As they neared Alejandro’s old room, Anamaría slowed her steps, hesitating.
Memories assailed her. Evil interlopers sabotaging her bid to remain aloof.
Study dates, movie nights, long afternoons spent perusing the latest pictures Alejandro had taken around the island and discussing their lofty dreams. Quick stolen kisses and innocent touches because the bedroom door always remained open—Miranda and Navarro house rules.
Their last year of high school, when they’d both been ready, that open door policy hadn’t stopped them from taking advantage of the rare opportunities when they’d had this house or her parents’ place to themselves. Or from stealing clandestine hours laying on a blanket, making out under the stars in the stern of her Papi’s boat when he left it docked in the backyard canal overnight, ready for an early morning fishing trip.
Señora Miranda scooted around the chair to push open the bedroom door, beckoning them in. Anamaría steeled herself and crossed the threshold, stepping foot inside the sanctuary where she’d once woven her life’s dreams. In her naiveté not realizing the fragility of the threads that tied her and Alejandro together.
Comfort and dismay crashed against each other as Anamaría’s gaze trailed around his room. The space remained unchanged. A shrine to the son who had walked away without a backward glance.
The same navy comforter draped the double bed pressed up against the far wall underneath the window overlooking the side yard. The same sturdy wood dresser sat to the right of the door, the matching dark-stained desk and bookcase on the left next to the closet. On the nightstand, the same framed picture of her mugging for him and his camera before they left for senior prom. Her framed copy sat in a box shoved high on a shelf in her hall closet.
Señora Miranda rolled a black carry-on suitcase into the closet, then tugged the bi-fold door closed again.
Anamaría shut the door on the flood of useless memories, good and bad, she had no time for.
“Okay, let’s get you into bed.” As soon as the unintentionally suggestive words left her mouth, Anamaría rolled her lips together, biting back an embarrassed curse.
Alejandro glanced at his bed, then back to her. His Adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow, his discomfort obvious. Either at their awkward situation or due to his pain.
She moved to his side. “Here, let me—I”
“I’ve got it.” The veracity of his words was negated by his sharp hiss of breath when he grasped his injured leg to lower it off the foot rest.
“Don’t be an idiot,” she berated. “Let me help you before you hurt yourself.”
Sra. Miranda stepped toward them, but Anamaría shook her head. If he was in as much pain as she surmised, he wouldn’t be much help getting into bed. The last thing they needed was the older woman injuring her back trying to heft his weight.
“Wait a second,” she ordered, reaching down to lower the footrest to make the transition easier. “Here, put your hands on my shoulders for support.”
Bending her knees, she lowered to a half-squat in front of his chair, his right knee in between her legs. She grit her teeth, ignoring her pulse blipping at the thought of him touching her again.
Several seconds ticked by without Alejandro making a move to follow her instructions. Anamaría glanced up.
A deep groove etched the space between his brows at his stubborn frown.
She rolled her eyes, then matched him scowl for scowl. “Look, I carried a two-hundred-pound dummy over my shoulder down two flights of stairs during drills yesterday. I think I can handle another dummy—”
“Fine,” he grumbled.
Palms up, Anamaría crooked her fingers in a “come on” gesture at him. The sooner they got this over, the better.
With a disgruntled sigh, Alejandro set his hands on her bare shoulders. One of his thumbs hooked under her tank top strap. Warmth seeped into her chest, and she barely kept her eyes from fluttering closed.
“Now, using only your right leg and my shoulders, push yourself to a stand. Do not put any pressure on your left. Got it?” she ordered.
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he muttered.
He shifted, then froze on a hiss. His fingers dug into her shoulders, disgruntled pain filling his black coffee eyes. His piercing gaze darted to his mom, then back to Anamaría in silent plea for her to not say anything. Keep the degree of his discomfort a secret from his mom.
Anamaría answered with a faint tuck of her chin. “Okay…one. Two. Three.”
His muffled groan punctuated the end of her count as he shifted his weight onto his right foot and bent forward. The muscle in his thigh flexed with the exertion and his face scrunched in pain. Instinctively she grasped his waist to both steady and support him. The hard jut of his hip bones pressed into her palms, proof of his recent post-accident weight loss.
Hunched over, he pressed the side of his face against her temple, his breathing labored. The urge to hug him closer, give thanks that the idiot was actually safe, consumed her. This close, his woodsy, patchouli scent assailed her senses, setting her body tingling in places it had absolutely no business tingling.
Jaw clenched, she ignored the traitorous reactions, focusing on the task at hand.
Together they shuffle-twisted toward the mattress in a move that had them imitating two middle schoolers at their first dance, awkwardly holding each other at arm’s length. Leaving room for the Holy Spirit between them, like the nuns at St. Mary’s used to warn the students.
With his fingers still clenching her shoulders, she guided his hips, turning him so he could sit on the edge of his bed. Without impressionable little Lulu around to hear, Alejandro didn’t hold back his pain-filled curses as he pushed himself further onto the mattress while Anamaría carefully held his injured leg aloft.
Sra. Miranda slid several cushiony pillows beneath his knee, careful of
