A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,24

“Top of the line,” I say, remembering Mami was here only two years ago when Papi surprised her with a ticket for her birthday. “Show me outside.” Show me home. My neighborhood, my world.

My mother is one of those soft dolls where the dress and head can flip to show two opposite emotions. Sad face doll, happy face doll. Crying face Mami can easily switch to mischievous I have news face Mami. The latter fills my screen. Then she turns her computer so I can peek through the big kitchen nook window. “Maybe I shouldn’t say this.”

Inner eye roll.

Not two seconds later I hear, “I saw Angel coming out of Chany’s house.” She leans forward. “Sí, it was like seven in the morning.”

“Interesting.” And maybe I’m only half listening to the chatter about my neighbor’s ex because I’m staring at our street through the little computer window.

Mami carries on, her update snippets weaving into my memories.

“Óyeme, Señora Cabral had her gallbladder removed…”

Kids playing baseball in the street before dinnertime. Wild roosters running loose and never letting me sleep in. Gloria’s daughter practicing her saxophone in the garage.

“I saw Stefanie’s mother at Dillard’s the other day. I didn’t go up, but…”

The hummingbird feeder and mango trees and Andrés in his silver Camaro, parked three houses away, kissing me.

“Mami, are they,” I say quietly. “Are they still talking about me?” About Andrés and Stefanie? How one girl managed to lose so many people so quickly?

“Cariño, do not worry about such things.”

“But what have you—” I’m interrupted by oddly persistent knocking. I cut off my thought and the connection with a goodbye, vowing to question Pilar about gossip later. I find Gordon on the other side of my door.

“Jules and Remy are out front. Asking for you,” he says. “Well, both of us, but especially you.”

Me? I shrug and follow Gordon onto the private staircase. He shoots ahead when we reach the foyer, ushering Remy and Jules out of the evening chill.

Jules sticks her arms out of a snow leopard printed cape, texting furiously while shooting me a little wave.

“Orion just texted,” Remy says. “A bit of a mishap at his place.”

“Tell me he didn’t drop the flan,” I say.

“More like his date dropped him,” Jules says, wedging her phone into her jeans pocket. “Charlotte canceled. Said she was ill.”

“But that’s not the worst of it. Teddy—he works at Maxwell’s—saw Charlotte going into a coffee shop in Twyford with some other bloke slinking and slobbering all over her,” Remy says and turns to me. “That’s a nearby town. He told Orion just now.”

“Well, that’s complete shit,” Gordon offers.

Jules notes my overblown cringe and follows with, “Exactly. And that’s why we’re all going over now. Distraction. Remy’s dad sent gigantic portions of Sunday roast with potatoes and veg. And then there’s that whole pudding you made for them.”

“Which would only remind him of his ruined evening,” Remy says gravely.

“Gordon and I already ate. We just had flan too.”

“Lila, do you really want your flan to become a symbol of sadness?” Gordon asks then tells the others, “Her flan is bloody spectacular. Besides, we can’t let him wallow alone.”

I concede but look myself over. I’m a disaster in yoga pants, flip flops, and a long tee. The mirror pegs my hair at bird-nest bun. “Give me five minutes.”

* * *

Our little distraction posse makes the short walk to Orion’s. While Orion shrugged off the idea at first, by the time we reach the nearby street lined with rows of attached narrow brick homes, he’s in the doorway, arms crossed over a royal blue sweater. Charcoal socks poke over the threshold.

“Come on in, then.” Orion moves aside and his friends barge through. Jules tosses off the cape and helps herself to Orion’s home entertainment system. A dark EDM jam fills the living room.

I hang back while Orion locks up, feeling the bass line wedge under the wood plank flooring. “I’m really sorry.”

“Thanks.” His eyes flit around the room. “But that’s the way of it sometimes. Or much of the time,” he adds, almost like he’s used to disappointment. But then he cracks a smile. “Anyway, welcome.”

After two weeks inside the wide and tall spaces of the Crow, Orion’s house feels extra cozy. I wander through. A narrow staircase shoots right up from the front door, perfect for someone trying to sneak in, or out, unnoticed. The living room is all soft light and Persian rugs and worn oxblood leather furniture. Clean white walls back overstuffed bookshelves