after a little more than a month. On my West Dade street, blaring voices ghosting through walls wouldn’t even make me look up from a book. Here I get up and peer out the side window. I know these people now, their shapes and silhouettes. Jules and Flora are in front of the churchyard with three guys who are definitely not Orion, Gordon, or Remy. I reach for the window crank but remember it screeches louder than a trumpet high note. I go for the other window.
I cross over, open, and listen. I can’t see them from here, but I know it’s Jules who says, “How long were you guys waiting, then? Minutes, hours?”
“If you’d unblock our numbers, I wouldn’t have to—”
“Wouldn’t have to what, Evans?” It’s Jules again and… oh! Roth and his cohorts.
“Will you bloody listen?”
“They’re not saying your Goldline stuff isn’t stellar.” This from Flora. “It is, but—”
“Not now, Flora. And I am not the reason you guys haven’t signed with North Fork yet,” Jules says.
“The hell you aren’t! They heard ‘Blackbird.’ You, me. It’s the sound they want.” Roth’s voice sharpens even more. “I’m not about to let your playtime gig mates ruin my chance.”
Whoa. No me gusta—I don’t like it. Before I think about whether I should, I do. A running jacket zips over my oversized tee and the yoga pants I’d thrown on for FaceTime with Pilar. Only now, my sister will have to wait.
I slide into flip-flops and creep downstairs. Between the Wallaces’ flat and the foyer, I plot my strategy for jamming up a sticky situation without making it worse. My plan naturally takes me to the kitchen. Always my war room.
Lightning quick, I grab the leftovers I made for Jules and Remy and box an assortment of the fruit-filled butter cookies I baked while pork was roasting all day. I still have racks full, more than enough for two teatime servings, even after Orion inhaled a handful before he left.
I use the side door; dozens of tragic outcomes pass behind my eyes. But I keep walking. Spine straight and armed with live baked-good ammunition, I reach the group and ignore five puzzled faces. Conversation halts. I hold the paper bag up to Jules. “Had these ready for you then heard you out here. Cuban sandwiches, as promised.” I check my watch. “Remy should be off by now? I mean, these are better off in your refrigerator than mine.”
“Um, yeah. Thanks. He, err, is.” Jules reaches for my sandwiches in steady slow-mo. Her face is an original song. A timid melody of confusion arranged with I see what you’re doing harmonies.
A quick look at Flora reveals a mouse-like gaze and posture, smaller than I anticipated. I open the box of Abuela’s favorite cookies—so buttery, the scent clouds over afternoon rain and honeysuckle. The guys instinctively step forward. Ha! The Cuban siren song strikes again. “I’m the new baker at Owl and Crow and I’ve been experimenting with fillings. I tried fig, strawberry, and lemon.” Now to turn up the temp. “I mean, I’m new around here and can hardly predict which ones the guests will like best, you know? Maybe some locals can weigh in?”
Will/William/Whatever, Heaven’s Gate concertgoer and the reason Flora’s probably breaking curfew, gives a What the hell? Biscuits! shrug. He plucks out a lemon variety from my box. Flora immediately chooses strawberry.
My smile’s laced with more sugar than I add to any recipe. I point the box to Roth and the other flannel shirt guy, who looks enough like Will for me to peg him as his brother. Both dig in, then Jules takes a fig and strawberry.
There’s no tense talking now, no accusations. Only chewing and pleasant reaction noises carrying down the pavement.
“What are we all eating?” Gordon shuffles up in joggers and a denim jacket. He yawns. Rakes his hand through his hair, creating a red tempest cloud. “Heard a scuffle out here.”
“No scuffles. Just some taste-testing and voting.” I offer Gordon the box. One of each flavor for him.
He bites then consumes the other two in less than thirty seconds. “They’re all brilliant. Also, do you ever stop baking? What is it, half-past ten?”
“Something like that,” I say then shoot Flora an innocent but knowing look. Orion’s gonna blow his top. Past her curfew and running around with this lot—I throw it all on my face and cock my hip.
Flora answers with a messy sigh. “I would maybe eat the strawberry one again. I’d better get