We both seem content to let the silence swallow us up, for the wind, and the waves, and the car horns to do the talking for us—a trumpet interjecting every so often, our bodies moving in tandem as we stroll along the promenade.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says finally, breaking the silence between us, his words little more than a whisper, an aside to himself that I’m privy to.
Does he feel it—this thing between us—too?
“What did you expect?” I can’t resist asking.
“I don’t know. Not this. I didn’t expect to meet someone—”
His words disappear with the wind.
They seem safer there.
“Elisa—”
I turn and face him, the sun bright in my eyes, casting a glow around him. I fear he can see every single emotion—the worry, the confusion, the desire—in my gaze, stamped across my face.
Deep down, I know what he is. How can I not? It couldn’t be clearer if it was written in the sky before me. Deep down, a part of me gravitates toward what he is, even as I am horrified by it.
“Elisa—” he repeats.
A tremor trails down my spine at the sound of my name falling from his lips, at the husky timbre of his voice.
Enough.
One of us moves. Both of us move. I don’t even know anymore. Only that his lips meet mine and it is both everything and nothing that I expected.
For all that I anticipated, imagined, my first kiss, the reality of it comes to me in pieces, fractured moments unfurling themselves.
His hand on my waist. The brush of his fingers against the fabric of my dress. His lips on mine. His breath becoming my breath. His heart thudding against my chest.
He strokes my hair, fisting the strands as the kiss changes, deepening, leading me into treacherous waters until I’m left gasping for air.
Pablo pulls back first, staring down at me with those dark, solemn eyes. I should take a step back. And another. And another, until I’m safely ensconced in the mansion in Miramar.
I step forward, laying my palm on his cheek, my fingers sweeping across the dark shadows just beneath his eyes.
He shudders.
In one step, I know power, the drugging effect of it coursing through my veins. With one step I am removed from the fringes and thrust in the middle of my life. In that space of the step, my world shifts. Everything is different now, and nothing will ever be the same again.
chapter seven
I stay up late into the night reading and rereading the letter Pablo wrote me. He pressed it into my palm after he walked me home, the paper still warm from its place in his pocket, the intimacy of it sending a flutter through my chest. We said good-bye yesterday on the fringes of Miramar so no one would see us together, our parting paltry compared to the kiss on the Malecón. I regret the circumstances between us, the need to keep him a secret, tucked away in the fringes of my life. His words speak of the same frustration within him, the same yearning for more.
I am at a disadvantage. When I went to Guillermo’s, I never imagined I’d meet you. And then you were there, so beautiful it hurt. You looked so earnest watching everyone, as though you attempted to commit every moment to memory. As though you feel the same restlessness inside you, the same desire for more than that which life has given you.
I know this is foolish. You have everything in front of you, and I have nothing to offer, no place in your life. It is likely premature to think about these things, to worry about them, when I’ve only known you a moment. How can time feel both unending and entirely too finite?
Pablo’s letter tugs at something inside me like a loose thread, unfurling the tightly wound knot in my chest as I clutch the pages in my hand. Time is a luxury I don’t have. Seeing him in person brings its share of risks, and I spend far too much time grasping for words when we’re together. Here, in the comfort of my room, reading the words he has written, I learn about him—his family, his passion for the law, his favorite books.
His words linger, long after I’ve finished reading them, the remnants of our conversation on the Malecón imprinted in my mind. Despite having traveled abroad with my parents, I’ve seen very little of Cuba outside of Havana, have limited knowledge of the struggles those outside the city face. He’s right—we do live in an insular society. But what will change? How can it change?
Hours before dawn I begin crafting my own letter. I’ll give it to him when I see him again.
My hand shakes as I put the words on the page, my normally neat penmanship devolving into an unpleasant scrawl. Still, this is easier for me. It’s clear Pablo attended university, studied law—he speaks with a confidence and quick-wittedness I both admire and envy. The words I write have only ever existed for me in the pages of the books I read, shoved tightly into the recesses of my mind, uttered in the confines of my home. Women in my circle do not speak of these things in public, and in this house we no longer speak of them in private, either.
In the early morning, I pluck Montesquieu from a shelf in my father’s library. I curl up in one of the oversize chairs that has been in our family since before he or I were born, flipping through the pages until the lack of sleep becomes too much for me and my eyes shutter.
When I wake, it’s to the sound of the door opening and closing with a gentle thud, followed by light footfalls on the carpet. The smell of perfume announces her presence before I open my eyes—Beatriz’s signature scent.
I feel her presence hesitating near me, her body still, waiting to see if I’m still sleeping.
I keep my eyes closed.
A surreptitious Beatriz is a dangerous one, and the feeling that she’s up to something has plagued me since the night she insisted we attend the party in Vedado.
The sound of footsteps, muffled by the carpet now, continue and then stop. I open one eye slowly.
Beatriz stands with her back to me, leaning over the wooden desk. Our father prefers to work privately in his study, reserving it as his inner sanctum, but he also keeps a desk here in the opulent library where he entertains guests and business associates as the mood suits him. As far as rooms go, you can’t get much more impressive than thousands of antique books collected by centuries of Perez ancestors.
The sound of drawers opening and closing, knobs rattling, fills the room.
My breath hitches. Beatriz turns.
My eyes slam closed.
“There’s no use, you know. I’ve slept in the same bedroom as you before. You snore when you’re truly asleep,” Beatriz calls out from across the room.
That’s the trouble with sisters; they know you far too well.
I open my eyes, rising from the chair, picking up the copy of Montesquieu that tumbled to the floor when I fell asleep.
“Should I be concerned by the fact that you’re skulking around Father’s desk?” I ask.
Knowing Beatriz as I do, her actions could be the result of a number of things, but it’s a not-so-hidden family secret that my father often keeps cash in his desk. Not a lot, of course, but—
Beatriz walks over to me, her gaze drifting to the book perched in my hand.
“Montesquieu? How egalitarian of you.” A twinkle gleams in her eyes.
I ignore the teasing note in her voice, the curiosity contained there.
“What are you doing going through his desk?” I repeat.
This time it’s Beatriz’s turn to look abashed.
“Money?”
Beatriz flinches.
“Have you heard from Alejandro?” I ask.
Of all of us, Beatriz and Alejandro are the closest, perhaps by virtue of being twins. She’s certainly taken his rift with the family the hardest. Beatriz was born first, and their relationship has always reflected that. She sneaks out of the house at all hours, taking packages bundled up from the kitchen among other items. She claims it’s charity, of course, but as I said, sisters always know you far too well.
Beatriz glances at the closed door, fear flickering in her gaze. If our father is willing to disown his heir, then none of us are safe from his ire, even his favorite child.
“Alejandro is in Havana,” she admits, keeping her voice low. “He needs money.”
“Is that why you wanted to go to the party? To meet up with Alejandro?”
She nods.