No, Key West was too small for him and his papi to coexist. It could irrevocably fracture their familia if he did.
But Anamaría couldn’t go with him. He wouldn’t be selfish and ask her to.
Time and time again, he’d seen or heard evidence about how she thrived here. How she helped others thrive.
The fitness programs she regularly organized for firefighters, their families, and the community. Classroom visits in her gear to talk about fire safety. Free healthy cooking and Zumba classes at St. Mary’s. Races and other events she volunteered with, raising money for local charities and organizations.
They shared one common truth he hadn’t understood in his youth and could no longer discount: Like the mangrove forests growing in the salty waters of the Florida Keys, Anamaría’s roots were complex, protective, life-giving, and strong. She was fully anchored here.
While he . . . he thrived on the adventure and experiences his profession provided. For a brief time, he’d started to wonder if he could make Key West his home base. Returning to Anamaría in between gigs. Spending time with familia.
But after overhearing his parents, he knew he had to go.
Dejected, Alejandro collapsed into the leather desk chair. The vivid image of Anamaría at the parade, marching for love, was barely visible to him from this angle. Leaning his head on the top edge of the soft seat back, he closed his eyes, blocking her photograph out completely.
“This one is going into the exhibit precisely because it is so personal,” Natalia announced with finality.
“No, it’s not,” he muttered, forcing himself to keep his frustration on a tight leash.
Natalia didn’t know what she was wading into here. This wasn’t the warm, gentle waves lapping the Higgs Beach shoreline. More like dark, cold, shark-infested waters.
A bone-weary sigh pushed through his lips.
He heard rustling, the slide of material, and figured she was unfolding herself from the comfortable channel-back accent chair. A light clunk on the desktop alerted him that she had approached.
“I get that we don’t know each other personally. Yet,” she qualified, her tone calm and matter-of-fact. “But I do believe that, based on our work together thus far, I have earned your professional respect. And, I hope, a measure of your trust.”
Fuck, she wasn’t going to let this go.
His gut tightened. She was right. He did respect her as a professional. Down to the most minute detail thus far, she was batting a thousand for his exhibit.
But he wasn’t able to go where she pushed him to go.
“You’re freaking amazing behind a camera,” Natalia went on. “Your talent is undeniable. And yet, these photographs.” Her finger jabbed the table. “Every single one with her. Whomever she is. They’re real and raw and fucking brilliant. Whatever you tapped into when you took those personal shots in Cuba. That’s here. Amplified. Trust your talent, Alejandro. Damn it, trust mine!”
When he lowered his hands from his face, Natalia loomed over the desk. Her hands splayed on its surface. Her face mutinous.
“I do trust you,” he answered. That was the easy part in this whole scary scenario.
“Okay, that’s good.” She straightened, spinning on the ball of her bare foot to pace toward the wall facing the desk, with E’s painting.
“So what’s the problem then?” she pressed. “Is she an ex and she might show up with her new lover? Or, shit, her husband?”
“No. We’re actually friends.”
“Ha!” She spun around, her chignon jarring loose. “You are so more than friends. But”—she held up a hand as if to stop an argument he planned to give, which he didn’t—“that’s for you and her to figure out, not me.”
He shook his head. “There’s nothing to figure out. She lives here. I don’t.”
“But you’re from here. You have familia here. ¿Cual es el problema?”
“Part of the problem is, my job takes me all over. However, that also happens to be an aspect that appeals to me about my job.”
“Is this why you were picking my brain about a coffee table book of your photographs? An idea I’ve already said is genius. Or why Marcelo has been talking about you putting together a Keys Life exhibition?”
“Yes. And yes. But those are both moot points now.” He heaved a sigh and rubbed a hand over his face, massaging his left eye and socket where a jackhammering headache throbbed. “Even staying part-time isn’t going to work. There’s an issue with my family that makes it impossible.”
“Time-out!” She speared her hands together to form the letter T as if she were an NBA referee stopping play on the basketball court. “As much as I happen to like you as a person, I do not have the patience to become your relationship or life counselor. I’m too blunt. Trust me, I’d suck at it.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
She gave him a droll look. “The thing is, Marcelo and Logan hired me to do a job. And I’m going to do a kick-ass one that blows the roof off this joint because you allow us to showcase the best of the best. Didn’t you say you’re willing to sell some prints to put toward your family’s restaurant?”
“Hers will not be for purchase.” He placed his open palm protectively over Anamaría’s image on the iPad screen.
A triumphant gleam flashed in Natalia’s eyes, and he realized what he’d just said.
“No, they won’t be for sale,” she agreed. “But at least one will be shown. Respectfully. Artfully.”
Head bowed as he stared down at Anamaría peeking through his splayed fingers is the screen, Alejandro nodded, trusting Natalia’s word as much as her experienced eye.
Many of his pictures of Anamaría were exhibit caliber. It was crazy for him to be afraid of showing his best work because of what it might reveal. Maybe it was time for him to stop hiding behind his camera.
He sucked in a deep breath.
Never in his life had he held back when it came to his art. Hell, that’s how he wound up fracturing his tibia in the first place. Why start now?
Meeting Natalia’s gaze, he slapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly.
“Go big, or go home,” he said.
Natalia grinned as she pumped her fist in the air. “That’s what I like to hear!”
His problem: he wanted to do both, go big and go home.
If he could reach his papi, big if, Alejandro just might get both.
Chapter 18
“You look fine; what’s with all the primping?” Enrique asked.
Anamaría scowled at her little brother, who responded maturely by giving her a bug-eyed “whatcha looking at me for” glare.
Ignoring him, she flipped down the sun visor in his SUV to inspect her makeup in the lighted mirror.
“This is a special night,” she told him, using a ring finger to lightly rub at a mascara smear under her right eye. “The least you could have done was dress up.”
She flicked a glance at his typical slender-fit black jeans and tight black tee, its short sleeves cuffed to show off his muscular biceps. At least, they weren’t ripped jeans.
“What are you talking about? I put on a pair of dress shoes.” Raising his left knee between the steering wheel and the gray leather door interior, he gestured to his black lace-up Oxford sneakers. “See?”