She strolled a few feet away to lean a shoulder against one of the wooden support beams for the patio’s slanted roof. Arms crossed, she eyed him dispassionately before swiveling to face the backyard.
So different from the last time they’d sat out here together. Him on the love seat; her on his lap, arms lazily looped around his neck. Ernesto and Enrique cracking jokes from their deck chairs. Luis, already working for the city fire department by then, shaking his head at their younger brothers’ foolishness. All of them laughing and swatting away mosquitos as dusk descended, loath to go inside where their parents chatted after a shared familia dinner a couple weeks before graduation.
“Is your first PT appointment still Wednesday?” Anamaría asked, firmly entrenched in paramedic mode. Proof she wasn’t currently wrestling with the same useless nostalgic meanderings.
“Yeah. Midmorning. They confirmed via text earlier.”
“Who’s your at-home physical therapist?”
“I don’t remember.” He waved a hand at the sliding glass door, careful not to jostle Lulu but frustrated by this inane conversation. “It’s written down on a notepad inside. Doesn’t matter.”
“Make sure you follow their instructions. And like I said, definitely take your pills before—”
“Got it.”
“Good. Because if you don’t—”
“I’ll be hating life even more than I do right now.” As if that were possible.
She tucked her chin, one haughty brow arched as if she were scolding a recalcitrant patient. “You’ll be swearing up a storm, paying for that tough-guy mentality your entire PT session. And after. Count on it.”
“Yes, Captain.” Fingers pressed together, he tapped his hand near his temple in a mock salute.
“Don’t be a smartass,” she warned, an edge creeping into her voice.
Good. Anything was better than her bland indifference.
Oh, he knew he shouldn’t needle her. Hell, she’d gone out of her way to allay his mom’s overboard concern yesterday. And that was more than likely the only reason Anamaría was back for another visit today.
Still, her apathy was almost fucking worse than the silence that had divided them all these years. In his current state, there was no way for him to avoid the recalcitrant doubts and regrets about her . . . about them, his familia.
Usually he’d get lost in the challenge of a job, of capturing the perfect photograph. The one that spoke of whatever inspiring story he sought to share through his work. Behind his camera he could forget about everything else, everyone else, except whatever or whoever he eyed through his lens.
Being back here brought far too many memories crashing over him like a storm-driven wave on the protected coral reef. Making it impossible for him to continue ignoring what he and Anamaría once had together. How her decision to not join him in pursuing the dream they’d woven together had blasted them apart.
Lulu mumbled in her sleep, shifting to burrow her face in Alejandro’s chest. His iPad slid off her lap, and he grabbed ahold of it, tucking the tablet between his hip and the side of the wheelchair. Gently, he rubbed a hand up and down her back and shushed her back to sleep.
“So, what do you think of her?” Anamaría asked, surprising him with the personal question. “I know you haven’t spent much time with Lulu since she was born.”
Only those few days early last year when Ernesto, Cece, and Lulu had flown to Atlanta for a long weekend.
“She’s changed so much,” he admitted, scooping up one of her white sneakers in his palm. “She was just over a year when I met her. Stumbling around like a giraffe calf on wobbly legs. Freaking me out about her getting hurt ’cuz my town house is far from babyproof.”
Anamaría chuckled, the sound like the light brush of her fingertips along his nape. Goosebumps shimmied down his neck, sweeping across his shoulders and spine.
Ignoring the unwanted sensation, he focused on his niece, gently finger-combing her soft curls. “Now she’s riding a tricycle and talking in full sentences. It’s . . . it’s pretty amazing.”
“They do grow up fast.” A warm smile curved Anamaría’s lips as she gazed at Lulu.
The fact that she had witnessed many of the momentous stages of his niece’s young life while he’d been basically banished, relying on social media and video chats, smarted. Another reminder that he was an outsider in his childhood home.
“It’s the same with Carlos and Gina’s two boys, José and Ramón. Those little rascals are getting so big,” she mused.
“Named for your father, huh?”
“Yeah, you should have seen his face when Carlos and Gina told him.” Anamaría pressed a hand to her chest, her gaze lost in some memory that didn’t include him. “Two of the rare times I’ve seen my papi tear up.”
Alejandro understood why. Carlos and Gina’s decision showed their deep respect for the Navarro patriarch. A man beloved by his familia, fellow firefighters, and many of the island’s residents.
Unlike, say, the unforgivable lack of respect his dad felt Alejandro had shown by refusing to work at Miranda’s. A living legacy of his grandfather. The man who, during the summer of 1962, sent his two sons from Cuba to the United States as part of the Peter Pan Operation. Two of the fourteen thousand–plus children whose parents had willingly said good-bye to them when Castro’s regime took power, thinking they would all be reunited shortly. For many families who participated in Operación Pedro Pan, that reunion wound up taking years. For some, like Victor’s father, it never came at all.
To Alejandro’s dad, the success of Miranda’s stood as a tribute to the man who had sacrificed so his familia could live their dreams of freedom and prosperity. Alejandro identified with that desire. The dream for more. For something different. Only in his own way. Something he wanted to believe his abuelo would have blessed had he survived to immigrate with his familia to the United States.
However, Alejandro’s father did not agree. In Victor Miranda’s mind, his elder son’s actions proved him to be ungrateful. Selfish. As if Alejandro considered himself too good to work in a kitchen. Which couldn’t be further from the truth.
It was ironic, actually. Alejandro and his father had both been sent away. One with a blessing, the other with a curse.
Anamaría had never truly grasped the finality of Alejandro’s last argument with his dad. In part because she hadn’t heard the steel conviction in his dad’s threat. But also because she had never felt the slap of disdain from the man she idolized.
Her papi had always been her champion. As had her brothers. Growing up, she’d been their princesa. Granted, one who also threw a mean left hook and cursed the machismo common in their culture. But protected all the same. She and her papi shared a unique bond. One Alejandro had often secretly envied, but also one he knew had fed her fears after her dad’s heart attack.
“How has your dad been?” Alejandro asked, remembering those difficult days following Señor Navarro’s emergency surgery.
Anamaría hesitated, as if she sensed the two of them tiptoeing near the touchy subject of her decision to stay behind. She fingered the strands at the end of her long braid. A familiar, sometimes nervous, sometimes thoughtful gesture he remembered. The fact that he could no longer gauge which pricked his already-battered heart.