Page 38 of Ex Marks the Spot

“Fine.”

Neither of us says anything on the half-mile walk to the museum. According to the directions, I’m supposed to count the number of tiles on five mosaics, then go back to Plaza San Martín to find a kiosk selling replicas of the mosaics and give them my answers.

Numbers and memorization. I can do that.

Except . . .

It’s hard.

Really fucking hard.

We’re not allowed to write anything down, and the first mosaic alone has two hundred forty-six tiles. And that’s the smallest one in the group. Oh, did I mention Oscar is here too? Counting so loud that Janessa can probably hear him outside? I resort to plugging my ears so I can hear myself think, but that doesn’t help either.

By the time we find the right kiosk, I’ve forgotten the last two totals. I’m not surprised when the woman shakes her head after scanning what I’ve written below each mosaic.

“Which one is wrong?” I ask.

She doesn’t say anything, because of course she doesn’t. Why would the producers make this show easy?

Frustrated (and a little embarrassed, if I’m being honest), I turn and start the jog back to the museum. Along the way, Hartley offers words ofencouragement like, “Nice job, Mister ‘I’m Better at Numbers,’” and “I was hoping to get more cardio in.”

But I get the last laugh when we reach the museum and see Alexis waiting outside.

“Hey!” she says.

“Did you guys just get here?”

“No, this is Gianna’s second try.”

“Same. We must’ve missed each other on the way to the plaza.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Did you get lost too?”

I laugh and shake my head. “I owe you guys, though. Maybe Gianna and I can work together and knock this out quicker so we can all get out of here.”

“Excellent idea.”

She lifts her hand for a high five and sends me off with a parting, “Good luck!” while Hartley plops down on the curb and frowns at her knees.

It turns out it’s Kadeeja’s twenty-ninth birthday, so a bunch of us are celebrating at a restaurant along the waterfront in Posadas. A live band started playing about a half hour ago, and Hartley, Haylee, Padma, and the Alaska Girls (who I haven’t had much of a chance to talk to but seem nice) are dancing with the birthday girl.

Once we correctly counted the mosaic tiles, we were given a challenge of “In the Street” (delivering fifty hardback books on foot to six locations across the city) or “Fancy Feet” (learning a two-minute electrotango routine). Hartley and I originally chose Fancy Feet like everyone else but switched after discovering we’d have to touch each other all evening. How she’s still upright and mobile after running five miles with twenty-five pounds of books is anyone’s guess, but I overheard her tell Padma that she’ll rest her feet on the plane tomorrow.

As for the checkpoint, would you believe we beat the Nilesandwe were a whole forty-five minutes ahead of the Loudmouths? It’s a new record for us, and it’s largely in part to our alliance with the Bombshells, who are a lot quieter and a hell of a lot nicer to look at than Oscar. They’ve opted to stay at the table with me instead of dancing with the other girls, while a few members of the security team sit nearby as chaperones.

So far, I’ve learned Alexis and Gianna are professional makeup artists from California and they dream of opening a boutique on the beach. Also, they really like my eyes. I appreciate the ego boost, because I haven’t been on adate in a couple of years. Living in a small town where you already know everyone has that effect.

The band moves into another song that I recognize instantly thanks to my younger sister, Ella. The makeshift dance floor is only about fifteen feet away, so it’s not difficult to hear Hartley belting the lyrics to “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” by Taylor Swift.

“Is it true you broke up with her so she’d go to Europe?” Gianna asks. When I lift a brow, she chuckles and shrugs with her palms raised. “Good gossip travels fast.”

Can’t say I miss that part of college. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I think it’s sweet. Like a real-life case of, ‘If you love someone, let them go,’” Alexis adds.

“I’m pretty sure ‘sweet’ wasn’t one of the ‘s’ words she used when she found out.”

Gianna gives my hand a reassuring pat. “She went six years thinking one thing and learned the truth right before an international race. She just needs some time to process it.”

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