{"id":1263,"date":"2026-01-03T21:21:57","date_gmt":"2026-01-03T21:21:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/we-were-never-here-bartz-andrea\/"},"modified":"2026-01-03T21:21:57","modified_gmt":"2026-01-03T21:21:57","slug":"we-were-never-here-bartz-andrea","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/we-were-never-here-bartz-andrea\/","title":{"rendered":"We Were Never Here – Bartz, Andrea"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

Book Preview<\/h3>\n
\n<\/span><\/p>\n

CHAPTER 1<\/h1>\n

Kristen trotted to the patio\u2019s edge and crouched, long arm outstretched. Her fingers groped along a vine, lifting leaves, exposing the tender stalks beneath. I pictured her tipping over and tumbling off, there and then not there, the afterimage of her silhouette still hanging in my vision. I don\u2019t know why. For a wild moment, I pictured pushing her.<\/p>\n

Instead I half stood from the table. \u201cKristen, don\u2019t,\u201d I called. The wooden patio perched on stilts above the vines below and we were alone, as we had been almost everywhere we\u2019d stopped this week. Empty restaurants, empty markets, empty tourist information centers. An occasional cluster of other visitors standing or sitting nearby despite everyone having all the space in the world.<\/p>\n

A snapping sound and Kristen stood, holding up a blob of green grapes. She popped one into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. \u201cNot bad. Catch.\u201d<\/p>\n

I missed the toss and the grapes bounced onto the glass tabletop. I glanced around, then tried one\u2014it burst bright and tart on my tongue.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe said their yield sucks this year. You didn\u2019t need to take an entire bunch.\u201d<\/p>\n

She sank into her chair and lifted her pisco sour, lime green and frothy. \u201cI\u2019ll leave \u2019em a few extra pesos on the way out. I was hungry.\u201d She nudged her glass against mine. \u201cYou\u2019d rather see me steal some grapes than get low blood sugar, right?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFair point.\u201d Hangry Kristen could cut to the core.<\/p>\n

A man with a bandanna looped around his head was watching us from far out in the fields, just before the grapevines bumped up against a row of bushy trees. Beyond that, braided hills cut a jagged horizon. Kristen waved at the worker and he nodded.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

I let the last of my drink linger on my tongue. We\u2019d been sipping these daily: lime juice, powdered sugar, and the yellowish brandy the Chileans swore predated Peruvian pisco. I felt the swell of yet another one of those well-isn\u2019t-this-nice moments, one blissfully free from the fear that\u2019d prickled my brain nonstop for the last thirteen months. Here I was, on the trip of a lifetime: seven nights in South America, exploring the rough mountains and the ripe valleys between with my best friend of more than a decade. A cocktail so bracing and sweet, it tasted like stepping into the surf. And we still had two nights to go.<\/p>\n

Kristen made everything better, her confidence like a bell jar of security in a strange and gnarled world. When we\u2019d hugged at the airport almost a week ago, tears of relief had coated my eyes. I hadn\u2019t seen her in a year\u2014a year pockmarked by panic attacks, nightmares, and screaming into my pillow or the shower or occasionally my fist. But in Santiago, as we\u2019d picked up our rental car and driven north on barren highways, Kristen was her usual boisterous self. She whooped when the Pacific came into view; she honked at a clump of plush alpacas by the side of the road. She pointed and gasped at roadside fruit stands, rippling cornfields with laser-straight rows, fat fields of vegetables growing bushy in the sun. And sky, sky, so much blue sky, almost crackling in its crispness, the way it shot down into the ocean on one side and the crinkled peaks on the other. Her presence was like a calming scent, aerosolized Xanax, and I allowed myself to relax.<\/p>\n

We spent the first night in La Serena, where we carried leaky ice-cream cones around a leafy town square and stayed in a hotel with bright colors on the walls, where paintings of saints watched us as we slept. Too touristy, we decided, and the next morning we drove inland. In Pisco Elqui we took a yoga class from a woman with bowed knees and hip-length hair; as we stood in Mountain Pose, our chests puffed out, she announced, \u201cYour smile powers your coraz\u00f3n,<\/i> your heart.\u201d On the second night there, three college-age guys from Germany cornered us in a bar, and the panic came roaring back like a panther lying in wait. Kristen had taken the lead\u2014she was charming, could talk to anybody\u2014and when she\u2019d noticed the fear in my eyes, she politely disentangled us from the cocky trio and led me back into the night.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s okay, it\u2019s me, I\u2019m here,\u201d she kept murmuring as we walked the dark streets back to our hotel. \u201cKristen\u2019s here.\u201d Her voice was a balm; her words a weighted blanket. We\u2019d packed up and left the following day.<\/p>\n

