours of travel later,the plane touches down at Simón Bolivar International Airport. As we head for Customs, I steal glances at Trevor, but he looks everywhere but at me. I have so many memories of him from my childhood, and none of them line up with the silent, stiff man at my side. We barely spoke on the flight. I made a mistake calling him TJ. I could see the pain churning in his eyes.
After that, I didn’t know how to start up the conversation again. So I read a book, watched one of the in-flight movies, and ignored him. The whole damn time.
He carries my backpack until we’re forced to get into two different lines to go through Customs. My accreditation through the Washington Post earns me a full ninety minutes stuck in a small, windowless office with two armed officers, and requires multiple phone calls to Lincoln and the Editor-In-Chief, Sarita.
Trevor must have something magical stamped in his passport, because he sailed right through the line and by the time I emerge, has a steaming cup of coffee ready for me.
“Car’s ready and waiting,” he says as he hauls my bag over his shoulder once more. “We need to get going. The roads between here and Caracas are dangerous after dark.”
“I wasn’t planning on them detaining me,” I retort as I rush to keep up with him. He’s a good six inches taller than I am. Always has been. Those long legs can move so much faster than my short ones.
“One more hour, and you can be rid of me for the night.” His words carry an undercurrent of sadness, and I want to stop him. To tell him I don’t want to be rid of him. But after so many hours sitting next to him, receiving one or two word answers to any question I asked, and seeing him give the flight attendants more consideration than he was giving me have frayed all of my nerves. I just want to get to the hotel and hit the gym. A hard run followed by room service will help.
Our nondescript white sedan has seen better days, and I peer up at him as he stows our luggage in the back seat. “The Post usually reserves an SUV. Or at least something a little more…reliable.”
“That’d make us easy marks, Danisaur.” Trevor pointedly stares at me until I buckle myself into the stained front seat of the Chevy Spark. The car smells like stale cigarettes with a hint of sweat. Unsurprising since the humidity runs close to ninety percent this time of year.
I’ve been in worse. The Land Rovers in Darfur feel like they’re going to come apart every time they hit a bump in the road. Given how many potholes there are, that’s a real possibility. At least the suspension in this car feels solid.
Trevor merges into a line of traffic leaving the airport, both hands on the wheel, eyes constantly shifting between the road and the rear view mirror.
I stare out the window at the slowly setting sun. “I wish I had a chance to know this country. Reallyknowit,” I say quietly.
“With Farías in charge—just like with the last president—this country is no place you should have ever seen.”
“Too late for that.” Lush trees sway in the gentle breezes, and with no air conditioning, we both have the windows rolled down. It should smell fresh and clean this close to the ocean, but it doesn’t. All I can see are rocks leading down to the sea, some dotted with ramshackle tin buildings that all too often, wash right into the sea, occupants and all. “I came from here, Trevor. I was born here. This country is in my blood, even though I never cared until—“
“Until what?” His voice softens, and he spares me a quick glance as we approach a long tunnel.
The well-lit, two-lane road and the plain concrete walls offer little in the way of distraction, so I reach into my bag for my thinking putty. The one I brought with me is pearlescent pink, and I work it between my fingers as I try to figure out how much I want to tell him.
“Until I started researching this story.” It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth either. “Luis Rojas did a lot of good before he disappeared. The protests he organized were large enough President Farías had to take notice. People were rioting in the streets, demanding better jobs, health care, atruedemocracy rather than…whateverthisis.”
“A dictatorship wearing a democratic wig,” Trevor replies, and the corners of my lips tug into a smile.
