soup.
I find myself wanting to continue. “See, sending loved ones away is not what my family does unless it’s a last resort, so I guess that’s what you’d call my ticket here. Abuela coming to America as a teen was more of a special opportunity my great-grandparents couldn’t pass up—a foreign exchange program through their church. But after a few years, most of my relatives followed, cramming into houses until they found work and could afford their own. We stick close and that family unit is everything.” My eyes cloud. “So much of mine is…”
“So much of yours is Miami,” he says.
“Exactly. It’s where we started, in a way.”
Orion’s phone dings. “Go on. It might be Flora,” I say.
He tips his chin at me before reading the text. “Not Flora. It’s Remy. Remember Jules and her producer Twitter stalking?” When I nod he says, “Jason Briggs tweeted about some Saturday highlights from the small town of Winchester. But not a word about Goldline.”
I straighten my spine. “That’s ridiculous. Jules is one of the best singers I’ve ever heard.”
“Yeah and sometimes a text won’t do. We should ring her.” He does and when Jules answers, Orion puts her on speaker. “So that’s just bloody fucking shit,” he says.
“Now, those are some fitting lyrics, Ri,” Jules says over the line, deadpan. “Briggs even gave a nod to GLYTTR—GLYTTR!”
“Jules, it’s Lila. You and your band were way better than anyone else on that stage tonight. I heard some of that GLYTTR group and they’re a zero. I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks, love.”
I go on, “So Briggs’s studio is in London? I could always bake him something you know, special, with an extra ingredient to keep him stuck in the loo for long, painful hours.”
A harmony of laughter fills the quiet hill.
“She’s sinister, that one. I like it.” That comes from Remy.
“Me too, and tempting, but I think not,” Jules says. “This is how it goes. The entire industry is subjective and all about catching someone’s fancy at the right time. I’ll just put on my big girl pants and roll out my new songs right over that Jason Briggs. And from now on, I don’t want to hear another word about my purple book from the lot of you.”
We agree and tell her so. Then we hang up and Orion catches me, again, with my face in the clear, black sky. “You trolling for other guys with constellation names?”
“Ha bloody ha,” I say, mimicking him, which earns an amused snicker. “I thought I saw a shooting star, but it was only an airplane. And I was also thinking of Jules and how she’s not waiting and hoping for her big break to just drop onto her stage. She’s working so hard for it.”
“She’s not hanging her future on any wishing stars, that’s for sure. She’s gonna make herself the star.”
I look up and out again. “But it’s still fun to wish. If that little falling light wasn’t an airplane, what would you wish for?”
“Trying your Cuban food.”
I slant my gaze at him. “That’s a given.”
“Is it really?” He swivels, resting on one elbow. “You say these things but I’ve yet—”
“You will. I’m starting you off with something called the Cubano sandwich. No hints except it requires braising a couple pork shoulders and baking a ham. So, days, Maxwell. No need to waste a wishing star. Now, what’s your real wish?”
His happy grin cinches closed. He dashes his hand toward the muted stars. “I’ve stopped wishing on those long ago. I mean, I still have hopes and dreams. And it certainly doesn’t mean I sit around waiting for things to happen. But I’ve made this deal with the universe. I’ve learned not to ask more of it than what I’m given, both good and bad.”
“Since… your mom?”
“Since that, yes. I’ve grown to find peace and acceptance in not fighting what I can’t control. I don’t come to God or the universe as a beggar anymore. It’s helped me.” His mouth wobbles slightly. “And see, sometimes the universe gives me really fun nights showing visiting Cuban bakers around my friend’s music, and motorbikes, and our native snack foods. So you might want to be home. I get that and all the reasons why. But right now you’re here and I can’t find myself thinking that’s all that bad, Lila.”
“No. It’s not bad at all.” The words rush out of me, outrunning countless Miami echoes and Cuban roots, and everything I packed in my bag for this cold,