A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,37
Late June edition, I slip on thin socks and my sister’s black ankle boots. Orion’s accent rings between my ears, so I toss on the thick gray and black animal print scarf. One swipe of MAC lipstick in Impassioned colors my lips like ruby-red grapefruit.
I race down and rip open the Crow’s front door. I’m more winded than any decent runner should be. Well. Orion looks perfectly toasty in his brown leather bomber jacket and navy tartan wool scarf knotted around his neck. “Freezing out here, my ass,” I say. “Also, is being early a British thing?”
He steps back and I secure the door behind us. “It’s called being prompt, and the way you ask makes me wonder if being late is a Lila thing.”
“Not always.” A crack in my bright pink pout. “And never when it comes to kitchens.”
His smile is the warmest thing he wears. “You look nice. You heeded my warning. Sort of,” he adds sheepishly.
I sling my purse across my body. “What do you mean, ‘sort of’?”
This whole weekend, the parking strip in front of the Crow is blocked off for minor road work. We walk around the corner and I halt abruptly. “Hold up. That’s our ride?” I’m no chicken. But I’ve never been on a motorcycle, which ranks at number five thousand on my top-ten list of must-dos.
“That,” Orion says, pointing to the black, two-wheeled early death machine with tan leather seat, “is a 1982 Triumph Bonneville. Fully restored, even if she is a bit loud.”
I recall the rumble invading the Crow kitchen the first time I met him. “Um. But.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Come closer, Lila. Her bark is definitely bigger than her bite.”
No moving, no closer. “Her?”
“Why, yes. She’s called Millie and she was my granddad’s. Now she’s my best girl. They don’t make these anymore. Millie’s a classic.”
A tremor pings through my body. “Maybe there’s a valid reason they don’t make them anymore. Maybe because they’re metal speed sticks of bodily destruction.”
“Look, she’s harmless.” He takes my bent elbow. Leads me up to Millie. “I shined her up earlier and everything. You’re not scared, are you?”
¡Carajo! “Of course not. It’s just really dangerous out… there.”
Orion plants himself as mediator between me and the bike. “I’ve been handling this motorbike since I was a kid, way before it was legal. Hundreds of hours with no incident, and I can navigate the route to the music hall with my eyes shut. Of course, I can’t promise nothing will ever happen to us. Can you make that claim when you step off any given pavement in town?”
Make a claim against something, or three things, upending my world? Never. I shake my head.
“Right. But I don’t get off on inviting people.” He arches a brow. “Especially my tour guided plus-ones, for activities I know will likely hurt them.”
No, he doesn’t—he couldn’t. Not this boy who’s suffered enough hurt to pave every street in Winchester. My body loosens. “Okay, fine.” I grab the hair tie around my wrist, securing my flat-ironed locks into a ponytail. “I’d better run back for a jacket.”
“No need. Plus, we’ve got to get moving or we’ll miss Goldline.” He opens a knapsack and pulls out familiar gray wool. “After what you said about your Winchester packing, I wasn’t sure of your outerwear situation.”
I layer his cardigan over my merino crew neck. Orion’s sweater is softer than the trench hanging in my closet. I could get lost inside it. I adjust my scarf so the ends trail down my chest. “This is becoming a habit.”
“I know of worse ones,” he says then hops onto the bike. “Your turn.”
I straddle the remaining patch of leather seat behind him, resting my boots where he shows me.
Orion bends around. “Grab my middle and don’t let go. And lean with me into the turns.” He revs up Millie. The engine vibrates under my thighs. “Hold on, Miami!”
Orion starts off slowly as we ride through St. Cross. Then ignores my motorcycle virginity when the frontage road widens. I’ve jogged this road. We’ve jogged this road. But on his bike, all my senses are bit by night and speed.
For the first hesitant minutes, I couldn’t help but think of Andrés’s silver convertible. Even at full throttle, our Miami days chased me down with replays of sun-dripped, tropical breeze and cruising Collins Avenue. But Orion’s motorcycle has something to say about my memory. Louder than the old words in my head, the engine and her skilled driver fight