“As long as you do them properly. If not, you could wind up causing more damage.” Anamaría glanced through the set of double-hung windows into the living room, expecting to see Señora Miranda or Alejandro’s abuela watching their favorite morning show on Telemundo. While peeking at whatever was going on out front.
Instead, the familia sala sat oddly empty.
“Where’s your mom?” Anamaría asked, squinting past the empty sala at the kitchen and lanai farther back in the house.
“She’s helping Abuela put away some laundry in her room. Mostly, I think they knew I needed some space. It’s like the walls here are closing in on me.”
For someone used to living outside of the familia bubble, especially the one exacerbated by island life, being confined like he was could make the antsiness worse. “My mom giving me space is pretty rare; you should be thankful. At least, this gives me a few minutes to talk some sense into you.”
Anamaría looked back at him in time to catch his eye roll. Despite her irritation at being summoned, she understood some of his frustration.
Her phone buzzed in her leggings hip pocket at the same time Sara’s name lit up on her Apple watch. Anamaría ignored the call. “Please tell me that whatever plan you cryptically mentioned yesterday to distract your mother from her matchmaking is not this. Because if so, it’s a dumb one.”
He blew out an annoyed pffft. “Of course not. Do you think I’m an idiot?”
Hip cocked, Anamaría crossed her arms and silently stared back at him. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
“Whatever,” he grumbled, waving off her jab by flapping an elbow as he held on to his crutches. “No, it’s not my plan. If you really want to know . . .” His gaze slid to the window as if ensuring the coast was still clear. “I’m working with a gallery downtown to host an exhibit of my work.”
“What?!” Joy flooded through her, pushing aside her exasperation with him. “Alejandro, that’s incredible!”
Dios, the hours they’d spent strolling hand in hand downtown, admiring and critiquing gallery displays. Him confident that someday an Alejandro Miranda photograph would fetch the high prices marking many of the pieces.
“It’s what you used to dream about.” What they dreamed about together.
Nostalgia, bittersweet and aching, swelled in her chest.
“I did,” he acknowledged with a dip of his head, swiping at the lock of hair that tumbled over his forehead, into his eyes. “Still do.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
Gaze glued to the tile at her feet, he rubbed a hand up and down his angular jaw, pensive. Uncomfortable . . . or, strange, maybe even uncertain?
That wasn’t the Alejandro Miranda she’d known. Or the one that he ran off and became without her. Uncertain did not describe the man who scaled waterfalls and ran with the bulls and wielded a machete to help remote villagers forge a trail to a new water source in South America.
Seeing this side of the man who had become almost larger than life in the pictures she saw on social media and the stories his mami and abuela had shared with her over the years reminded Anamaría of the boy struggling with the desire to please his familia while being true to himself. The teen she had given her heart to, before he’d become the angry young man fighting for what he wanted in a way she couldn’t go along with.
Caught up in her own struggle between what she had yearned for and what was reality, she watched Alejandro absently scratch at the several days’ scruff darkening his jaw. His mussed hair and slightly wrinkled tee gave him a just-rolled-outta-bed vibe that he wore well. Like, dangerously well. Reminding her of other, more private activities they had shared when not gallery hopping together.
The thrill of young love, of sharing firsts with someone your heart assured you was the one. Lust curled through her, puckering her nipples at the delicious memory of his touch and the thought of the times since then when she secretly conjured him in her bed when she was alone with a certain battery-powered toy.
Conscious of her thin exercise bra material, she crossed her arms and angled away from the living room window, away from peeping eyes inside.
“Why haven’t you said anything about the exhibit?” she asked, pulling her thoughts back to a much safer topic. “The Cuban mami grapevine would already be working overtime to spread the word. Forget matchmaking!”
“I don’t know. I mean . . . shit, this is stupid.” He blew out a harsh laugh, one hand tap-tap-tapping the metal crutch bar nervously. “You’d think I’d be past this by now.”
“Past what?”
He stared at her intently for several beats, tension emanating from him. That strange uncertainty she would never attribute to him clouded his dark eyes.
“My work isn’t something my father necessarily takes pride in. You know that,” he admitted. His throat bobbed with a swallow and a shadow darkened his dejected expression even more. “I don’t want him to take me having a local exhibit as another sign of me thumbing my nose at him, at Miranda’s.”
Anamaría’s heart ached for him. For the son who, whether he admitted it or not, admired and looked up to his father, who couldn’t bring himself to accept their differences. Ironically, they shared one important similarity, both having worked their way up from entry level positions in their respective professions. One going from dishwasher to successful restaurant owner; the other moving from apprentice to sought after, award-winning photographer.
“It doesn’t matter.” Alejandro lifted a shoulder, dropping it in a blasé move he might think would mask his disappointment.
Maybe it worked with others. But not with her. She knew him too well. Despite her years of trying to forget. “It’s okay to admit that it does. Matter, I mean.”
Angry lines creased his brow, but he didn’t respond.
“I understand that he’s always been tough on you. But I also know that he’s capable of changing his mind. I’ve seen it. He’s been open-minded with me.”
Alejandro’s frown deepened, his eyes filling with scornful anger the more she defended his father.
“Maybe if you—”
“You know what? Screw it!” Lifting his crutches, Alejandro stomped them against the tile with an angry thump. “The owners of Bellísima were planning to be out of town all of July, so they didn’t schedule a special display. They’re willing to change their travel and host the opening night of my exhibition July Fourth weekend. That’s pretty fucking incredible of them. I shouldn’t be dragging my feet because of someone who won’t even try to understand my perspective. I’m gonna give Marcelo and Logan a definitive yes.”
“That’s . . . that’s good. I think you should.” She honestly did. Maybe witnessing his son’s success would stir Señor Miranda’s benevolence.
“Mami and Abuela will be thrilled,” Alejandro went on, as if still working to convince himself that this was the right decision. “Ernesto and Cece can bring Lulu. Maybe even the new baby. Plus, your parents and brothers. Even, well, everyone’s welcome. . . if they’re interested.”
He stared at her. A silent, hopeful invitation. As if he doubted whether or not she would accept.