When We Left Cuba(38)

“Let’s not talk of such things. I don’t want politics between us. Not now.”

“What do you want then?” he asks. “From me?”

There’s hesitancy in the question, and I imagine he’s the sort of man from whom a great many people want a great many things.

“This.”

“And what is ‘this,’ exactly?”

“I want you. Just you. No cash by the bedside table. No lies between us. No promises we don’t intend to keep.”

“Debutantes aren’t what they used to be, are they?”

I roll my eyes. “Would you rather I let you take the lead?”

He laughs. “I’ll manage just fine, but thank you. So I take it, even though I never extended the offer, that you have no interest in being my mistress.”

“It’s hardly personal. I don’t want to be anyone’s mistress.”

“Then that’s not the plan with Fidel?”

“You don’t want to know the plan with Fidel.”

“He’ll be back in Havana soon. Will you still be here?”

“I’ll be in Palm Beach.”

“I want to see you again.” He hesitates. “Can I see you again?”

“My flight doesn’t leave until tomorrow evening. Do you want to stay with me until then?”

“Yes.”

And just like that, we stop talking about politics.

It’s different the second time. There’s a familiarity between us that has sprung up in a remarkably short time, the kind of knowledge that comes only with intimacy.

Before we fall asleep, he turns to face me, his head against the pillow.

“Why tonight? Why me?”

“Because I wanted it to be you.” I take a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling, lights from the street flickering through the crack between the curtains. “Why this? Why me?”

“Because I wanted it to be you.”

“On the balcony?”

“Before that.”

“When?” I demand, greedy and a little bit tipsy from the bottle of champagne we ordered from the bar and shared earlier.

“When I saw you in the ballroom. Andrew was on his knees making a fool of himself, and you just stood there, and I could see you were there, but you weren’t, and I wanted to be wherever you were.”

“It’s an election year.”

Now is not the time for recklessness.

“It is.”

“And you’re to be married.”

Nick sighs. “I am.”

He shifts, bringing me against his side, wrapping his arm around my waist. My eyes close to the sound of his breathing, to the beat of his heart against my back.





chapter thirteen


The dream starts as it always does—me sneaking out of our house in Havana, the money I stole from my father’s safe to give to my brother stuffed in the little handbag I carry around my wrist. I’m in a hurry, worried about Alejandro, if he’s safe, if he’s well.

I spy one of the gardeners off to the side of the house, and our gazes connect. Fear pricks me. Will he tell my parents? Are his loyalties to my family or to the new regime?

The gardener breaks eye contact first, going back to his duties, as though he’s aware of the trouble that usually follows in my wake and wants no part of it.

I’m almost at the front gates of our estate.

A car rounds the corner, going far too fast for our street considering the number of children that reside in the surrounding houses.

The tires screech. A door opens. A body hits the ground.

I am running, the purse abandoned somewhere on the gravel of our front driveway, my legs pumping, heart pounding.

I scream.

When I was younger, I followed Alejandro out into the ocean one day, and a wave overtook me, water filling my lungs, panic flooding my body as I attempted to save myself.

That’s what the dream feels like—like I’m drowning, and I can’t save myself, and I can’t look away.

My brother’s dead face stares back at me.

I jolt awake, my limbs weighted down like lead, chest heaving, my breath coming in harsh pants.

“You’re safe. It was just a dream.”

I shift in bed, my eyes adjusting to the semidarkness, momentarily disoriented and surprised to see Nick looking at me with concern in his gaze.

He strokes my back as I take deep breaths, trying to get my heart rate back under control.

“Can I get you something?” he asks, the kindness in his voice bringing a lump to my throat.

I shake my head.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” I croak.

He sits up in the bed, making a space for me to curl into his body, and something turns over in my heart.

It feels like the most natural thing to lay my head on his bare chest, for his arm to wrap around my waist, holding me tight.

“When I came back from Europe, I had these dreams . . .” He flinches. “Still do sometimes.”

“Does it ever get easier?” I ask.

He bends down, his lips brushing the top of my head.

“It does. It takes time.” His grip around me tightens. “It never really goes away, though.”

“No, I imagine it doesn’t.”