A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,56

his stomach. “Feeding you.”

Orion snatches my finger and slides his hand to capture mine. He rises, using a firm grip to pull me up. “Let’s go check out that wooded patch and you can school me.”

As we hike up to the small cluster topping the hill, I tell him first about the mal de ojo. Evil eye.

“I know about evil eyes but say those words again?”

“Mal de ojo. Why?”

“I like hearing you speak Spanish.”

Instant blush—I angle away slightly as if that will erase the pink. “Well, one hour with me and Pilar and some smuggled rum and you’d beg us to stop.” We enter the hilltop grove, our sneakers crunching damp clods of soil, rocks, and dead leaf mulch. Trees huddle closely, trapping us in dappled shade. “My family’s not big on the mal de ojo, but the curse stems from jealousy and is usually brought on when people pass by and gaze at newborn babies or young kids. They’re most susceptible.”

Orion spots a felled tree trunk; we sit under a leafy umbrella. “There must be a charm to ward off the curse?” he asks.

“Typically a black eye charm or tiny carved piece of black jet, or azabache.” Again, we’re close, thighs together and arms brushing. “Then there’s the one about never going out at night with wet hair, and the three-hour rule about swimming after eating. These are both crucial. Not obeying them will surely bring on a stroke or a cough or maybe you’ll need a heart transplant.”

His laughter comes wildly, dimples on display. He settles and my head is already tipped against his shoulder before my mind realizes.

“My mum was adamant about the no swimming after eating, although her rule only required an hour,” Orion says.

I want to joke that he got off easy, but I smack the words back and down.

“See, we’re not so different after all,” he adds.

No, not on the inside. But our outsides are as opposite as our coasts—my Cuban, tanned and brunette. His British, light and blond. Beach sand and cobblestones, spaghetti straps and sweaters. But I remember we are both stars. Estrellita and Orion, a fierce little star and a warrior constellation. We sit close on this tree a bit longer, golden warm but silent, like one sun in the cooling shade.

19

No tacky centerpieces top our table at Bridge Street Tavern, but this party doesn’t need them. With school exams well over, a summer holiday for Winchester youth plus Gordon nabbing a coveted part-time job at an architectural firm is plenty cause for celebration. Last night, we all went to the cinema, but this Saturday evening is all about food.

Everyone is here. And by everyone, I mean not only Orion’s friends, but parents and siblings, too. Even Flora doesn’t look miserable from her seat down the table. Remy’s mom plants our massive party at one end of the pub, then passes off her usual hostess duties to join us. All the parents huddle together at an adjacent table and pay us no mind. It’s a tight fit; Orion’s smooshed into the corner and I’m fairly smooshed next to him by Jules to my left.

A waitress drops off my lemon water and places two pints in front of Orion, one pale amber and the other golden brown.

“Thanks, Bridget,” he says.

“Extra thirsty then, Orion?” Bridget doesn’t wait for an answer before serving drinks to the rest of our crew.

I cock one brow. “This is what happens when I visit the loo? Two beers?”

“Oh, I’ll likely drink two but not together. You’ve still got a few weeks before you can order one yourself. So technically, I wanted a light pale ale.” He points to the first. “As well as a darker, but slightly sweet nut-brown ale. Try both and you can have your favorite.”

I wink at his slyness and smile as his thoughtfulness before yet another taste test. “The nut-brown,” I decide. It’s richer and bites back just a little.

Remy bends around Jules and says, “I see what you’re on to, mate.”

“Where do you think I learned it?” Orion motions toward sixteen-year-old Jules and the similar pint of golden amber sitting closer to her place setting than eighteen-year-old Remy’s.

I sip my beer. “Have you picked what I’m eating?” Bridge Street doesn’t believe in menus. A big chalkboard on the central wall lists specials and I decided it’s Orion’s turn to feed me. Spencer usually cooks and I’ve had only a couple of pub meals out with the Wallace family. I appeal to my local