think I’ve had Cuban food. You’ll be sharing, then?”
Shady Brits with unnecessary motorbikes shouldn’t get smiles, but Orion Maxwell’s empty stomach, boyish eagerness, and wagging brows are stronger than my scowl. “No tour guide of mine is going to survive on tea and cheese sandwiches.” We reach Tesco. “You’re on snacks and I’m going hunting for new face mask.” My skin is missing the Florida humidity.
Exiting the supermarket, we leave the city center behind. Orion won’t give me any hints on our final destination as he leads me up a steadily rising grade through a high-end district with grand homes.
The neighborhood feeds us into a trail marked with wrought-iron railing and wide steps. “The lighting’s questionable and it’s a bit steep, but we both have sturdy boots. And what’s waiting at the end is worth it.” He pulls his phone, taps the flashlight icon, and urges me to do the same. “Trust me?”
I trust three things without question: Abuela’s recipes and her signature variations, my family’s business—the way it works, and the city it works in. But so far this boy has kept a reluctant Miami transplant taught, mapped, entertained, and warm in soft gray wool. Right now, I trust him, too. Maybe even more than I know him. “Lead on.”
15
The path and steps are steep but no match for my runner’s lungs. The secret trail ends with a fenced platform and a view that swallows all my words. Like Stef and I as kids at Disney World, I rush toward the city-sized night-light of color below us. Winchester spreads out like an upside-down galaxy of golden embers. We’re so high. Trees glow and buildings gleam against a blue-black sky. Railway tracks wind through like comet tails. In the center, the massive cathedral is dipped into spotlight yellow.
“St. Giles Hill.” Orion gestures to the sprawling hillside park at our left. “Come. I just hope the grass isn’t too soggy.”
It is—well, not exactly soggy—but damp enough, because this is England. Orion finds too much joy in my scrunched face and the hesitant settling of my jeans into the layer of dew.
“Since you find my wet ass so hilarious, I’m waiting for you to spout some random cultural myth about grass,” I say.
“Now you’re requesting superstitions? And here I thought all my facts and Winchester history was gonna bore you straight back to Miami.”
The word ambush, just that quick, and I’m unarmed and weak with scenery and motorcycles and music. Estoy aqui—I’m still here, Miami says. Like I could forget. But this time Miami only grazes my skin because I’ve let this sparkling city view change mine. I can wholly belong to one place, but I’m going to sit on a hill and enjoy this one right now. Maybe even love it.
“Lila. I didn’t mean to—”
“Show me what’s in that bag,” I say.
“Yes. But I know you want—”
“I want your groaning stomach to shut the hell up.”
He breathes out, whether out of relief or humor, I don’t know. But he jiggles the brown bag. “Some classic British snack foods for your initiation.”
“Hey, my life is not a hundred percent devoid of British ‘things.’ ” I fish out my phone and show him a photo of my turquoise Mini Cooper.
“No kidding.” He looks up, smiling. “Suits you. The color is very Miami and it’s lively.”
“And fast. I miss driving it.”
“Won’t be long. Before you know it, you’ll be reunited.” He delivers this like an oath. “Three months, and waning.”
And waning like the moon. I find that, too; it peeks through a tree bordering the hill, plump and round. Then I turn to Orion, and maybe gazing on one beautiful thing lets me appreciate another. Orion Maxwell is an attractive creature. More like really attractive. The worn parts of him—battered leather, scarred boots, the hair that always flirts with curl—are interesting against a city-lit face of honed edges and blue eyes straight from a painter’s palette. My next words come out like they’ve been stuck inside imagination, full of clouds. “What kind of food service provider am I? I distracted you right out of your junk bag.”
“Right.” With a flourish, Orion arranges our little snack food picnic. “Walkers bacon crisps, which you call chips. Erroneously. And for a sugar rush, Aero and Dairy Milk bars.” Lastly, he presents a familiar-looking jumbo-sized bottle. “Yeah, Oldfields again. Was in a hurry, so I went for the safe bet.”
He pours hard cider into two clear plastic cups. “The clerk at Tesco threw these in when he saw our