A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow

by Laura Taylor Namey

Me: So early!

  Gordon wasn’t kidding.

  Me: Down in five

  Orion: Yeah, I’ll just freeze out here

  That gets no reply.

  Back at the closet and out of time, I give up and settle for one of Pilar’s black merino sweaters. I rip off the tag and pair it with dark skinny jeans. And as long as I’m going for What Not to Wear, Miami in Late June edition, I slip on thin socks and my sister’s black ankle boots. Orion’s accent rings between my ears, so I toss on the thick gray and black animal print scarf. One swipe of MAC lipstick in Impassioned colors my lips like ruby-red grapefruit.

  I race down and rip open the Crow’s front door. I’m more winded than any decent runner should be. Well. Orion looks perfectly toasty in his brown leather bomber jacket and navy tartan wool scarf knotted around his neck. “Freezing out here, my ass,” I say. “Also, is being early a British thing?”

  He steps back and I secure the door behind us. “It’s called being prompt, and the way you ask makes me wonder if being late is a Lila thing.”

  “Not always.” A crack in my bright pink pout. “And never when it comes to kitchens.”

  His smile is the warmest thing he wears. “You look nice. You heeded my warning. Sort of,” he adds sheepishly.

  I sling my purse across my body. “What do you mean, ‘sort of’?”

  This whole weekend, the parking strip in front of the Crow is blocked off for minor road work. We walk around the corner and I halt abruptly. “Hold up. That’s our ride?” I’m no chicken. But I’ve never been on a motorcycle, which ranks at number five thousand on my top-ten list of must-dos.

  “That,” Orion says, pointing to the black, two-wheeled early death machine with tan leather seat, “is a 1982 Triumph Bonneville. Fully restored, even if she is a bit loud.”

  I recall the rumble invading the Crow kitchen the first time I met him. “Um. But.”

  He chuckles, shaking his head. “Come closer, Lila. Her bark is definitely bigger than her bite.”

  No moving, no closer. “Her?”

  “Why, yes. She’s called Millie and she was my granddad’s. Now she’s my best girl. They don’t make these anymore. Millie’s a classic.”

  A tremor pings through my body. “Maybe there’s a valid reason they don’t make them anymore. Maybe because they’re metal speed sticks of bodily destruction.”

  “Look, she’s harmless.” He takes my bent elbow. Leads me up to Millie. “I shined her up earlier and everything. You’re not scared, are you?”

  ¡Carajo! “Of course not. It’s just really dangerous out… there.”

  Orion plants himself as mediator between me and the bike. “I’ve been handling this motorbike since I was a kid, way before it was legal. Hundreds of hours with no incident, and I can navigate the route to the music hall with my eyes shut. Of course, I can’t promise nothing will ever happen to us. Can you make that claim when you step off any given pavement in town?”

  Make a claim against something, or three things, upending my world? Never. I shake my head.

  “Right. But I don’t get off on inviting people.” He arches a brow. “Especially my tour guided plus-ones, for activities I know will likely hurt them.”

  No, he doesn’t—he couldn’t. Not this boy who’s suffered enough hurt to pave every street in Winchester. My body loosens. “Okay, fine.” I grab the hair tie around my wrist, securing my flat-ironed locks into a ponytail. “I’d better run back for a jacket.”

  “No need. Plus, we’ve got to get moving or we’ll miss Goldline.” He opens a knapsack and pulls out familiar gray wool. “After what you said about your Winchester packing, I wasn’t sure of your outerwear situation.”

  I layer his cardigan over my merino crew neck. Orion’s sweater is softer than the trench hanging in my closet. I could get lost inside it. I adjust my scarf so the ends trail down my chest. “This is becoming a habit.”

  “I know of worse ones,” he says then hops onto the bike. “Your turn.”

  I straddle the remaining patch of leather seat behind him, resting my boots where he shows me.

  Orion bends around. “Grab my middle and don’t let go. And lean with me into the turns.” He revs up Millie. The engine vibrates under my thighs. “Hold on, Miami!”

  Orion starts off slowly as we ride through St. Cross. Then ignores my motorcycle virginity when the frontage road widens. I’ve jogged this road. We’ve jogged this road. But on his bike, all my senses are bit by night and speed.