And this morning we arrived here, in Quiteria. At first, I\u2019d been alarmed by its emptiness. We\u2019d parked in a lot and wandered the hilly streets, our suitcases trailing behind us like dejected toddlers, for what felt like hours before we found an open hotel. There I scored the keys to a small suite, the duvet damp despite the dry mountain air. The sun was sinking, and I realized the city\u2019s vacancy would be an asset: fewer men to bother us, two women walking the streets at night. You know what they say about women traveling alone.<\/p>\n

Kristen swallowed the last of her pisco sour. \u201cYou know what we should do? Birthday wishes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy birthday\u2019s not for two weeks.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know, but I want to do it in person. And it\u2019s a big one!\u201d<\/p>\n

It was our tradition, telling the other what we hoped would happen for them that year. I\u2019d had the idea after I read about two best-friends-slash-business-partners who wrote each other\u2019s New Year\u2019s resolutions.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll go first,\u201d she said, turning toward the grapevines. \u201cMy birthday wish for you, my darling Emily\u2026is that your company gets its head out of its ass and gives you the promotion you deserve.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat would be nice.\u201d I\u2019d thrown my name in the hat for a director-level position months ago, but my employer, Kibble, was disorganized and putzy and dragging its feet. I liked my job there, though, promotion or not: project manager of a start-up that shipped raw, organic cat food to pet owners with too much money. I had hip young co-workers, including my work wife, Priya, and cat photos literally everywhere.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Still, I didn\u2019t tell Kristen that my secret wish, whenever I saw a shooting star or caught a dandelion fluff or spotted a clock at 11:11, was to land a great partner, settle down. It felt too antifeminist, too needy to put into words. But with Kristen halfway around the world and all my friends getting married (hell, having kids), my patience was wearing thin. And maybe I was finally headed in the right direction\u2026<\/p>\n

\u201cHe said they\u2019re gonna start interviewing candidates this month,\u201d I told her. \u201cIt\u2019s funny, he acts like there\u2019s no time to even think<\/i> about the open position. Like he\u2019s too busy saving the world, one feline digestive tract at a time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCat people are the worst people. I say that as a card-carrying cat lover stymied only by allergies.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI think his devotion is kinda sweet!\u201d<\/p>\n

Kristen snorted. \u201cIt\u2019s an entire business predicated on people being obsessed with a disinterested animal.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRussell\u2019s cat isn\u2019t disinterested. Mochi loves him back. I\u2019ve seen the videos.\u201d Kristen rolled her eyes and I leaned forward. \u201cC\u2019mon, I like my job.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry, sorry, sorry.\u201d She waved a hand. \u201cOkay, now you go.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRight. My birthday wish for you, a full four months early, is that, hmm.\u201d I tapped the stem of my glass. That you realize you hate Australia. That you move back to Milwaukee. That we go back to the way things were.<\/i> \u201cI hope you get your stupid boss fired and your job gets a million times better. Or you find a new job that makes you happy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo fair, you just copied me!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is what our thirties are all about, right? Vaulting forward in our careers. At least we have<\/i> jobs.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTrue. And thank God we put that disposable income to good use.\u201d She swept her arm out across the vines, whose pristine rows narrowed in the distance. Behind them, rumpled mountains reddened in the dipping sunlight. A bird landed on the edge of the distillery\u2019s deck and uttered a squeaky trill. A cute sierra finch, yellow as an egg yolk\u2014I recognized it from some idle research I\u2019d done at my desk in Milwaukee.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Nearby, a thumping sound. It was probably a woodpecker, but before I realized that, the memory flashed before me: Stop. Stop. Stop.<\/i> Kristen\u2019s eyes wide as she stepped back, blood speckling her shoes. The moment that changed everything, when life cracked neatly into Before and After.<\/p>\n

Kristen slid up her sunglasses and gave me an indulgent smile. I grinned back.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d been wrong to worry. Even the incident with the trio of Germans had been harmless. There\u2019d been no strange men hulking in corners, their eyes following us hungrily. No drunken dudes who\u2019d stood a little too close or followed too few steps behind us on darkened streets. No cause for alarm.<\/p>\n

