“Yes, I’m here. I gotta go, mami. Te llamo mas tarde.”
She chugged another gulp, certain that her promise to call later wouldn’t stop her mom from bugging her before then. When it came to overstepping the boundaries of propriety and privacy with her children, her mom didn’t baby step over it. She freaking leapt.
All with good intentions of course. Lydia Quintana de Navarro lived and breathed for her husband and children, their extended familia, and their entire comunidad. That also meant when she felt she knew was what best for someone, there was no shying away from letting them know it. Or from using her mad passive-aggressive skills to get her way, particularly with her kids and grandkids.
Like a truth-teller affirming Anamaría’s thoughts about her mom’s meddling, her mom’s voice stopped Anamaría seconds before her finger hit the “end call” icon on the dashboard screen.
“God has a plan for you, nena. I know He does.” Her mami’s voice softened with concern while it also sharpened with the conviction of her faith. “Dios te bendiga, mi vida.”
Before she could reply to her mother’s usual “God bless you, my life” farewell, the call was disconnected.
God has a plan for you. The sage advice replayed in Anamaría’s head as she rubbed her thumb over the AM Fitness logo imprinted on the side of her water bottle. This—AM Fitness—had to be the plan. That was her focus now.
The black and red script in a font painstakingly selected because of its strong, hip vibe indicative of the brand she sought for her burgeoning business reminded her of how far she’d come since the last time she had seen or spoken to Alejandro.
Her heart had mended. Her conviction that she’d made the right decision by staying behind had solidified. Her anger at his mulish behavior had dissipated to mere indifference.
Ignoring her trembling fingers and the annoying jitters in her stomach, she tugged her keys from the ignition, grabbed her backpack, then left the safety of her vehicle.
Like many in this older Midtown neighborhood, the Miranda’s was a modest, single story stucco house. Theirs was painted the same welcoming soft peach as the privacy wall, with dark gray hurricane shutters bookending the windows. Alejandro and his younger brother, Ernesto, had lived here their entire lives. Until their father, in a fit of anger Anamaría felt certain he’d never meant, threatened to ban Alejandro from their home if he chose to turn his back on running the restaurant that was their familia’s legacy.
Despite the threat, Alejandro had boarded that plane to Spain. Off to seek fame and fortune on his own terms. Without his father’s blessing. Without her.
The humid breeze snagged a few errant strands of hair from her ponytail, blowing them across her cheek. Anamaría tucked them behind her ear and shook off the anxious tremors threatening her painstakingly erected wall of indifference. She paused in front of the wide wooden door nestled in the privacy wall’s alcove. Overhead, the sprawling bougainvillea with its deep green leaves and bright fuchsia flower petals climbed the inside walls and slight overhang in a colorful canopy offering shade to those who entered. But the plants’ sharp thorns were as prickly and painful as the memories of Alejandro she’d buried deep in a pirate’s treasure chest, rarely allowing herself to unearth.
If she was honest with herself, she’d admit that the sweat dotting her upper lip had more to do with seeing Alejandro again after all these years, and less to do with the island climate she’d endured her whole life.
All she had to do here was put on her game face. Channel her I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude that challenged any sexist, chauvinistic firefighters at work to question her abilities when it came to saving their asses. Treat this like another routine 911 call. Alejandro, another random patient she might need to load in the back of her …or, bueno, his mom’s sedan… for the short drive to the emergency room at Florida Keys Hospital if need be.
So what if instead of her firefighter gear she wore exercise clothes having come directly from a private workout with a middle-aged woman staying at the Casa Marina Resort. Her sundress from church was in the car, a balled up, wrinkled mess inside her gym bag. No way was she wasting twenty minutes driving to her place in Stock Island just outside of Key West and back to freshen up. Not for him.
She refused to allow herself to care whether or not she looked her best for the man who had walked away from her so easily.
Straightening her spine, Anamaría reached for the weathered metal door handle.
Her plan was simple. Get in and out quickly. Keep chit chat to a minimum. Remain professional and focused on her task—not the man—while she checked Alejandro’s vitals and the pin sites of the external fixator keeping his surgically aligned tibia shaft in place while his compound fracture healed.
No doubt Alejandro had come back kicking and screaming. Metaphorically speaking anyway. That had been the general consensus during the conversation she’d tried to tune out around the table at her familia’s mandatory weekly dinner the other night.
Nothing short of desperation and the need for assistance with his daily care—with a heavy dose of maternal insistence, no doubt—could have finally brought the prodigal Miranda son home.
Anamaría figured he wanted to be back in Key West about as much as she wanted him here.
That would be … not at all. As in zip. Zero. Zilch. Nada.
If luck was on her side, her visit now would be a quick “all’s well” checkup. Then she’d be on her way, Señora Miranda’s fears for her oldest’s well-being calmed. Intent on maintaining her distance until he left again.
Because he would leave again. Everyone knew that.
Only this time, when Alejandro Miranda boarded his flight to wherever his photography skills took him, he would not be taking her heart with him.
After having decided almost two years ago to quit waffling and just do it—her younger brother’s wise, if Nike-themed advice—she
