Ernest Hemingway was a pretty good hugger, actually, as it turned out. Didn’t even try and cop a sneaky feel or anything, which automatically beat her last boyfriend out by a goddamn mile. Still handsome as ever, though he looked even more tired than she remembered him being. Abi hoped he was okay with all this, running into a one-night stand when neither of you could escape, had to be stupid. Was this a date? She wasn’t sure… he’d said just coffee. Maybe he wanted to talk or something.
Abi still smiled at him through her nerves and chattering brain, telling herself to slow down. “I loved Cuba before I met you,” she chuckled softly, letting him direct her since she still didn’t know her way around. “So really that was just a cherry on top of the ice cream sundae, right? I had a lot of fun with you.”
Wait. Wasn’t he meant to be married now? He looked in his 40s, maybe his 50s. Which wife would it be now? Fife? Gellhorn? Had she fucked a married man? There went her immortal soul, according to her grandma.
“I was getting cabin fever stuck inside. I think I am again. Maybe I’ll give Cuba another go.”