I gazed at Kristen and felt a rush of warmth.<\/p>\n

Everything had gone perfectly.<\/p>\n

A fat bee bumbled around our glasses, and Kristen waved her hand, fearless.<\/p>\n

\u201cFeels like we\u2019re the only non-locals for miles,\u201d I said. The isolation was both thrilling and unsettling.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt won\u2019t last. My guidebook says all the tourist buses arrive on Saturdays.\u201d She stretched her arms, recrossed her muscular legs. Kristen had gotten into CrossFit in Sydney, and sometimes her limbs still looked off to me. Tawny and taut, like they belonged on another body.<\/p>\n

Kristen had moved to Sydney eighteen months ago; her market research firm opened up an Australian office and her boss encouraged her to apply. To my dismay, she\u2019d complied, murmuring about how she was over Milwaukee\u2014her hometown\u2014with its smallish size and polarized communities.<\/p>\n

Kristen in Australia: It\u2019d seemed like a whim, fleeting and outlandish. I didn\u2019t know adulthood without her, from when we became friends as fellow econ majors at Northwestern to when we both found jobs in Wisconsin and shared a ramshackle apartment off Brady Street. Together we fumbled through our postgrad years, through bad dates and good job news and rough nights and even rougher mornings, until we emerged, fresh-faced and triumphant, in\u00a0our late twenties, me with my very own apartment in the Fifth Ward, her a few miles away in Riverwest. We spoke casually of how\u00a0we\u2019d someday be each other\u2019s maids of honor, how she\u2019d eventually be my future children\u2019s \u201cauntie.\u201d I\u2019d grown to love Milwaukee by then, with its broad lakefront and myriad festivals and friendly little art-and-music scene, all of the talent and none of the pretension of larger cities. I\u2019d tried hard not to take her digs at the city personally.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019d been happy for her, of course, but almost glowing with self-pity: left out and left behind and left, left, left. I dipped into depression in her absence, forcing myself through life as if there were a layer of dust dampening every moment. But we kept up a tradition we\u2019d kicked off in Milwaukee: annual trips to someplace exotic, far-flung places most people never put on their lists.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d only been to popular international destinations (London, Canc\u00fan, Paris\u2026), so each vacation with Kristen felt like slipping into a wormhole and appearing in another dimension, dizzy with sounds and smells and sights. Vietnam had been first, Hoi An and Hanoi, exploring tube houses and night markets and elaborate temples, more colorful than a field of poppies. Then Uganda, all our savings poured into once-in-a-lifetime experiences that piled up like snow, miraculous at first and then oddly normal: staring into the marble eyes of gorillas in Bwindi, boating past Nile crocodiles and bloats of fat hippopotami, clutching each other from the back of a jeep as a lion regarded us during a game drive in Kidepo Valley.<\/p>\n

The third trip\u2014Cambodia\u2014was when things had gone awry. It was our first time meeting up from opposite corners of the globe, and I couldn\u2019t wait for all that concentrated face time, the kind we took for granted when we both lived in Milwaukee. I never imagined it\u2019d take a turn for the terrifying, become my own personal horror movie. But Kristen, as always, had helped me, saved me, taken care of me. And here we were, with our final hours in Chile\u2019s Elqui Valley dwindling like the flame of an old candle, and everything felt gushing and good between us.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Kristen plucked a grape from the bunch and tossed it into the air, catching it neatly in her mouth. She grinned as she chewed.<\/p>\n

\u201cOpen your mouth, Em.\u201d She held another up, like a dart.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLet me try! I have really good aim.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t trust you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, you\u2019re talking to King of Kings\u2019 three-time basketball MVP. Here, throw one in my mouth.\u201d She unhinged her jaw.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is not going to end well,\u201d I warned, giggling as I pitched a grape her way. It bounced off her chin and landed, rather miraculously, in her empty glass, and we both stared in quiet awe.<\/p>\n

It\u2019d taken a few hours to find our rhythm here in Chile. On the long drive up from the Santiago airport, I\u2019d been grateful to bask in Kristen\u2019s aura again, her casual confidence and glinting wit. But my nerves had hardened and sparked when she\u2019d crunched our rental car onto the dirt in front of an empanada stand. We ate lunch leaning on the car\u2019s hot hood as the cook, a stout lady with leathery skin, looked on. A woman out here all alone, nothing but stubby trees and choky dust for miles\u2014I tried to give her a friendly smile.<\/p>\n

