A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,65
“It’s Saturday.”
“No, I mean. Why do we. Torture ourselves. Running?” Her blond ponytail bounced in time with her feet.
“More room for pastelitos? Besides, you love it.”
Stefanie said, “You love it.”
But she had never loved it. And I had never really heard her. I can’t apologize to her now, but I can to Andrés.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For all the planning.” Inhale, exhale.
His mouth snaps wide, then small again. “The thing is, I think I moved myself too far away. From you.”
Oh.
Two months and even two weeks ago, I would’ve been my burning star self and run back across countries and the entire Atlantic, just for this.
Now, I’m the one not moving. I’m still. I tell him to give me some time and not call for a while. After the session goes black, I stretch out along the quiet of my antique bed in this old, old inn. I stop and stargaze, but my telescope is backward. I turn my search inward.
Maybe Orion’s earlier superstition was spot-on. Maybe he nailed it. But as the sky dips into dusk, the lover who is thinking of me after I spill my coffee is an unexpected one.
Myself.
22
My kitchen. Not Flora’s kitchen. My sanity. “More dishtowels in the next drawer,” I tell my reluctant protégé, who’s been relegated to clean-up duty. This, she can do unsupervised. Maybe.
“We only made three things. How can three bloody items require so much equipment?” Flora grumbles, suds foaming up to her elbows.
I unmold strawberry tea cakes for later, ready for a six-hour nap and a new head to replace the one that wants to pound free of my skull right now. Brilliant, Lila. What have I done? Maybe I’ll just have Flora work in here for one week. It would make a statement. It would keep me from going Full-Force Reyes on a fifteen-year-old.
I’m baking sweets, but I’m all salt, thanks to a night of tossing and flip-flopping over a gut-rip FaceTime session.
The back door whines. I turn and catch Orion’s smile before he finds his sister.
“Look at you, Pink.” He approaches the sink. “How was your first go?”
My heart clenches—his encouraging smile, the note of curiosity, bright in his eyes—masked by the deceit I can’t all-the-way shake.
“I did fine.” She shrugs, and I swear I detect the exact moment Flora Maxwell remembers to sell herself. She shoots her brother a lopsided smile. “I made the simple syrup for a cake. And we mixed bread dough, weighing and measuring and all that. We also did a fruit platter with a vanilla cream dipping sauce.”
I purposely kept today’s offerings simple. No labor-intensive cinnamon rolls or temperamental French or Cuban bread. “Your pre-running snack.” I point to the plate we set aside for him.
Sparkles flash from his eyes as he dips sliced melon into vanilla cream. “Delicious,” he tells Flora. “I’m really chuffed you’re doing this. Dad is too.”
An ounce of Flora’s smile might be real.
I exhale over the last of my work. “Flora, you can bail. I’ll finish up the dishes.”
She towels off her hands. Loosening ties, she hands me her apron. Our eyes meet over two truths. She does not want to be here. I possess information she’s decided is worth her being here anyway. I keep my third truth inside but hope there’s enough mixed with the weariness on my face. I won’t give up on you.
“You did really well,” I say. “I’ll see you Wednesday?”
Her shoulder springs up. “Wednesday.”
“And I’ll see you later at the shop,” Orion says.
Alone, Orion munches more fruit and cream as I drag myself to the sink. “How’d she really do?” he asks.
I want to explain that she has zero skills. But guilt will slice him end to end. “Learning the kitchen takes practice. She’ll get it.”
My hands have replaced Flora’s under the soap and hot water. Scrub and sponge. Lather, rinse, repeat. All this cleaning can’t scour FaceTime plus the sight of a graffitied St. Cross wall from my mind.
“Lila. What’s wrong?”
I can’t tell him yet, and my self-imposed silence hurts as much as the details. Again, I stick to what’s true. “I’m beat. I had a rough night.”
“Well, I can’t make pastries, but I’m good at hugs?”
I nod and he drags me into him, sudsy hands and all. I dissolve into Orion Maxwell like sugar into butter, eggs, and vanilla. “You’re the bestest-best at hugs.” I breathe inside the soft whirr of his chuckle and his smell. Rain and apples and his natural soapy spice.