Kennedy’s state funeral is tomorrow.

Nick’s anger is a palpable thing, and though we speak little of the president, his grief is a palpable thing, too.

“I don’t want to leave you, but the funeral—” He swallows. “I need to be in Washington.”

“I know. I understand.”

“I wish you would come to Washington with me.”

My heart aches. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

Since Kennedy died, the timing hasn’t been right to explain about my mission to Havana, to compound his grief. And yet, I’m running out of time. I received a note from Eduardo yesterday morning.

The mission is still scheduled for us to leave for Havana the morning of the twenty-sixth.

“Because I can’t.”

I lean back against the pillows, watching Nick pack his suitcase. Is this the last time we will ever see each other?

Long ago, I thought I’d come to terms with the idea of martyring myself for Cuba, but now death is not as easy to reconcile as I once imagined. When I originally became involved with the CIA, I was so upset over Alejandro’s death that I didn’t think it mattered if I lived or died, as long as I took Fidel out with me. But now, I don’t want to die. Somewhere in this waiting to go home, I’ve made a life for myself.

“Will you be here when I return from Washington?” Nick asks.

I can’t lie to him.

Nick sets the final shirt down in his suitcase and looks at me across the bed.

“Are we going to talk about it now? Eduardo has been sending you messages, hasn’t he? He came here to see you the day Kennedy was killed. What’s going on?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you; Kennedy was your friend. What happened was so horrible, and I know how much you’re hurting. I didn’t want to add to your grief.”

“We have to talk about it, though, don’t we?”

“The media has already made the connection between Oswald and his involvement in pro-Castro groups,” Nick says. “He was involved with a group in New Orleans known as Fair Play for Cuba. The FBI is already looking into his ties, to see if his connections to Cuba were more nefarious. They aren’t the only ones. Everyone is looking at Cuba. At Fidel. They’re calling it a communist conspiracy.

“Oswald didn’t agree with Kennedy’s policies on Cuba,” Nick continues. “He was a communist. Perhaps he did this on Fidel’s orders. Perhaps he merely read Fidel’s interview in September and thought he was carrying out Fidel’s wishes by making good on Fidel’s threat to strike against Kennedy after all the assassination attempts on his life.

“And perhaps, it was simply the act of an unwell man,” Nick adds. “No one knows. But the suspicion is enough to exacerbate this entire situation. Negotiations were improving, but now . . . there will be no peace between us.”

“But will there be war?”

“I don’t know.”

He’s silent for a beat.

“There are other theories being bandied about.”

“Such as?”

“Some in the administration believe Kennedy could have been targeted by a group of anti-Castro Cubans looking to provoke a conflict between the two countries. That they had the help of the CIA. Or that they did it because they believed Kennedy to be a traitor for not doing enough with respect to Cuba when he had a chance. Because they’re angry about the Bay of Pigs.”

“I’ve heard nothing—”

“From who? People like Eduardo Diaz? Your friend Dwyer? Do you know what they say about him, the rumors that the CIA has been acting against Kennedy’s wishes this whole time? That Dwyer and his ilk are running South Florida with their own proxy war?”

“Eduardo did not kill President Kennedy. Nor did Dwyer, indirectly or otherwise.”

“You don’t know that. Right now, we don’t know much of anything. All we know is the president is dead, and his killer had ties to Cuba. And the same day Kennedy died, Eduardo contacted you. Let me guess, they want you to go to Havana? That’s why you won’t come to D.C. with me.

“You nearly died in London. That was up against one man. Do you think Fidel’s security detail will let you get close to him? That if you are successful, they won’t kill you in retaliation? That if you aren’t successful, they won’t kill you all the same?”

His words so closely echo my father’s from months ago that I pause.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But this is the best chance I’ll have.”

“So you’ve already said yes.”

“I have. I gave them my word.”

Nick grips the edge of the suitcase. “And when do you leave?”

“Tuesday morning.”

“Were you going to say good-bye?”

“I didn’t know what to say. Good-bye seems so final.”

“How about that you love me?”

“I do love you. But why does that mean I have to give this up, too? Why does my love for you have to eclipse all else?”

“I hoped things would get better.”

“That I would change.”

“No—I don’t know.”

He sinks down on the edge of the bed, his head between his hands. He looks up at me.

“Tell me. If you go to Cuba, and you successfully remove Fidel from power, if you kill him—what will you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“What happens after Fidel is dead? When Fidel dies, do you come back here? To me? Do we end up together, do we grow old together, do we marry?”

A knot forms in my stomach.

“I go home,” I answer, my voice weak.

How can I explain to him that a part of me wants to spend the rest of my days with him, but at the same time, another part of me knows there is more work to be done? That if Fidel dies, there will be an even greater fight for Cuba’s future, a fight I want to be involved with.

Men go off to war and are lauded as heroes for sacrificing their lives for their country, for their dedication and patriotism. But women—why are our ambitions designed to end in marriage and motherhood? If we want something else, if our talents lie elsewhere, why isn’t that dedication equally praised and respected?

If I had two lives, I would live one with him and one in Cuba. But I just have this one, and I’ve already committed it elsewhere.

“And if you fail?” he asks.

“I keep fighting.”

He’s silent as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little red box. I recognize the gold design instantly; my mother is quite fond of the French jeweler, the elegant necklaces, rings, bracelets, and earrings my father once bought her buried in the backyard of our home in Havana waiting for us to return.

“Open it.” Nick waves to the box carelessly, as though my heart isn’t bleeding out all over the elegant bedspread, as though this isn’t the final blow to an affair that never should have started.

My fingers shake as I flip open the lid.

The ring stares back at me.

It’s a canary diamond, the stone so large it teeters into vulgarity, flanked by fiery diamonds, absolutely perfect for me.

“I figured you wouldn’t want something understated. That you would want something beautiful, unique.”

“It is beautiful.”

“But not right for you.”

“It’s perfect for me.” I take a deep breath. “You asked me about the future I envision. What does your future look like?”

“You.”

“It isn’t just me, though, is it? Kennedy’s death changes things in the party. Johnson isn’t a man the people will be inspired by.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“Who will carry on Kennedy’s mantle? Who will fulfill the dreams you once had? There’s his brother, of course, but there will be others, won’t there?”

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.”