reached them of Alejandro’s scary hiking accident a couple weeks ago. Despite his asshole behavior before and in the months after their breakup all those years ago, even Anamaría had murmured a few Our Fathers for his recovery. That Catholic school guilt could be a real revenge squasher sometimes.
Still, she had no desire to play messenger pigeon for the man to whom she had nothing left to say.
Fingers gripping her steering wheel, she made the left onto Bertha Street, then shortly after turned right onto Laird. Her breaths quickened the closer she drew to the house that had been her second home since eighth grade at Horace O’Bryant Middle School.
Well . . .
Except for those first few months after their breakup. When it’d been too painful for her to visit. To even drive down this quiet neighborhood street.
The same way it had been with so many other places around Key West. Memories attacking her in quick succession. Sharp cross-hook-uppercut jabs delivering blows as if she were a punching bag.
Gravel crunched underneath her car tires as she parked in front of the Mirandas’ place. Her gaze cut to the cinder-block and peach-painted stucco privacy wall edging the single-story home’s perimeter. Through the white-painted wood peep-through border at the wall’s top she stared at the front door.
It had taken her a while, but she’d learned to deal with the sad expressions on many of the faces of the loved ones inside. The ones who, like her, had been left behind, forgotten, by the same hardheaded man whose presence, almost twelve years later, forced her visit today.
Annoyed by her current predicament, Anamaría jerked the gearshift to park, then wiped her sweaty palms on her leggings. She sucked in a deep breath, slowly releasing it like she would instruct a victim in danger of hyperventilating. When that did nothing to slow her mid-cardio workout pulse, she reached for her water bottle and took a hefty swig.
“¿Llegaste?” her mom’s voice cut through the hazy memories trying to push their insidious way to the surface in Anamaría’s mind.
“Yes, I’m here. I gotta go, Mami. Te llamo más tarde.”
She chugged another gulp, certain that her promise to call later wouldn’t stop her mom from bugging her before then. When it came to overstepping the boundaries of propriety and privacy with her children, her mom didn’t baby-step over it. She freaking leapt.
All with good intentions of course. Lydia Quintana de Navarro lived and breathed for her husband and children, their extended familia, and their entire comunidad. That also meant when she felt she knew what was best for someone, there was no shying away from letting them know it. Or from using her wily passive-aggressive skills to get her way, particularly with her kids and grandkids.
Like a truth teller affirming Anamaría’s thoughts about her mom’s meddling, her mom’s voice stopped Anamaría seconds before her finger hit the end call icon on the dashboard screen.
“God has a plan for you, nena. I know He does.” Her mami’s tone softened with concern at the same time it sharpened with the conviction of her faith. “Dios te bendiga, mi vida.”
Before she could reply to her mother’s usual “God bless you, my life” farewell, the call was disconnected.
God has a plan for you. The sage advice replayed in Anamaría’s head as she rubbed her thumb over the AM Fitness logo imprinted on the side of her water bottle. This—AM Fitness—had to be that plan. She sure hoped so, anyway, because it was her only focus now.
The black-and-red script in a font meticulously selected because of its strong, energetic vibe indicative of the brand she sought for her burgeoning business reminded her of how far she’d come. Sure, it had taken her awhile, but she was finally in a good place.
Her heart had mended. Her conviction that she’d made the right decision by staying behind had solidified. Her anger at Alejandro’s mulish behavior had dissipated to mere indifference. Well, until his surprise return.
A surprise she refused to let derail her.
Ignoring her trembling fingers and the annoying jitters in her stomach, she tugged the keys from the ignition, grabbed her backpack, then left the safety of her vehicle.
Like many in this older Midtown neighborhood, the Mirandas’ was a modest, single-story stucco house. Theirs was painted the same welcoming soft peach as the privacy wall, with dark gray hurricane shutters bookending the windows. Alejandro and his younger brother, Ernesto, had spent their entire lives here. Until their father, in a fit of anger Anamaría felt