  For the first hesitant minutes, I couldn’t help but think of Andrés’s silver convertible. Even at full throttle, our Miami days chased me down with replays of sun-dripped, tropical breeze and cruising Collins Avenue. But Orion’s motorcycle has something to say about my memory. Louder than the old words in my head, the engine and her skilled driver fight to win. Fresh pine and grass wrap around the wind, shooting up my nose like a street drug.

  The dashing speed presses me into Orion’s back. Partway in, I squeeze harder and rest my cheek on battered leather. I’m warm in his sweater, my arms full of his solid frame. I close my eyes and just feel until the bike slows and Orion turns into a packed parking lot. “Already?”

  Did I just say that?

  Apparently I did because Orion’s laughing as he parks. He helps me off the bike. My body still thinks we’re in the middle of turns and dizzying bends, the growling throttle echoing in my ears.

  “Got you here in one piece and you even managed to enjoy it.”

  “I… yeah,” I say as my legs recall how to work.

  “Then you might want to release a guy’s poor, innocent jacket before we head inside?”

  I look down; my hand had instinctively clamped like a vise around his forearm. “Oh—sorry. I didn’t even realize.”

  “Millie does have that effect.” Another laugh, his features both warm and smug. “You did like it, then.”

  14

  My legs manage to adjust from post-motorbike to normal by the time we reach the white, pitched roof building with black trim. The sign over the entrance reads Heaven’s Gate, but locals just call this club the Gate.

  Inside the venue, filtered light casts a ghostly hue. Sweat, hoppy beer, and a bouquet of a hundred perfumes follow our elbow-pushing through the crowd. Orion plants his palm on my back and guides us dead center. Remy and crew have been saving us seats, and good thing—there aren’t any left.

  Our group has snagged two bistro tables and pushed them together. I spy Flora with a couple of girls and guys at the far end. We squeeze into our chairs.

  Gordon waves, and Remy salutes from my left, saying, “You survived Millie, then? You’ve got guts behind your apron, Lila. Ri’s a beast on that thing. Usually ends up swiping his Dad’s ride when he’s toting companions.”

  Orion juts forward. “Enough out of you.”

  I turn, slanting my gaze at my chauffeur. “A car? You have access to a car and—”

  “Goldline’s up next.” Orion’s left eyeball strays my way. His mouth purses infuriatingly.

  “We are not done discussing this,” I say.

  “Time for music, Lila.”

  The truth saves him and the crowd cheers Goldline onto the stage. Remy takes roll call for me. Leah, the drummer appears first, then Tristan and Jack—one on keyboard, the other on bass. Lastly, Carly, a petite brunette with an acoustic guitar steps up to a boom mic. She introduces Jules. The lead singer appears in a burgundy maxi dress topped with a black leather biker jacket, hair blown straight and tinted like pink lemonade.

  Gone is the goofy girl who belches over hard cider and can’t sit right in a chair. Mic in her hand and a capable band at her back, she’s a professional temptress of smooth and polish. Jules eats the stage.

  After a few songs, I learn their particular brand of music. Pilar would describe it better, but even I know Goldline borrows its eclectic vibe from many sounds and decades of musical references. Part alternative, part folk, they sprinkle in enough edge to keep the polyphonic a
rray of synth and guitar from being too precious.

  Orion catches my sidelong glance. “You like?” he asks, as low and misty as the light, and I know he means the music. A breath still trips across my tongue.

  “She’s made for songs.” Her airy but controlled voice snares my heart on a fishhook.

  Orion shifts, leather brushing against my arm. “She writes most of the music. That purple book she always has.” He dashes a long arm toward the stage. “This is why we indulge her.”

  I lose time between an acoustic ballad and a dark, alternative jam. My eyes blink me back to the present when the house lights raise for a quick band break. Five songs felt like nothing.

  Remy strains his neck to scan the venue before leaning toward Orion and me. “Christ. Jason Briggs is here. Six o’clock.”

  Orion points out a tall redhead with a two-week scruff. “He’s a production assistant with Four Points Records. Jules has Remy stalking London scouts’ and managers’ Twitter feeds to see what shows they’re hitting up. Always a chance of this happening.”

