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 statuesandtemples 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, butthink 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 believela mademoiselleneeds 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 thehellare 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 coursehe’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—”
