“Brandon is hard to book. I told you I got an ‘interested’ vibe when you two connected over cocktails,” Sara had said.
“Dios mío, por favor, not you, too,” Anamaría had complained. The last thing she needed was another matchmaker in her familia.
Those baby seagulls in her stomach flapped harder at the complication even a hint of romance with Brandon would add to her current troubles.
Heaving a groan—the opposite of a yoga cleansing breath—Anamaría pushed up to her bare feet. After slapping the sand from her hands and butt, she gathered her supplies, then trudged up the beach, stopping to pick up an empty paper cup and toss it in the trash.
Supply basket stored in the back of her Honda Pilot, she tapped her Apple watch to disable the Do Not Disturb mode. Few things were worse than her mami interrupting yoga class in the middle of a chaturanga or a soothing child’s pose with a nagging text about Anamaría not stopping by the house enough.
As if to prove her point, as soon as her watch was live it buzzed with notifications. La Reina and Señora Miranda’s name flashed on the small screen.
“What are the two mamis instigating now?” Anamaría grumbled. She was not up for another meddling-mami intervention. Not today. She still had two more group classes, a private session, and her own workout. Plus, reviewing tomorrow morning’s shoot with Sara.
Sliding onto the driver’s seat, Anamaría fished for her cell phone in her backpack’s side pocket. Seconds later, she was listening to Señora Miranda’s worried voice mail.
“Ay, nena, I am sorry to bother you—”
“Then don’t. Hang up, Mami.” Alejandro’s beleaguered voice cut through his mother’s greeting.
“Shhh, es un mensaje!” Señora Miranda chided. “Where was I? Ay, yes, my hardheaded son has told his physical therapist he no longer needs her services.”
“Because I don’t!” he cried in the background.
“¡Basta, Alejandro; enough! You are interrupting my message.”
Normally, the familiar bickering between an exasperated adult child and the Cuban mami in whose eyes her kids were never fully grown would have had Anamaría crowing with laughter. But she sensed the reason behind the phone call and wasn’t looking forward to confirming her intuition.
“Please come and talk some sense into him, so I can stop worrying,” Señora Miranda pleaded.
Alejandro’s “Unbelievable” groan in the background was a classic child-embarrassed-by-their-parent reaction. Thanks to her own mami, Anamaría could relate.
Undeterred, Señora Miranda pressed on, delivering the final nails in Anamaría’s coffin. “We are home now, and I believe you should be finishing with your morning yoga class at Smathers Beach soon. I will wait for you to arrive. Gracias, nena, te lo agradezco.”
Of course, the older woman was already saying she appreciated Anamaría stopping by their house. They all knew Anamaría wouldn’t ignore a cry for help. Nor would she disrespect her elder by pretending she hadn’t seen the voice mail until later today.
They were familia. Maybe not by blood, but by choice. Even if that choice was by virtue of their shared comunidad and years of friendship, instead of the anticipated marriage. The twinge of buried dreams jabbed at her heart.
Huffing out a resigned sigh, Anamaría started the car and buckled her seat belt.
The Miranda house was only a few minutes from here. With a little zigzagging off Atlantic Boulevard, she’d pass by on the way to her next group class on the Casa Marina Resort’s grounds.
She could stop in, reassure Señora Miranda that her elder son’s leg would not grow gangrene and fall off or whatever extreme scenario the older woman’s worry gene envisioned happening.
She could also tell Alejandro to stop being a pain in everyone’s ass and simply follow his doctor’s advice. At least, until he was no longer under his parents’ roof and his mami’s watchful eye. Stop traumatizing the poor woman, so she’d stop SOSing Anamaría.
The secret plan to distract his mother he had mentioned yesterday needed to start today. Enough was enough.
Pulling away from the curb and making a U-turn, she drove west on South Roosevelt, following the curve in the road onto Bertha Street. Several turns later, she hit Laird Street, and shortly after the gravel edging the road and sidewalk crunched under her tires as she pulled to a stop in front of the Mirandas’ house.
She ducked under a low-hanging bougainvillea vine in the privacy wall alcove and was two steps up the brick walkway trailing through the lush lawn when she drew to a surprised halt.
Alejandro stood on the front stoop, hunched over a pair of crutches that were jammed in his armpits for support. His wheelchair was nowhere in sight.
The stubborn mule probably shouldn’t be upright, at least not without his wheelchair nearby if he suddenly tired and certainly not on his own.
Instinct and experience had her eyeing his Nike sneaker–clad feet, relieved to note that at least he was smart enough to keep his weight on his good leg. Although smart wasn’t the word she would use to describe him at the moment.
As if sensing her disapproval, he straightened out of his hunch, his fingers clenched around the handgrips. His biceps flexed with tension, tightening the short sleeves of his navy T-shirt, already a little snug across his broad shoulders. His previously hollowed cheeks had filled out. A sign his papi, mami, and abuela’s cooking was doing its job of fattening him up over the past week and a half.
Of course, based on the pecs outlined by his formfitting tee and the curve of his vastus medialis obliques visible under the hem of his athletic shorts, muscles honed by the miles he typically put on the racing bike she’d seen on his social media feed, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on the irritating man’s body.
Her pulse kicked up a traitorous notch at the thought of tracing the new hills and planes of his physique. Exploring the changes the years had wrought, taking him from young man to . . . she gulped . . . all man.
“You shouldn’t have come.” The annoyed twist of his full lips mimicked his tone.
She arched a brow and shot him an equally annoyed glower.
“It only encourages her,” he complained.
“Nu-uh.” Anamaría shook her head, refusing to let him put the blame on her. “That’s what you’re doing. By pushing her buttons.”
Alejandro shifted on his right foot, shimmying his hips and shoulders as he tried to balance himself. His right crutch lifted as he careened dangerously to his left, flailing to keep his balance.
Anamaría hurried toward him, afraid the hardheaded idiot might fall and wind up doing more damage to his tibia.
“I got it,” he growled, his jerky motions finally settling. “I don’t need your help.”
She pulled up short a few feet away. “Apparently, you don’t need anyone’s help. Is that it?”
The crutches squeaked under his weight, the rubber soles thumping on the mottled cream and chocolate tiles as he hobbled to the far edge of the covered porch.
“I told you yesterday, the PT was too damn perky. Between her Positive Patty routine and my mami’s hovering and my dad’s . . . I just . . . carajo, I can’t take it right now!” He shoved a hand through his tousled hair, his frustration telegraphed in the tight grip he held on the back of his neck. “The PT left a sheet with some exercises. I’ll be fine.”