A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,22

the front door. But the guy follows and Flora slows her pace before they disappear out of view.

Does big brother Orion know about this? Now I’m starting to sound like the West Dade chismosas—let’s just say random busybodies—who followed my every move with Andrés. Are they still talking about me in neighborhood shops and salons and restaurants?

No gossip follows me here. I can step outside and walk to the market and no one knows my history. Claro, I’m still the girl carrying a trifecta of loss. I always will be. But as I wander along the pavement, I’m just a seventeen-year-old on her way to buy ingredients for Cuban flan. And that feels like the best part of home.

* * *

Cuban flan—this is what I choose to make for Orion and… Charlotte? With all of Orion’s pudding talk the other night, I decided on what is essentially a fancy custard pudding. Cubans have many puddings: Natilla and arroz con leche are at the forefront. Vanilla cinnamon and rice pudding are simple treats fit for weekday desserts. Comfort food, not impressive date confections.

But flan is smooth and sexy and maybe even elegant. The puddle of caramel sugar syrup on top shines with coppery gold. There are several variations of flan adapted from its European origins. Naturally, I prepare Abuela’s Cuban version, which is slightly more dense and sweet. This is one of the few desserts I make where a little more sugar is better. And is it ever memorable.

The Crow kitchen is mine today and happily Polly-less. I’ve got my ingredients measured and ready. The eggs here are different from home, smaller and brighter. I’m whisking glistening whites and yolks, fiery orange, like little suns.

The rear door swings open and Spencer and Cate enter with a basket of kitchen garden pickings.

“Even on off day, can’t keep her out of here,” Spencer says.

Cate peers into my bowl. “Flan Cubano?”

I whisk in evaporated and condensed milk. “Sort of a special order for Orion.”

“Special is right. Spence and I haven’t had good flan in four years,” Cate muses.

I point to the two glass baking dishes. “I figured. I’m doubling so there’s one for you guys, too.”

“Well, that’s a fine treat.” Spencer adds tomatoes and cucumbers to a wooden bowl.

He leaves, but Cate darts in and out of the pantry for one of the tea tins. I’ve kept quiet about her little meeting with Orion, wondering if she’d bring it up herself. Or maybe she’s been waiting for me to bring it up. And does she think this flan has anything to do with her meddling? “No wonder Orion doesn’t mind dropping off your orders. He sure doesn’t seem to keep many shop hours, what with all his extra time to play tour guide.”

Cate has the grace to look abashed. But only for a half second before her mouth curls to one side. “You know I couldn’t help myself.”

“I figured you couldn’t,” I say casually and pick up my whisk. “Of course, I turned him down.”

“I figured you would.” Well. Our eyes lock until we both relent. Her grin. My head shake and dramatic eye roll.

Cate leans close before she leaves, her long strands loose and feathered from gardening. “When I came in, you were smiling.”

“I’m always happy in the kitchen.”

“Uh-huuuuuh.” Cate extends the last syllable so it lingers even after she leaves the room.

Smiles or not, I’m all business as I return to my flan. The steps unfold into the hour with muscle memory. When the batter is done, I reach for a sheet pan and spy my phone on the back counter. Leaving it out is silly because no one texts or calls me here. It’s barely dawn in Florida. Who’s going to text me? But Instagram never sleeps.

Andrés Millan. University of Miami. All about Hurricanes football and Marlins baseball. Ice cream junkie.

Once upon a time, his bio could’ve said pastelito junkie. Lila junkie. Not anymore. Combing his feed is like picking at a scab. I know it won’t heal this way. Claro que sí, I should bandage it, keep it out of sight. But I’m not as strong facing memories as I am in front of mixing bowls.

Andrés’s page shows a new picture from yesterday, geotagged at South Beach. I can almost feel the glare of strong sun—my sun, not the filtered peekaboo England version. I smell the brine and his favorite Sun Bum sunscreen. It’s a close-up shot of his unrolled towel, headphones and Rainbow flip-flops positioned in the foreground. The