Packed inside each doughy triangle was an entire hard-boiled egg and seasoned ground meat, and without thinking, I lifted my phone to snap a photo.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d Kristen swallowed her bite and raised her eyebrows. \u201cDid you forget?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI wasn\u2019t gonna post it,\u201d I muttered, blushing.<\/p>\n

\u201cHand it over.\u201d The sun beat into Kristen\u2019s open palm. UV rays shooting onto each crease in her palm, each groove of her fingertips. I didn\u2019t move and she flicked her wrist. \u201cYou know the rules.\u201d<\/p>\n

A breeze sent the bushes and shrubs around us hissing. The woman glanced up from the counter, where she was rolling out dough.<\/p>\n

I dropped my phone into Kristen\u2019s hand and grinned. \u201cDigital detox commencing now.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

It hadn\u2019t come up again. Our phones were in our purses now, there in case of emergency, but turned off, dead blocks of metal and glass. Our Cambodia trip had involved a no-phones-allowed two-night yoga retreat at the beginning, and we\u2019d both agreed to keep it up. And then the decision had served us so well. So much luck, so many incidental details lining up to bring us here: alive, safe, free.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo where should we go next year?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

Kristen rolled a grape between her fingers. \u201cTurkey\u2019s still high on my list. And didn\u2019t you say you\u2019d heard good things about Georgia?\u201d<\/p>\n

I shook my head. \u201cGeorgia, the country? I don\u2019t know anything about it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI could swear you were talking about it.\u201d She narrowed her eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, Turkey could be cool,\u201d I said. \u201cIstanbul\u2019s supposed to be super vibrant.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI was also thinking Morocco. Haggling in bazaars and riding camels in the desert and whatnot.\u201d<\/p>\n

A thought cropped up and I swallowed it just in time: Aaron went to Marrakech a few years back<\/i>. He and I had been on four dates, after months of casual banter at the coffee shop where he worked. Apparently four dates was just enough for him to hijack my mind, my daydreams floating out like bubbles toward potential coupledom.<\/p>\n

I hadn\u2019t mentioned him to Kristen yet\u2014not after she\u2019d dismissed my \u201cMet any cool guys lately?\u201d on the first night with a scoff and a no. Kristen hadn\u2019t had a serious boyfriend in all the time I\u2019d known her, and she\u2019d gotten rid of her dating apps six months into Sydney, disappointed to learn that mate-seeking was just as frustrating there as it was stateside. It wasn\u2019t like I didn\u2019t want<\/i> to tell her, I just hadn\u2019t wanted boy talk to dominate the week, drowning out the conversation around our dreams and plans and inner worlds\u2026and I\u2019d sooner die than rub my dating luck in her face. Aaron was the first guy I\u2019d felt this excited about in years, and I didn\u2019t want to jinx it. I\u2019d even set up a stupid, secret test: I\u2019d turn my phone on sometime soon and see if he\u2019d bothered to text me. If he was still demonstrably interested, I\u2019d tell Kristen about him.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

I jumped\u2014out of nowhere, the distillery\u2019s owner leaned over my shoulder. He scooped up both our glasses. My fingers tingled from the cortisol spike, such an outsize reaction.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you like anything else?\u201d he asked. \u201cWe are closing now.\u201d<\/p>\n

On the way out, Kristen extended her hand and asked for his name again. \u201cThank you so much, Pedro,\u201d she repeated, and behind her I stamped the air with a few more gracias<\/i>-es. We\u2019d joked about it on the drive from Santiago\u2014she read out every road sign the American way and I threw on my best Spanish accent, my tongue flitting the way I\u2019d learned in grade school: \u201cThat\u2019s Chigualoco,<\/i> and I\u2019m glad I can repay you for your chauffeur services with my terrible translation services.\u201d<\/p>\n

Kristen had beamed, her honey-brown hair fluttering from the open window. \u201cYou know you never have to repay me for anything.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\n

Read the full book by downloading it below.<\/p>\n

DOWNLOAD EPUB<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Book Preview CHAPTER 1 Kristen trotted to the patio\u2019s edge and crouched, long arm outstretched. Her fingers groped along a vine, lifting leaves, exposing the tender stalks beneath. I pictured her tipping over and tumbling off, there and then not there, the afterimage of her silhouette still hanging in my vision. I don\u2019t know why. … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1262,"comment_status":"","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[52],"class_list":["post-1263","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-andrea-bartz"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1263","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1263"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1263\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1262"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1263"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1263"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1263"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}