“Ay Dios mío!” Anamaría’s mami gasped. She pressed a hand to her chest, her fingers worrying the crucifix dangling from her gold chain. “¿Esto es Miranda’s? ¿La original?”
“Sí, it is,” Señora Miranda answered, nostalgia tingeing her words. “Victor’s parents courted while strolling around that fountain. This church is where they were married, where Victor and his brother were baptized. And these . . .” Her fingers hovered over the image of the two women. “Victor’s primas. Cousins he has not seen in person since he left. These pictures . . . son fantásticos.”
A yearning for old times, for familia they hadn’t hugged in decades, weighed on her words. At the same time, it was clear that pride in her son’s masterful work bolstered her spirit.
“Has Victor seen these?” Anamaría’s dad asked.
Señora Miranda’s smile faded as she shook her head.
“He didn’t walk through the display when he brought the food?” Anamaría’s papi asked, his fierce frown broadcasting his displeasure when Señora Miranda shook her head again.
“Victor cooked, porque I threatened him with—bueno, that does not matter. He cooked the food, pero staff helped me with everything. El cabezón refuses to listen to me. ¡Ya casi estoy harta de él!”
Anamaría flinched at the harsh, angry words. It wasn’t unusual for Señora Miranda to call her husband hardheaded. El cabezón had always been more of an endearment in the past. Everyone knew Victor Miranda’s stubborn streak wasn’t a mere mile wide, more like almost the ninety miles that separated Key West from his beloved Cuba.
But casi estoy harta de él?
For Alejandro’s mom to say she had almost had enough of her husband, with such finality and anger . . . what the hell had been going on between the Mirandas? And why hadn’t Alejandro said anything to Anamaría about it?
Anamaría’s mom wrapped an arm around her friend’s shoulder. Her dad stepped away from the two women, his mouth set in a thin line, his expression foreboding. That look often meant trouble for her or one of her siblings, typically Enrique when they were kids.
Her papi pulled his phone from his pocket and stared down at the device, though she didn’t think she had heard his cell vibrate. His thumb swiped the screen, tapped a few times; then he lifted the phone to his right ear to listen to a message.
“Lydia, a situation has come up. I will be back as soon as I can.” He kissed her mom’s cheek, dipped his head in deference to Señora Miranda, then gave Anamaría a grim nod before ducking around the curtain.
She stared at the undulating material for several seconds, surprised by his abrupt departure.
When she turned back to the mamis, hers had guided Señora Miranda over to peer at the photographs commemorating Operación Pedro Pan. The images honored those who had come to the United States as children through the operation’s efforts. Alejandro had visited with a handful in their homes or workplaces, snapping their photographs as they held aged pictures from their childhood. Some had even shared handwritten messages about their experiences, which were framed as part of the display.
Heads angled close together, the two moms were soon engaged in a serious discussion about Cuban history and how their familias had been affected. Wanting to give the two of them some privacy, Anamaría excused herself to make a trip to the ladies’ room, thinking she’d also check on Alejandro’s abuela.
She reached for the curtain, the silky black material slipping through her fingers when she heard Alejandro on the other side.
“Again, I appreciate you giving my idea consideration, Marcelo. I know projects like the one we discussed, when done well, require I commit to being in one location, being here, for at least six months.”
Anamaría blinked with surprise. Joy coalesced with shock at Alejandro’s words, rooting her feet to their spot. Questions bombarded her mind in rapid-fire succession.
Could Alejandro really be considering staying in Key West? Giving himself more opportunity to make amends with his father? Giving her and him more time together?
“Which is why I have to pass. I still think you should pursue it, Marcelo. It’s a good idea. Only not for me. I can’t stay here.”
Wait? He was turning it down?
Like a plug pulled from one of her nephew’s blow-up water floats, the breath she held gushed out of Anamaría, leaving her deflated and empty.
“Are you sure?” Marcelo asked, his obvious disappointment a fraction of the searing disappointment seeping through Anamaría, scalding her heart.
“Positive,” Alejandro answered. “Too much missed opportunity out there. And, as I mentioned, it’s not a good idea for me to stick around here.”
Marcelo said something else, but his voice was muted by the blood whooshing in Anamaría’s ears. She clamped her lips together to smother a whimper of pain as her heart shattered, splintery shards slicing her chest.
It’s not a good idea for me to stick around here.
Dios mío, if she needed any more proof that her feelings for him were one-sided and she should keep singing the friends-with-benefits song they had agreed on, now she had it.
He’d been given an opportunity to stay in Key West while still pursuing his photography. A chance to be with her. But he was turning down Marcelo’s offer. Encouraging the gallery owner to look for someone else.
Alejandro would always be lured by the adventure he sought in faraway places. The call of something bigger awaiting him far from their island held more appeal than those he left behind. Than her.
She’d known that all along. It was her breaking their pact this time, not him.
She’d been a fool. Tricking herself into thinking all she desired was closure, a chance to make a clean break, when she had been secretly hoping he would decide to stay this time. Drop his anchor for good and make Key West, instead of Atlanta, his home base.
If Alejandro stayed, together they could work at changing his dad’s mind. Continue giving him opportunities like tonight to see how Alejandro’s work held value. How his talent honored and paid tribute to their familia and their culture’s legacy.
But running away, choosing to leave not because he had to but because he wanted to, would only maintain the rift between father and son with no way to move past it.
“Bueno, I say we wait until the time is right for you. Whenever you are ready, we will be too,” Marcelo said on the other side of the curtain.
“I appreciate it,” Alejandro responded. “But I won’t change my mind. I can’t. If you’ll excuse me, I should check on my mother.”
Coño, he was coming inside.
Anamaría swiped at a tear she hadn’t even realized had trailed down her cheek. She needed to get out of here, pull herself together, or she’d risk revealing her true feelings for Ale. Something she absolutely refused to do.
Her world might feel like it was crumbling around her again, but this time she wasn’t an insecure teen uncertain about the direction of her life. This time, she had AM Fitness and her partnership with AllFit to concentrate on, to keep her focused on anything other than devasted dreams.
One hand pressed to her belly in a desperate attempt to calm the hornets swarming inside her, she brushed aside the filmy curtain and stepped into the shadowy hallway.