Chapter Fifteen
Eva
Boston
There were more outings after James took her sailing—trips to the beach, picnics in the park, long drives where they left Boston for the Massachusetts countryside.
She slipped them in between the summer school’s packed days, her mind filled with the things she learned at the lectures and meetings they attended, her heart brimming with the potential of what was building between her and James.
He talked to her about his childhood, about the novel he was working on.
There were more kisses, each one bolder than the last, each one filling her with daring.
Sometimes when she would meet him after her classes, they would have spirited discussions about the American history she was learning, about her teaching philosophies, and her dreams for Cuba’s future.
He was an excellent listener, any initial reticence that she might have had about voicing her opinions disappearing in the face of his interest.
Her world at Harvard began to narrow to the one that they’d created.
It wasn’t until she was over halfway through the summer that she realized that the writing she had intended to do had fallen by the wayside. Her novel—still untitled, still unfinished—sat on her desk in her bedroom taunting her each time she returned to her room from another adventure.
Finally, when James told her he couldn’t see her one Wednesday afternoon after classes, she headed back to Gore Hall to catch up on writing.
Eva scanned the library, searching for an empty desk. It was busy today, her favorite place already occupied.
She walked toward the back, the sound of her heels on the floor resulting in a few curious looks considering she was a Cuban woman at Harvard, although in the time since they’d first arrived, the glances had become less pronounced.
The students—Cuban and American—were growing used to each other the more time they spent together.
Eva liked to think that they were leaving Harvard slightly changed from how they’d found it, and she knew when she returned to Havana, she would see the world in a new way, too.
She’d miss this place.
She’d miss the possibility here, the sheer fact that she had sailed across an ocean and ended up at one of the most famous universities in the world, making the impossible seem attainable.
More than one teacher in their delegation had expressed a desire to stay, the whisper winding its way through her.
That wasn’t the purpose of the summer school, of course—they were meant to return to Havana with the benefit of the experiences they’d had.
She knew that, felt proud representing her country.
And still—she didn’t have a family waiting for her back in Cuba.
She’d be alone in her small apartment once more, whereas here she was surrounded by people, and then there was James…
There were a few empty tables near the back, and Eva walked toward the very last one, next to a man with his head bent down, papers strewn around him.
She recognized his posture first, the way he carried himself, and then she took in the familiar dark hair that she’d run her fingers through less than a day ago.
“I didn’t realize you were planning on working in the library, too. I came here to write,” she said, the smile on her face getting wider as he glanced up at the sound of her voice.
If she was surprised to see him, he appeared to be doubly so, and then something flashed across James’s face. Something that resembled panic.
Eva stepped back, his demeanor suggesting that she had intruded on his space, her presence unwanted.
Confusion filled her. She didn’t like being interrupted when she was writing, often felt embarrassed by the prospect of sharing her work with others, but she was still taken aback by how upset he seemed.
Last time they were together, he’d kissed her and told her he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
What had changed?
She surveyed the room, quickly. They hadn’t flaunted their relationship, and she’d always assumed it was because he knew how important it was to her to represent Cuba.
She didn’t want rumors and whispers about her personal life and the romance with James to take away from the important reasons she’d come to Boston in the first place, didn’t want the people of Boston who had raised the funds to support this endeavor to think that she was unserious.
Besides, even if they’d met under different circumstances—in Havana, perhaps—she still would have kept things private.
Now she wondered if she had been wrong all along, if he had been embarrassed by her , if he’d had his own reasons for wanting to keep their relationship discreet.
Eva ducked her head, attempting to untangle the emotions engulfing her—the hurt that pierced her. Her gaze landed on the sheet of paper in front of James, his familiar scrawl in black ink.
Instinctively, she read the words written there.
This exchange has given us the opportunity to learn from each other, to see each other as equals …
She recognized the words instantly because they were hers . It was the answer she’d given James when he asked her what she thought of the Cuban Summer School that day he had taken her sailing.
“Eva. I can explain.”
She looked up, meeting his gaze. “Are you writing about me? About the things I’ve told you?”
For his novel? It didn’t make sense; surely, he would have said something to her if he was, would have mentioned it in all the times they talked about his writing.
And then she saw it, plain as day on the paper— her name .
He referred to her as “Cuban teacher Eva Fuentes.” Like she was an object of study rather than someone he had been falling in love with.
Was that why he had been asking her so many questions all along?
Not because he was really interested in her or what she had to say, but because he was gathering information about her.
That night that they’d met at the dance outside the gymnasium had been filled primarily with two types of people—Harvard students and journalists.
“Come on. You don’t want to have this conversation here.” James rose from his seat and grabbed her hand. Her mind was reeling too much for her to do little more than follow as he led her to a corner near the back of the library.
She yanked her hand from his.
“You’re not a student, are you?” Eva asked.
He hesitated. “In my defense, I never said I was one. You assumed.”
She thought back to all the conversations they’d had, how carefully he’d prevaricated. Perhaps he hadn’t outright lied to her, but he absolutely had tried to steer her in a particular direction.
“You allowed me to assume. And why? Because you wished me to. Because this entire business depended on it.” Anger filled her, words hurling through her mind in Spanish at a rapid pace.
They came more slowly in English as she grasped at them, and it made her even more furious to know that in this moment she was forced to speak in his native tongue to be understood.
“I can only imagine the story I’ve given you. You’re a journalist.”
She said the last word like it was an epithet, even though she had nothing against journalists in practice. She even admired them. But to have seduced her under the guise of romantic interest when he was only trying to wring information from her…
She could feel her cheeks heating, the sheer indignity of it—
She didn’t trust many people, didn’t allow herself to grow close to anyone, so it stung perhaps more than it should that someone she had trusted—a man she had cared for, who had set off this desire inside of her—had lied to her.
“How far would you have taken things? How long did you mean to continue lying to me? I’ve heard about the stories your newspapers write. Did you think to publish some scandalous exposé?”
The words might not come as quickly as she had wished, but the fury inside her was enough that it couldn’t be contained. She wouldn’t be shamed by this man. Wouldn’t be shamed by whatever article he was going to write about her, wouldn’t apologize for the fact that she had—
“Eva.” He strode toward her, quickly, stopping just short of an arm’s length away from her. “Enough.”
“How dare you tell me what is enough? I trusted you. Do you know how hard that was for me? You lied to me, made me think that you were interested in me, got me to confide in you, to trust you, and for what—some article about a Cuban teacher no one cares about? You don’t get to tell me when my anger is enough for you. You don’t get to—”
“I wasn’t going to write an article about you.
” He reached out and took her arm. His fingers curled around her elbow, pulling her toward him.
“That night at the dance, I was there for work—yes. And I had seen you before. At the Fourth of July celebration. And I noticed you. That’s my job—noticing people, studying them.
You do the same thing. I’ve seen you do it.
That was what drew me to you on Fourth of July.
You looked so curious, like you were taking everything in—evaluating it and absorbing it with what I now know is a writer’s eye—and it spoke to me because I do the same thing.
When we started talking that night at the dance, I stayed because I liked talking to you, because you were interesting and beautiful.
I wasn’t thinking about you as a journalist. I was thinking about you as a man. ”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Eva. Come on. You know me. You know how it feels when we’re together, when we’re in each other’s arms.”