A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,82
never specifically told to stay put, or to stay in Miami, but that’s the pattern in my family. Most of my cousins lived at home until they got married. Some of them were pushing thirty.”
“So this is the opposite of those unspoken ideals? Run off, not just away from your family, but to another country. Another culture.”
“Another life.”
Now, I leave that Saturday afternoon an hour train ride away, and catch up. Flora’s got a pastry in one hand and buttered pan Cubano in the other. I tip my cup at her. “Be careful, girl, you’re starting to turn Cuban.”
She laughs, but it comes out weak, her eyes boring into the wooden island.
I dunk my bread in the milky coffee. “So, anything new?”
“Not really.”
“ ’Kay.” I break apart my pastelito, stealing a quick glance at the last small tray browning in the oven. Butter stains my fingers and pastry flakes stick to my lip gloss as I eat.
Gordon swoops in from outside, windblown, a knapsack hanging from one shoulder. “Ri said you’re hiding extra tins of that vanilla pudding in the fridge.”
I snort. “Traitor. But have at it.”
Why it takes Gordon this much time and noise to get himself one ramekin of natilla, a glass of water, a spoon, and whatever else, is beyond me. He bee-buzzes into the pantry, then through another drawer, the fridge again. “Don’t mind me.”
We don’t. The guava filling is too good. The coffee is better.
“Well,” Flora says when the third wheel finally leaves out the back door. “Actually. Can I ask you something weird?”
“Besides baking at odd hours, weird is my other specialty.”
She inhales, releases, then says, “Is it normal for a guy you’re kind of chatting to and getting to know… I mean, is it weird that he asks about your friend a lot? Like too much?”
Ah, sí. “Not only weird, it’s what we call a red flag at home.”
“Same here.”
I face her directly. “I think you know the answer.”
Her next bite leaves a dab of butter on her chin. She wipes it clean. “So, yeah. Will. I’m afraid he’s been using me to get close to Jules. Maybe to slide into our group for Roth’s sake. Not mine.”
My fifteen-year-old self aches for her. I look inside my heart, at my own truth. “Anyone who’s lucky enough to hang with you needs to be all about you. You know, more thoughtful.” I sip coffee and bite off more than flaky pastry. “Like, say, Gordon.”
“Gordon?” She whips around with a look as blank as an English morning sky. “Gordon?” She actually laughs. “God, no. I’ve known him since I was in nappies. And he’s a good mate and all. But not more.” She shakes her head to seal it. “Could you imagine…”
I could, but I am no one’s forceful matchmaker. “Okay, but whoever it is needs to make you to feel the most special.”
“Now that, I’d like.”
“And you’ll have it. But really, there’s no rush. Enjoy the friends you have now.”
“I do have friends. But sometimes they just go along with things. So, if your sister heard about a guy like Will doing that to you, she’d probably get on you?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “So, so much.”
“I was thinking, that time you told me about your prom. I’d like to have someone who’d go into my room, and not Orion. Someone who’d clear my space of a boy who’d hurt me. Clear out all the things before I saw them.”
“I think Jules would do that if you’d let her.”
“True. She’d throw out all sorts of shit from my window. Then she’d write a rager of a song about it.”
“The ragiest.”
We laugh, and then Flora whispers into the belly of her cup, “You’d be good at that too. Not the song part. All the other parts.”
The oven timer chimes over my heart-ping. “Your turn.”
Flora jumps up for the oven mitt. “Eww! What the devil?” she cries after shoving her hand inside. She pulls out a frothy white mess and licks her fingers. “Whipped cream?”
I’m already at the oven, killing the heat and using a thick towel to remove the pan.
Flora dashes to the sink. “Someone booby-trapped our oven mitts?”
A twitchy noise whips our heads to the swing door. It’s cracked open, a patch of red hair curling around the frame. The door releases and hasty footsteps slap.
“Gordon!” we yell in unison.
Flora’s brows drop as she points to the fridge. “He was in there twice for one dish of pudding?” She lunges for the stainless-steel door and