The August book club recommendation is We Were Never Here.

#ReadWithMC (opens in new tab)-Welcome to Marie Claire's Virtual Book Club. It's a pleasure to meet you, and for the month of August, we will be reading Andrea Bartz's We Were Never Here (opens in a new tab) (August 3). This is a page-turning thriller about an annual reunion trip that goes awry when one of them "accidentally" kills or doesn't kill a fellow backpacker, transforming the friendship they once knew. Read an excerpt from the novel and learn how to join our virtual book club here (opens in a new tab). (You really don't have to get off the couch, just click on the link below.)

Kristen scuttled to the edge of the patio, crouched down, and stretched out her long arms. Her fingers groped along the vines, lifting leaves to expose the tender stems beneath. The afterimage of her silhouette still lingered in my vision. I don't know why. For a moment, I imagined pushing her.

Instead, I half-raised myself from the table. 'Kristen, stop,' I called. The wooden patio was on stilts, above the vines below. An empty restaurant, an empty market, an empty tourist information center. Everyone had the most space in the world, yet occasionally other tourists stood or sat nearby.

With a crackle, Kristen stood holding up a clump of green grapes. She put one in her mouth and chewed it carefully. 'Not bad. Catch."

I missed the toss and the grape bounced on the glass table. I glanced around, then took a bite.

"They said the harvest was low this year. You didn't have to take a whole bunch." [She sat back in her chair and lifted a lime green, frothy pisco sour. 'I'll leave you a couple extra pesos when I leave. I was hungry." She pushed her glass against mine. 'Wouldn't you rather see me steal a grape than get low blood sugar?

"Plausible." Hungry Kristen was able to get to the heart of the matter.

A man with a bandana wrapped around his head watched us from a distance in the field. We were just before we hit a row of vines overgrown with grapevines. Beyond them, braided hills cut a jagged horizon. Kristen waved and he nodded.

I left the last of the drink on my tongue. Lime juice, powdered sugar, and a yellowish brandy that the Chileans swear is a precursor to Peruvian pisco. I was blissfully free of the fear that had been pricking my brain for the past 13 months. Seven nights in South America, exploring rugged mountains and ripe valleys with my best friend of 10 years. The refreshingly sweet cocktails tasted like stepping into the surf. And there were still two nights left. [Kristen made everything better. Her confidence was like a bell jar of reassurance in a strange and snarky world. When we hugged at the airport almost a week ago, there were tears of relief in my eyes. Panic attacks and nightmares had me screaming into pillows, showers, and sometimes my fists. But as we rented a car in Santiago and headed north on the barren highway, Kristen was her usual jovial self. She hollered when the Pacific Ocean came into view and honked her horn at the herd of alpacas on the side of the road. She pointed and gasped at the roadside fruit stands, the rippling cornfields with straight rows of laser beams, and the fat vegetable fields that grew bushy and bushy in the sun. Then the sky, the sky, the blue sky, so clear it seemed to crack, piercing the ocean on one side and the wrinkled mountaintops on the other. Her presence was like a calming scent, Xanax in an aerosol, and I relaxed myself.

Our first night was spent in La Serena. We hauled leaky ice cream cones from the lush town square and stayed in a hotel whose walls were painted in bright colors. Deciding it was too touristy, we drove inland the next morning. In Pisco Elqui, we took a yoga lesson from a woman with bent knees and waist-length hair. As we stood in mountain pose with our chests out, she told us, "Your smile gives power to your corazon (heart). "On the second night, a trio of college students from Germany cornered us at a bar, panic roaring like a panther in ambush. Kristen took the lead. She was charming and could talk to anyone. And when she noticed the fear in my eyes, she politely pulled us away from the sassy threesome and led me back out into the night.

"It's okay, it's me, I'm here," she kept muttering as we walked the dark path back to the hotel.

"Kristen is here. Her voice was soothing, her words a blanket of weight. The next day we packed our bags and left. [And this morning we arrived here, in Kytheria. At first I was surprised at the emptiness of the place. We parked the car and walked for hours through the hilly streets, dragging our suitcases like dejected toddlers. Despite the dry mountain air, my comforter was damp. The sun was setting and I realized that an empty room in this city would be an asset. You know what is often said about women traveling alone: "If you are a woman, you are a woman.

From We Were Never Here by Andrea Bartz, Copyright © 2021 by Andrea Bartz. Published by Ballantine Books, Random House (a division of Penguin Random House LLC), New York. All rights reserved.

If you prefer audio, listen to the excerpt below and continue reading in Audible (opens in a new tab).

©2021 Andrea Bartz (P)2021 Random House Audio

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