  “You think he’s here for Jules?” I ask, which perks Gordon’s ears.

  “More bands on later, but we hope,” Remy says. “I don’t know when he got here.” He swivels, side to side. “He bloody needs to hear her, but there are no more seats, and management won’t let anyone loiter on the side for long.”

  Musical Chairs happens after less than ten seconds of deliberation between us. Gordon flags Briggs into his now-empty seat next to Flora, then slides into Remy’s chair. Remy slips into my chair. And me? I end up in the most logical place: Orion Maxwell’s lap. I don’t make a habit of sitting on guys’ laps, especially after knowing them less than two weeks, but Jules is worth the awkwardness. The lap owner is full of smiles, too, motioning me closer like it’s really not a big deal.

  Still… “Is this? Are you sure? I’m not too heavy or anything?” I stress the anything with everything beating through me with moth wings.

  “No anythings to worry about.” Orion shifts me sideways, my legs draping over his right thigh.

  Houselights drop and the crowd calls the band back to the stage. Jason Briggs settles into Gordon’s former chair, texting, but we’ll take it. I’m more concerned with trying to balance myself on Orion’s lap without completely invading his personal space. Jules sings the first bars of a haunting unplugged cover of Aerosmith’s “Dream On” and I’m twitching with drunk Cuban ants in my pants.

  Not helping: Orion’s thick sigh, warm against my neck. He closes his arms around me, pulling me against his chest. “Relax,” he says as Jules launches her death leap soprano into the chorus. “It’s just like us on the motorbike.”

  He’s right. It stills me. We ride out the rest of the set together, leaning into phrases and turns, shifting into melodic bends. I lose myself to feel and sound again, but it’s more than just one thrilling motorcycle ride and a set of brilliant songs. It’s everything new around me and it’s happening more and more. Happening right now—a Miami girl in an English club listening to an English band, sitting on an English boy’s lap, his sweater warm around me. And I can’t help but enjoy it for real. My pulse and breathing score a steady rhythm, playing against chewy brown leather and the minty-citrus scent of Orion’s soap.

  * * *

  Backstage feels like being stuck in the middle of a Mardi Gras parade. Orion and I stick together but lose the others. I almost get trampled by a girl group wearing sequined leather miniskirts and ice-pick-heeled patent boots. Jules finally appears, scooting ahead of the crew rushing through the narrow hall with cables and tuned guitars.

  After Orion and I barrel into a gush fest over her set, Jules grabs my shoulders. “Tell me Remy wasn’t jiving and it’s real. Jason Briggs was actually at your table? I couldn’t make out shit the way the lighting was up there.”

  I clear my throat and decide to leave out the part about our seating situation. “True. And he saw the second half of your set for sure. He was still there when we left.”

  “Naturally, that means I have to Twitter stalk him now. He always does a weekend wrap-up and teases what he likes,” Jules tells me then casts her gaze to the rafters. “Why do I torture myself?” She points to the band lineup printed on the wall. “You didn’t want to stay? GLYTTR’s on in a few.”

  GLYTTR? Wow. But I think back to stilettos and sequins in the hall. Fitting.

  Orion says, “We were here for you. Besides I’ve heard them before and their sound is like this cosmic mash-up of EDM, Adderall-infused K-pop, and a circus act.”

  Cringing, I’m about to comment, but Gordon sneaks up between us. “You guys seen Flora? She was with us when Remy and I went to fetch drinks then… vanished. Everyone wants to bail, but we don’t want to leave her. She’s not answering texts.”

  Orion shifts from relaxed concertgoer to protective guardian in less than a half second. He frowns at Gordon. “We’ll find her. Get the others and wait by the ticket window.”

  I follow in step as we make a couple of passes across the main floor, finding our previous seats snapped up and Jason Briggs still watching. But no Flora. “Is it like her to disappear and ignore her phone?” I ask.

  “No… yes. Yes, it’s bloody like her.” Orion shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “Six months ago, you’d have gotten a different answer.”

  We split up. I check the ladies’ room while Orion pokes around the service entrance. On my way back, Flora-less, I find concertgoers coming and going from a narrow staircase in the lobby. The stairs lead me to a mezzanine where people can mingle, but thick support pillars obstruct most of the stage.

