Next Year in Havana(78)

Ana gives me a sidelong glance.

“Speaking of Luis—” Her voice trails off for a moment. “Elisa and I used to talk about our lives when we grew older. We imagined being bridesmaids in each other’s weddings, raising our children together, becoming grandmothers together. We used to imagine our children playing as best friends, perhaps even falling in love. It’s good to see the two of you together.”

“We’re not—”

I’m not even sure how to finish the sentence. Not together? Not in love?

“I don’t know how we can be together,” I say instead.

“Have faith, Marisol. You could be good for each other. It might seem impossible now, but trust me, you never know what the future can bring.”

Luis walks into the kitchen at the tail end of her speech, greeting his grandmother with a hug and kiss. I busy myself with the paella, mindlessly stirring to occupy my hands, my cheeks burning. There are some things we’ve yet to speak of, conversations I’m not ready to have. I leave soon—what will happen when I do? Will we keep in touch or will this connection between us peter out once we return to our normal lives?

Ana leaves to visit the guests, and we’re alone once again.

Luis closes the distance between us, kissing my forehead. He smiles at me as I pause mid-stir.

His fingers stroke my nape. I flush again.

“You’re nervous,” he says, sounding amused by the notion.

“Yes.”

“Why? You weren’t nervous before.”

“I was always a bit nervous, but it feels strange in this house, with your grandmother here, Cristina, your mother. I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes. And then there’s everything else. I don’t want to start something I can’t finish; I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I confess. “I came to bury my grandmother, and now everything is mixed up. I have a grandfather I never knew I had. And you—”

I came here to write an article about tourist locales, and now my mind is full of policy and injustice; I came here single and carefree, and now I risk leaving my heart behind. It’s as though Cuba has awoken something in me, and I can’t—don’t want to—shut it off.

“I know.” Luis steps back with a sigh. “Things are complicated.”

“Yes.”

I turn, looking into his dark eyes, searching—

“You’re good at that,” I murmur.

“Good at what?”

“Hiding what you’re feeling, thinking. About some things, you’re an open book, but with others . . .” My voice trails off. “You’re difficult to read.”

“Is it really a mystery, Marisol?”

I close my eyes at the sound of my name falling from his lips, as my pulse accelerates, at the flutter in my stomach.

When I open my eyes, he’s still there, his gaze boring into me, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

Luis steps forward, closing the distance between us, his lips caressing my forehead, his fingers running through my hair.

He takes a step back and gestures toward the stove. “Dinner is almost finished. Can you be ready in an hour?”

I open my mouth to answer him—

Luis’s mom, Caridad, walks into the kitchen, setting a stack of plates down on the tiny counter space with a thud.

Luis’s hand drops to his side. My cheeks flame as I take a deep breath, the air whooshing through my lungs.

“Do you want to leave in an hour or so?” he asks again, his voice low.

I nod.

Caridad’s gaze follows me from the room.





chapter twenty-three


Elisa


He died in Santa Clara. He fought valiantly. There’s little else I have to remember him by besides the memories I cling to now, the letters, and the few tangible signs I have that he was real and that he loved me.

And then there’s the baby.

I spend two days in bed. My sisters cover for me; they don’t ask any questions, but their worry is a palpable thing. Only Magda knows the truth; only Magda knows the full extent of my fears, and my heartache. She sits beside my bed, stroking my hair, attempting to convince me to eat and drink.

“For the baby,” she whispers.

I exist in shadows, the sunlight flitting and disappearing, the noise of the household around me, the sounds of the street I’ve come to loathe.

Several days after my world is ripped apart, I’m forced out of bed. We have a new crisis to contend with—revolutions don’t care much for broken hearts and shattered dreams.

They’ve finally reached my father’s name on the list.

My mother is sobbing on the couch when I come downstairs, Isabel and Beatriz sitting beside her. Maria is in her room with Magda. It’s becoming more and more difficult to shield her from all of this.

“What happened?” I ask. I always feared it would be Alejandro who drew their notice, Alejandro who wasn’t afraid to denounce Fidel, who danced far too close to the flames. But our father— Beatriz answers me. “Che went by his offices.”

Oh, how I hate the Argentinian. It’s bad enough to see Fidel behaving as though the country is his for the taking, but Che isn’t even Cuban, adding insult to injury.

“He took him to La Caba?a,” Isabel says, her expression grim.