The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(15)

He has been my best friend for as long as I can remember, but now I wonder what it would be like for him to embrace me as something other than a friend.

A tear trickles down my cheek.

“Don’t cry, Marina,” he whispers, looping his arm around me and tucking me against his body. I inhale the familiar scents I’ve come to associate with him—the tang of grass, the smell of horse, a hint of sweat—my heart beating madly in my chest and not just from the fear of being caught together like this.

We’ve touched so many times throughout our lives, limbs tangling, knees bumping, hands clasping, fingers linking. But the innocence of our touches has been replaced by something burning hot and bright within me, a yearning for something just out of my grasp, a desire to be known as fully as possible by the person I care for most in this world.

For the past several months now, I’ve wondered what it would be like to press my lips to his.

But the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in Cuba can hardly marry a common farmer. If not for my brother Arturo, I’d likely be married already, my husband destined to take over the family’s sugar business. But thanks to my older brother, I am at least relieved of that obligation even if I am expected to marry well, to fulfill the only role expected of me—that of wife.

“We won’t see each other again,” I say, the words muffled against his skin.

My parents’ plan is to keep me in Havana until I am suitably wed. Will our paths cross on vacations with my husband? Will I spend the rest of my life regretting the choices I’ve made, stuck in a marriage based on society and familial expectations rather than love? A marriage like my parents’ marriage?

If I were more daring, if I wasn’t so afraid, my heart pounding in my chest, I would press my lips to the spot on his flesh where they hover now.

Mateo doesn’t speak, but his grip on me tightens as though he, too, is unable to say good-bye.

How can I be parted from someone who holds my heart?

“You’re my best friend,” I add, even though that’s hardly enough to describe the fact that he has become as vital a part of my life as the air I breathe.

“You’ll make new friends,” Mateo replies, his voice rough with emotion. “Go to fancy parties in Havana. You might even like it.”

I won’t and we both know it. Change is coming, and I want no part of the life my family has chosen to lead. I want to be part of this new, free Cuba.

“I don’t want any of that. I never have. I can’t pretend like this life we live, the privilege I enjoy doesn’t come at a cost. If we don’t stand up to the Spanish, if we don’t fight for change what will become of us? What if the life they have planned for me doesn’t include that?”

What if the husband they choose for me, one of my father’s friends or their sons, sympathizes with the Spanish as so many do?

It was Mateo who first introduced me to the revolutionary movement, who snuck me to the meetings his father frequented before he died. Mateo’s parents supported the revolutionaries in our first war for independence decades ago, and have continued to meet with others who are secretly calling for our liberty from Spanish tyranny. Our mutual dream for Cuba’s future is just one of the things I love about him.

“They wish for you to marry,” Mateo interjects.

I can’t read the meaning behind his words, can’t tell if he’s merely stating a fact or if there’s some emotion lingering there.

“Yes. They wish for me to marry.”

Everything about this situation is impossible, but this feels like my only chance to see if he loves me, too.

“I don’t want to marry someone they choose for me. I’d rather marry someone I care for.” I take a deep breath and bare my heart. “I rather thought I might marry my best friend. If he’ll have me.”

Mateo swears softly. “You shouldn’t think things like that.”

There’s enough despair in his voice, enough of a crack in the facade to make me think I might not be alone in my feelings for him.

“Mateo, I know what I want. What I don’t know, not for sure, is what you want. If you don’t feel the same way, if you don’t want the same things, I understand. We’ll never speak of this again. We can return to being friends and nothing more. But I thought—I thought I might try.”

Of all the ways I imagined this happening, it was always Mateo on his knees in front of me professing his love rather than me flinging myself at him, but with circumstances as they are, I’ve come to accept that my fantasy doesn’t really matter anymore. I want him, and I’ll do whatever it takes, sacrifice my pride, if that means we can be together.

“I can’t offer you this life,” Mateo says. “You know that. This idea that we could be together is an impossibility. Your family will never allow it.”

He’s right, of course, but even as I fear their disapproval, even as it pains me to sever ties with the family of my birth, if they cannot see past Mateo’s background and station in life, if they cannot wish us well, if they don’t want what’s best for me, then what choice do I have? We have one shot at happiness in this life, and this is mine.

“I love you. Whatever life has in store for us, I will always love you.”

Mateo is silent for a beat that stretches on and on, so long in fact that I nearly convince myself I had it all wrong, that I overstepped, that he’s never loved me at all.