  I can’t find guava paste in Winchester, but I find Orion’s sister ten seconds after I weave through the mezzanine crowd. Flora’s flat against the back wall, a guy wearing a beanie and a flannel shirt hovering in front of her. I send a quick text while GLYTTR jams below. Orion’s review of the band was spot-on; their sound is the bad kind of strange.

  Orion appears, stepping around me and calling out to Flora. Her face shifts from dream to nightmare at the sight of her brother. “You didn’t answer your phone,” he says. No Pink or other endearing nicknames tonight.

  “It’s loud up here,” she retorts.

  Orion plants himself strong, crossing his arms. “Your friends are waiting by the booth to leave. With you.”

  The boy pulls back, but only a step. “I’ll see Flora home. Safe and sound.”

  “Another time, William,” Orion says.

  Flora huffs, checking her watch. “But we were going to—”

  “Another time, then. You’re with Gordon and your friends tonight. And they’re heading out for some grub.”

  Surrendering, William holds up both palms at Orion. He turns dark, narrowed eyes on Flora. “Ring when you can.”

  He gets Flora’s lone smile before she whisks past us without another word. William lifts his chin at Orion before heading back to the mezzanine rail.

  “So,” I say as we descend. “You two have met.”

  “That’s Will. Remember I said one of Roth Evan’s tech guys has been sniffing around Flora?”

  Instinctively, I glance back up. “That didn’t look good. Definite, um, sniffing.”

  He guides me outside. “It could look even worse. If Will’s around, chances are the rest of Roth’s posse is or was here as well.”

  “So Jason Briggs wasn’t the only one here to check up on Goldline.”

  We cross to the lot, weaving through double-parked cars. “Exactly. Jules debuted three new songs tonight, including the one about trains you liked.” He motions toward a silver Land Rover. “There. That’s Roth’s. I knew it. They didn’t come all the way from London tonight to watch GLYTTR. A hundred great female artists in London, but Roth wants Jules and her particular sound, and I can’t really blame him. But he won’t quit.” Orion stops cold about five feet from his motorcycle, exhaling. His sourness loosens into a half smile. “After Flora and all that, I could use a walk. There’s a cool
spot nearby that’s already on your Winchester to-do list. You game, or you have to get up early?”

  I already told Orion about my Owl and Crow baking gig. But I also front-loaded all of today’s plus Sunday’s baking this morning (chocolate scones, morning buns, Abuela’s pound cake, and sugar cookies), the only habit of Polly’s I’m keeping. “Sleeping in tomorrow, so I’m good. And there’s a to-do list?”

  “I’d be a poor excuse for a tour guide without one.”

  Orion’s sweater keeps me the perfect amount of warm as we stroll into the little section of town near the Gate. The River Itchen cuts through the city center at this spot. We pass over ancient bridges, the water rushing beneath us. And Orion’s a history book.

  “This old mill has been here since 1086. It was used for laundry during World War I.

  “Our River Itchen is twenty-eight miles long.

  “Winchester has been inhabited since prehistoric times, but a fire destroyed much of our city in 1104. The archbishop had much of it rebuilt.”

  I listen contentedly but the scenery and streets begin to look familiar. Too familiar. I dredge up a little history of my own. “Wait. If The Broadway’s right there, then we could have ridden straight up here on St. Cross Road in minutes. But we took this super-long rural route around the edge of town and came in the back way?”

  He rises up and down on his weathered boots. “And?”

  “And? And Remy said you can use your dad’s car.”

  “I often do.” His stomach growls and we both huff out a laugh. “Snacks, then? We can pop into Tesco. My supper earlier was kind of… not.”

  We head toward the supermarket down the block. “Are you trying to distract me from your motorcycle shadiness by telling an obsessive cook you’re eating like crap?”

  “Only stating facts. I just rummaged up an apple and a cheese sandwich.”

  It works. “Pitiful. Now that the Crow kitchen is mine, I’m going to start making all the Cuban food I can with English ingredients.” My voice thins. “I miss it.”

  “I imagine you do. There are a couple of places in London, but I don’t think I’ve had Cuban food. You’ll be sharing, then?”