I thought my love for Cuba would be the hardest thing for me to reconcile, but in truth, it’s the anger that’s the hardest to dispense of. Love ebbs and flows, a low-level hum in the background, but anger sinks its claws in you and refuses to let go.
And suddenly, I can’t take it anymore, and I rise from my position on Nick’s elegant couch and turn off the television.
* * *
• • •
I wake to a kiss against my cheek, Nick stroking my hair. It takes a moment for me to acclimate to my surroundings, the leather couch beneath me, the wool blanket covering my body, the dark stillness of Nick’s D.C. apartment, and the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and orange.
I sit up abruptly, grasping his arm, my fingers ghosting across his wrist, the faint sprinkling of hair there, his jacket discarded, his sleeves rolled up.
“What time is it?” I fumble for the light on the table beside me with my other arm.
“Late. Or early, depending on your perspective, I suppose.”
“You sound tired.”
“I’m exhausted.”
“What can I do?”
“Just be with me.”
Nick lifts me from the sofa, my body cradled in his arms, my hands threading through his hair, my mouth devouring his. He carries me through the apartment and sets me down on the soft mattress in his bedroom, the sheets covered in the scents I’ve come to associate with him, the familiarity of it causing a sob to rise in my chest.
I’m angry with the world, and so afraid, and I’ve missed him so much, these emotions inside of me threatening to splinter me, pulling me in so many different directions, my loyalties divided between logic, my family, my nationality, my heart.
“I love you,” Nick whispers, his lips grazing my earlobe. “So much.”
And in the dark stillness of the night, the threat of nuclear war pounding at the door of this enclave we’ve carved out for ourselves, I am brave enough to voice the emotion that has lingered in my heart for so very long.
“I love you, too.”
* * *
• • •
We settle into a domestic routine of sorts in Nick’s apartment in Georgetown despite the madness of the world surrounding us. Nick spends his days after President Kennedy’s address to the American people working with his fellow senators, the president, and the president’s advisors. Nick returns from work, worried and weary, our dinners taking place late in the evening, our conversations focused on politics.
“How is the president?” I sip my wine as we lounge in the living room after another midnight dinner.
“Cautious. These meetings with his advisors—” Nick shakes his head. “Right now we desperately need calmer heads to prevail. The president is providing that, at least. He knows what is at stake, how much a wrong and reckless move could cost us. He favors a blockade with the hope it’ll buy us time.”
These are the deals and negotiations weighing heavily on Nick’s shoulders and those of the others trying to find a diplomatic solution to this mess. Whether Castro and Khrushchev are willing to be reasonable men remains to be seen.
“And how are you?” I kiss his cheek, wrapping my arms around those broad shoulders, bringing him closer to me, his heart thudding against my chest.
“Tired. So damn tired.”
I take the glass of scotch from Nick’s hands, setting it down on the end table, reaching between us and loosening the knot of his tie. He lays his head on my lap, his eyes trained to the ceiling, his jaw clenched. The heavy load of concerns he carries is evident in his tense body, in the knots I massage in his shoulders.
I no longer remember what it feels like to stand on solid ground.
I speak to Elisa daily now—she tells me stories of Maria doing duck-and-cover drills at her school, of my parents’ worry and fear. This all feels so very familiar—the pervasive uncertainty a harbinger of worse to come.
The newspapers tell the tale of people stocking up on supplies, of shortages and fear, the Washington Post describing the political climate in D.C.—men and women working late into the night, like Nick, the lights in the executive office buildings on far later than normal.
There is talk of people leaving Washington, and at the same time, life seems to go on as usual. When I walk in the mornings, after Nick has left, before the sun comes up, I am struck by the people going about their daily lives—heading to school and work—despite the specter looming before all of us, the sense that the world could end at any moment. There’s some comfort in this civility, in the enduring sense that people must carve out joys where they can, undertake the responsibilities to which they have pledged themselves.
I have heard nothing from London. Nothing from the CIA. Their silence, the unknown ramifications of me shooting Ramon, is just another trouble in a heap of them. We don’t speak of Ramon; Nick is carrying the world on his shoulders enough as it is.
And still—the dreams haunt me. Sometimes when I look down, I see my brother’s dead body. Other times when I look down, I see Ramon’s. Have I killed someone’s brother? A beloved friend? Am I the villain in their life as Fidel is in mine?
Nick’s eyes flicker open, staring up into my face, a faint smile on his lips, renewed interest in his expression.
I smile. “I thought you were tired.”
“I’m not that tired.”
I remove Nick’s tie, my fingers traveling to the buttons of his dress shirt, loosening the collar, undoing the line down his chest, exposing his undershirt.
He sighs again as my fingers trail down his abdomen.
In this moment, he is mine to care for, his worries mine to soothe, his aches mine to heal. It’s so very dangerous to fall into the false promise of this, and yet, in the face of the world ending before us, I cannot find it in me to care.
I’ll pay the bill for this dalliance when it comes due, but right now, I can’t regret one single moment we’ve spent together.
* * *
• • •
Four days have passed since the president addressed the American people. Four days of wondering if the Soviets will accede to Kennedy’s demands and dismantle the weapons, of waiting to see if I will hear from the CIA, if the microfilm I sent them was of any use, of fearing the police will show up on Nick’s doorstep to arrest me.
While war has not yet come, the threat is still present in all of our minds. Nick refers to ExComm meetings, speaks vaguely of talks with the Soviets, but the world he inhabits now is one I am not allowed to enter, and the toll it has taken on him is all too obvious.
I attempt to stay busy while he is at work, settling into a routine even as I long for my days in London spent attending classes, rather than this sitting and waiting for a man to come home. The moments when we are together are perhaps the happiest I have ever known, but in the moments when he is gone, when I am alone with my thoughts, the doubts creep in.