A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,45

tastes like home. “Most Cuban cooks are on a mission to feed you until you can’t walk, breathe, hold normal conversations, or any combination of the three.” My shoulder springs up. “What you do with your body is your business. Sorry, not sorry.”

“Like that, is it?”

Our eyes meet for another sparring match. I lose—the first to break, giggling. He does too before he returns to his pastelito. His tongue darts out to nab bits of guava filling at the crease of his mouth. A fine mouth, really. Full and the perfect amount of wide. It’s not like I haven’t noticed before. Now, noticing stretches into wondering. I can’t see how my wondering could mean or be anything more right now. But hot, red blood still pumps from broken hearts like mine.

Spencer and Gordon trample through my musings, trudging through the back door with grocery bags bursting with farmers market finds. Spence tips his head at Orion and tells me, “Success. Not only did they have your figs, they were on bulk special.”

Gordon dumps the figs into a mixing bowl and plunks it on the butcher block island.

“Bulk is right. Thanks guys,” I say before Spence takes his purchases out into the service hall.

Gordon has already found the guava pastelitos I’d put aside for the loft kitchen. Hand on the plate rim, doe eyes on me.

I concede with a huff. “One more. Save some for your parents.”

Gordon wastes no time in taking a bite. “My favorite of all the foods I tried in Miami. Plus, I paid my dues to the elliptical machine.” He tugs his sweaty workout shirt.

“Huh. All the while I thought these fancy new gym clothes were just for show,” Orion says.

Gordon gets up close and shoves a huge chunk of the pastry into his mouth. “Piss off, Ri,” he says, muffled but comprehendible enough. We snicker as he leaves.

I remember the figs and step up to the bowl, eying the stash from many angles. Warily.

“Lila,” Orion says, “they’re harmless fruits, not tiny monster egg pods about to hatch and attack.”

“That’s what you think.” I look up at him, sighing. “But I have to make friends with the fig because of my guava rationing. Only so many fruits work well as filling for pastelitos.” I pick one up of the purple-black figs; the size and texture are similar enough to my beloved guavas. “My deal with the Wallaces was to integrate Cuban and British baked goods. But I’m going to try actually combining ingredients and technique sometimes, instead of just serving them side by side.”

Orion nods. “So, fig pastelitos? A sort of British-Cuban mashup?”

My mouth twitches at the word, pastelitos, all wrong but completely adorable in Orion’s warm British lilt. “Yeah, my abuela would have done the same. She loved changing her recipes as much as cooking dishes the traditional way.” I cut into one of the figs, revealing two purply-reddish bellies I can scoop out to cook down with sugar, oil, and pectin.

My phone dings from the pocket of my running tights. It’s Mami—early for her to be up—but a busy cake day will do that.

Luisa came in last night. Stef will be traveling to a place where wifi is better. She’s going to contact you soon. There’s more, after I do a few orders. Besitos

Luisa Lopez, Stefanie’s mother. I’m still not used to my new normal where Stef and I have to go through others to have a simple conversation.

I read the text again then out loud to Orion, translating. “No one from Stefanie’s family has set foot into La Paloma since she left for Africa. They’ve been shopping at our rival bakery. Until last night.”

“No way that other joint is as good as yours.”

I cringe, shaking my head. “So that tells you how awkward things have been. Everyone knows.” I show Orion the e-mail I sent Stef the other day. Still no response.

Orion leans in, forearms plunked onto the butcher block, eyes never leaving mine as he bites into his bread. Swallows. “Maybe she’s afraid and going through her mum was easier for now. What do you think the more is from your mum’s text?”

“Not sure, but I’ll find out, from either Mami or Pilar. But…”

“But what?”

“I…” Words I’ve never told anyone make it all the way to the edge of my tongue. But they stop short. It feels too far to jump.

“Right,” he mutters and hunts around, reaching for a small wooden bowl of sea salt. “Way back in the way back,” he starts