A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,61
study a memory, nudging me. Lila. A girl sprawled out on Miami grass, miles from home.
Would I lie for that girl?
My family did worse in their eyes than lie. Something far over the edge of painful. They put me on an airplane, away from my everything. Away from them.
With a sigh that makes me sound just like my father, I cross my arms at my chest. “I won’t tell Orion on two conditions.”
“Yes. Okay.”
“Promise right now you’ll stop tagging.”
She nods rapidly. “I promise, Lila. I won’t tag again.”
“Good. The other thing—three days a week, you will work with me in the Owl and Crow kitchen. I start at six in the morning.”
Flora takes a deliberate step back. “I can’t cook or bake.”
“I’ll teach you. Easy stuff at first.”
“But I’m already working at Maxwell’s most afternoons.” She pokes her jaw out. “So now my mornings, too? Who wakes up that early during the holidays? That’s not…”
Here she goes. Flora’s about to say my idea’s not fair and, no. Sympathetic circumstances or not, she still vandalized. “Three days a week. You’ll survive.” I tip my hand to her. “Up to you.”
She stares at me until the look goes stale. “Whatever.”
Sí, claro, that’s a yes. This is another language I know well. “Good. Monday, then. See you.”
Flora picks up the paint can. “Don’t freak, I’m gonna throw it out.”
“Do I look like I’m freaking?” I check my watch. “I’ll see you home, though.”
“It’s close. I can see myself home.”
I should make sure she gets to her porch. But when she said she felt smothered, I listened. Flora can make it four blocks home. I need to give her this. “Yeah. You can.”
I let her flee then walk to the Crow on a close, parallel street, knowing Flora is doing the same. I’d hear anything out of place. Planner that I am, I should probably decide what to say to Orion when he mentions the tagging and Flora’s new training experiment. Even the thought of keeping something from him rots in my stomach like spoiled food.
When I reach the rose arbor, a few second-story lights show proof of life from guest rooms. The third-floor flat is dark, though.
I’m familiar enough with the upper staircase to ascend while checking my phone. Late for me is the perfect time to call or FaceTime Pilar. I’ve had the sound off; I switch it back and notice the message bubble on my home screen. Busy with Flora (an understatement), I must’ve missed her text. I nearly trip over the next step. The name under the message doesn’t read Pilar Reyes.
It says Andrés Millan.
* * *
Minutes later, my phone vibrates, but not from any setting. It’s me on my bed, shaking, reading Andrés’s text again and again.
Andrés: Hey you. I know this is sudden but I wanted to check in
Another message comes through.
Andrés: Are you busy?
My mind spins. I should block his number. I should hurl the entire device out the window. I do neither of these things. Even though feelings have rearranged and shifted, the shadow of Andrés is still there, dark and heavy with sweet memory. And I still fall for the hook.
Me: I’m here
Not even five seconds before he replies.
Andrés: FaceTime?
Me: Call
He does. I answer with one, dusty old word dragged out of a dusty old trunk.
“Hello to you too, Lila,” Andrés says in the voice I heard against my lips, and in the shell of my ear, and finally in a terrible goodbye.
“I know this is weird. Out of the blue,” he says.
I open my mouth, but the words don’t work.
“So, England, huh?” He must’ve been checking my Instagram too. “How, um, is it there?”
“Cold.” But there are sweaters for that—one sweater, and it’s soft and warm and gray.
“Right,” he says.
“Why?” Because my bold decides to show up now. “Why today?”
I hear his thick sigh. “I was just thinking about you. Wondering if you were okay. I know it was shitty—me. Us. Prom. Abuela. And I found out about Stefanie. That really sucks. So, I wanted to check in.”
“I’m okay. I really am.” My answer is not a lie.
“Good. I’m glad. You know, you can always call.”
My eyes fill. Haven’t I been waiting? Haven’t I been wanting this for months? But it doesn’t fall soft or even fit the same way inside me, as dependably warm and secure as the city he’s calling from. Instead, it slicks my throat with bile. “ ’Kay.”