Nick nods.
“You can’t have a wife who is involved with the CIA, who has been acting as a double agent against the Cubans, who attended communist meetings. You said it yourself, after what happened to Kennedy, all eyes are on Cuba. You can’t have a wife who has killed a man. If you weren’t in the Senate, if you didn’t have ambitions for more, maybe it wouldn’t matter. But it does.”
“And you want nothing to do with this side of my life.”
“I love you. I will never love anyone as much as I love you. But I don’t want to wake up one day and no longer recognize the person looking at me in the mirror. I don’t want to be relegated to being a silent, pretty ornament like my mother—never respected.”
“I respect you.”
“I wouldn’t respect myself if I gave everything up. Do you want to know the truth? I like what I’m doing. I like what it has made me, the power it has given me, the freedom it affords me. Am I afraid? Of course. But I have been powerless for far too long. At least now, I have a chance to shape my own destiny.”
“And where does that leave us?”
“We keep having the same fight.”
“We do.”
“I’m not going to change.”
“I know. That was my mistake. I realize that now. I thought it was something you would move past, something you would forget, but now I see that this will always be your mission.”
“And politics will always be yours.”
“We’re doing good work. Things I can be proud of. It’s slow, and it’s frustrating as hell, but I believe in my work in the Senate. I think I could do more. What happened to Kennedy—you’re right, I want to continue his legacy of fighting for those who have suffered for far too long. He was my friend. I owe him that, I think.”
Nick is a good man, and despite the time we’ve been together, the countless moments we’ve shared, I still feel that spark of excitement, the humming in my veins that I experienced when we first met. He still dazzles me, but Elisa was right. At some point, you must do the right thing, even when it hurts.
“I will always be a liability for you.”
“I would marry you.”
A tear spills down my cheek. “I know.” I brush at my skin. “Part of me wants that more than anything, thinks I could be happy as your wife. If I could be happy as anyone’s wife, it would be yours.”
His eyes water.
I take a deep breath, my heart breaking at the pain in his gaze. “But I know it would only be a matter of time before I grew restless again, before world events became such that I could no longer turn a blind eye to the U.S.’s actions, before I became involved in something that would hurt you.”
I lay my palm against his cheek, my fingertips growing wet.
“You know I’m right. And you wouldn’t be happy. I don’t want that. I don’t want to wake up one day and feel like we’ve grown apart, become strangers. I don’t want to ruin your career, your chance to fight for the things you believe in. I don’t want to ruin the love we have for each other.
“Your wife—” The words hurt coming out. “Your wife should be someone who shares your hopes for the future, who makes you happy, who supports you, who wants the same things you want.”
“Christ.”
“I’ll clean my stuff out before I go to Cuba.”
He clears his throat, his voice rough. “No. The house is yours. It always was.”
“I can’t accept a house.”
“Sure you can. You can do whatever you want. This house was my dream for us. Maybe that dream didn’t come true the way I envisioned, maybe I only got to hold it for a moment before it slipped through my fingers, but I was happy here with you.”
Another tear slides down my cheek. “I was happy here with you, too.”
“Then hold on to it for us. Be happy here. I don’t want to throw it away, and I can’t imagine another woman walking through these rooms.”
The truth is, I want the house. I want to hold the memory of us close if I make it out of all of this.
“I will.”
“I should go. My flight leaves soon.”
A tremor wracks my body as Nick wraps his arms around me, holding me against his chest once last time, as I wet his shirtfront with my tears.
“Be safe,” he whispers, stroking my hair. He pulls back, and our lips meet, in one last kiss that feels so familiar, and is yet filled with such finality.
Nick releases me, bending down and zipping his suitcase. My gaze settles on the red box sitting on the bedspread, the diamond sparkling in the afternoon sun.
I hand the box to him.
He shakes his head. “Keep it. Please.”
I curl my fingers around the ring box.
A sob escapes. “This feels too much like good-bye. Like we’re over.”
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, as though he, too, is attempting to keep it all together.
“We will never be over. Not good-bye. How about until we meet again?”
“I think I like that even better,” I say through the tears. “Until we meet again.”
And then he’s gone.
chapter thirty-three
In the nearly five years since I last saw Havana from atop my perch in the airplane carrying us to Miami, it seems as though the island has changed. At first sight, I cannot quite put my finger on the differences, only that it feels as though I am looking at a stranger, one’s beloved who is now almost unrecognizable.
The sensation is expressed in overlapping waves—the past and present converging together on an image that is just out of focus, a moment one beat off where it should be.
The Malecón is still there, and El Morro, and La Cabaña in the distance. The buildings are still there, visible in the moonlight, and yet, the city feels different. Eduardo is silent beside me, as though he recognizes the changes, too, as though he is bracing himself for them.
“Is it always like this?”
He told me on the boat ride over that he’s made this trip a dozen or so times since he was released from prison, smuggling others into the country.
“Yes.”
He says the word as though it pains him as much as the image of Havana pains me now.
I imagined relief and a sense of closure at the sight of my homeland, but I confess to only feeling a tremendous sense of loss. I thought it would feel like coming home.
The tiny boat ferrying us bobs with the rising seas.