Next Year in Havana(14)

A tremor slides through my body.

Pablo steps behind me, close enough that his fingers brush against the line of tiny buttons running down my spine. It feels like an eternity before his fingers slip the button through the slim hole, setting it to rights. It could be my imagination, but I swear his fingers twitch against me, or perhaps it’s my own body that shudders. There’s a novelty to this that catches me off guard. He is both old and new at once, and I can’t ignore the voice inside me that’s pushed out my mother’s now—

Pay attention. This is important. He is important.

Pablo releases a deep breath, stepping back. I turn to face him.

There’s surprise on his face, the kind that sneaks up on you and isn’t entirely welcome.

“You’re very young, aren’t you?”

The words themselves are tinged with the faintest hint of disapproval, but I can’t shake the feeling that the sentiment is directed more to himself than me.

I swallow, tilting my head, refusing to be cowed. “Nineteen.”

Nineteen and a pampered bird in a gilded cage.

He gives a soft little laugh, his hand running through his hair. It’s a bit long around the edges, unkempt, as though it’s been some time since he visited a barber. It’s a stark contrast to his clean-shaven face, his tanned skin at odds with an attorney’s days spent indoors behind a desk. My father knows a host of attorneys, men who bow and scrape before him. Does he know this one?

“Nineteen is very young.”

He says the words more for himself than me, an aside in an internal conversation he seems to be having.

I have older siblings; my interactions with men I’m interested in may be limited, but I’m well versed in the art of standing up for myself when I need to.

“And you?”

I toss the question out like a challenge.

“Thirty.”

The number isn’t shocking, nor is the age difference. My mother stopped celebrating birthdays ages ago, but the chasm between my own parents is impossible to miss.

“Not that old,” I say, even though I doubt he’s merely speaking of physical age. I feel new and shiny next to him; in contrast, he’s interesting—a sanded-down veneer covered in telltale signs of experience.

“Perhaps.” He’s silent for a moment, that word a door shutting on me, the conversation, whatever this is.

“I should go,” I say, taking a step forward, away from him.

Pablo’s head bows slightly. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t move.

“I shouldn’t—” His voice breaks off and he shakes his head. “I’m in a foul mood tonight. I didn’t come here looking for a party, only to speak to Guillermo, and I certainly didn’t come here expecting to meet you. That’s no excuse for being rude.” He takes a deep breath. “A friend died recently. I came to talk to Guillermo about it. I’m—” He pauses again, as though he’s searching for the right words. “I’m at a loss,” he finally says.

“I’m sorry about your friend.” My feet, those shoes that seem filled with ideas and ambition, take a step toward him, then another.

I rest my hand on his arm, the hem of my dress brushing against his trousers, a hint of tobacco and spice filling my nostrils. The body beneath my palm is all tightly coiled strength. His eyes are wide.

This—touching a man I barely know—is wholly inappropriate. Everything about this evening has firmly teetered away from respectability, and he’s right, he was a bit rude earlier. I should go inside, find my sisters, and return home. This man isn’t one of the tame boys my parents have trotted out in front of me as suitable escorts. He possesses an edge even I can’t miss.

There’s that flame, licking at my skirts again.

“Was he a good friend?”

“He was a good man,” Pablo answers after a beat. He takes a step back, putting distance between us, doing the appropriate thing when logic and reason seem to have picked their skirts up in one hand and fled.

It’s funny how that little step can change everything, but it does. It’s as though he cedes territory, and in his retreat, a burst of courage fills me. Whatever this is, he’s equally unsettled, and some entirely feminine urge I didn’t realize I possessed has me straightening my shoulders, tilting my head, meeting his gaze, my lashes fluttering closed, happy to play the coquette if only for the span of this evening.

A rueful grin covers his mouth, a glint of admiration in his eyes. His hand drifts to his heart, a hint of mockery in his demeanor. “You must forgive me. I fear I’m at a loss for words. No one ever warned me about the dangers of debutantes.”

“And how many debutantes have you known?” I ask, measuring my tone against his in an effort to keep things light between us, even though there’s sincerity in the question.

You learn fairly early on that there are men who will attempt to court you because of your last name, because your father is power and they want to grasp it in their greedy hands, because they dream of wealth, and slipping a ring on your finger is the easiest way to obtain it. I don’t sense that he’s such a man, but the impulse to be wary is there just the same.

“None.”

A flutter kicks up in my stomach.

I really should go inside.

“Am I dangerous?” I test the word out and decide I like the taste and sound of it.