Anchored Hearts

by Priscilla Oliveras

  Doggedly, Anamaría willed herself to concentrate on “the patient” and calm the nervous trembles humming through her. Steady hands were needed here. Both to ensure she didn’t cause him more discomfort when she cleaned his pin sites and to dispel any question about whether or not being near him again might be a problem for her.

  It wasn’t. Not in the least.

  She empathized with anyone who was injured, especially this badly. It was part of why she’d chosen her profession. And she was damn good at what she did.

  Forget that the last time they touched had been the night they’d said good-bye. Back when she’d thought he would change his mind about staying away for good. And he apparently thought she’d eventually be okay leaving everything behind. Their home. His familia. Hers.

  Wrapped in a tight hug, she’d held on to him as they stood on the concrete seawall behind her parents’ house in Big Coppitt Key. Above them, the midnight sky had sparkled with stars. A full moon shone its mercurial path over the dark open ocean at the end of the canal, disappearing in the distance. Just like he eventually would.

  If she closed her eyes, Anamaría could sense the humidity and sorrow-laden air enveloping them. Smell the salty seawater mixed with the sweet scent of the bougainvillea trailing up the back stairs. Feel the harsh misery of her heart breaking.

  Instead, she kept her eyes wide open, intent on doing her job, then getting the hell out of here.

  Her fingers softly palpated the area a couple inches away from where one of the wires attached to the top ring on the external fixator pierced his skin. Two and a half weeks post-surgery, it was surprising to find bandages covering his pin sites. If there had been complications with healing, the surgeon in Puerto Rico wouldn’t have, shouldn’t have, let Alejandro travel.

  “I’m assuming the bandages were placed here as a precaution to avoid germs during your trip home?” she asked.

  When he didn’t answer, she glanced at him from under her lashes.

  Sweat beaded his upper lip and brow. Teeth gritted, his jaw muscles straining, he gave a jerky nod in response. Pain flashed like lightning in his nearly black eyes.

  “Anamawía make Tío Ale better?” Lulu asked, her high-pitched voice breaking the tension filling the room as all the adults watched with varying degrees of concern.

  “She’s going to try, Mamita,” Cece answered.

  Try being the operative word here. Based on the tension radiating off Alejandro, he was either really pissed to see her or experiencing a higher degree of discomfort than he should. Maybe both.

  As for him being pissed, he’d have to suck it up. She wasn’t thrilled about their impromptu reunion, either. It had their scheming mothers written all over it.

  But the pain from his injury . . . that she might be able to help. Not, however, with this particular audience breathing down her neck. All of them waiting for any sign that past hurts lingered. Or worse, a hint they’d been laid to rest and the potential for a new future for her and Alejandro still existed.

  She’d bet her next Kelly day that her mom and Señora Miranda had already started praying a novena for the latter. And Anamaría, like most firefighters, wouldn’t bet her monthly extra day off on anything less than a sure winner.

  Pushing aside the irritating thought of their mothers’ matchmaking, Anamaría turned back to her task. Not the person.

  “Okay, everyone, while I’m sure Alejandro enjoyed the welcome home fiesta, we should move him to his room, where he’ll be more comfortable,” Anamaría announced. “After I finish checking his pin sites, Tío Ale needs to take a nap, like Lulu. Rest is important for his recovery.”

  Plus, getting him to his room would allow them a small measure of privacy. Not exactly what she personally wanted, but necessary for her to do her job correctly. Instinct told her Alejandro wouldn’t answer her questions about his discomfort levels truthfully. Not in front of his worry-prone mother.

  “Ernesto, can you help me?” Anamaría motioned toward the wheelchair parked in the combination dining-kitchen area.

  It wasn’t easy, but after a few grunts of complaint peppered with muffled curses, Alejandro settled into the chair, his left leg propped up on the elevated footrest. A light sheen of perspiration covered his haggard face, and she almost felt sorry for him.

  Irritated at her reaction, she shoved her first-aid kit in her backpack, then slung the bag over her shoulder to wheel him toward the back of the house and the three bedrooms. Señora Miranda followed close behind them.

  As they neared Alejandro’s old room, Anamaría slowed her steps, hesitating.

  Memories assailed her. Evil interlopers sabotaging her bid to remain aloof.

  Study dates, movie nights, long afternoons spent perusing the latest pictures Alejandro had taken around the island and discussing their lofty dreams. Quick stolen kisses and innocent touches, because the bedroom door always remained open—Miranda and Navarro house rules.

  Their last year of high school, when they’d both been ready, they had taken advantage of the rare opportunities when they’d had this house or her parents’ place to themselves. Or stolen clandestine hours lying on a blanket, making out under the stars in the stern of her papi’s boat when he left it docked in the backyard canal overnight, ready for an early-morning fishing trip.

  Señora Miranda scooted around the chair to push open Alejandro’s bedroom door, beckoning them in. Anamaría steeled herself and crossed the threshold, stepping inside the sanctuary where she’d once woven her life’s dreams. In her naïveté not realizing the fragility of the threads that tied her and Alejandro together.

  Comfort and dismay crashed against each other as Anamaría’s gaze trailed around his room. The space remained unchanged. A shrine to the son who had walked away without a backward glance.

  The same navy comforter draped the double bed pressed up against the far wall underneath the window overlooking the side yard. The same sturdy wood dresser sat to the right of the door, the matching dark-stained desk and bookcase on the left next to the closet. On the nightstand, the same framed picture of her mugging for him and his camera before they left for senior prom. Her framed copy sat in a box shoved high on a shelf in her hall closet.

  Señora Miranda rolled a black carry-on suitcase into the closet, then tugged the bifold door closed again.

  Anamaría shut off the flood of useless memories. She had no time for foolishness.

  “Okay, let’s get you into bed.” As soon as the unintentionally suggestive words left her mouth, Anamaría bit the inside of her lips, attempting to squelch an embarrassed curse.

  “I don’t remember you being this forward,” Alejandro teased. He glanced at his bed, then back to her. Despite his lecherous smirk, his jaw muscles clenched, his discomfort obvious. Either at their awkward situation or due to his injury.

  “Stop being a wiseass. Here, I can—”

  “I’ve got it.” The veracity of his words was negated by his sharp hiss of breath when he grasped his injured leg to lower it off the footrest.

  “Are you done being a tough guy?” she berated. “Let me help you before you hurt yourself.”

  Señora Miranda stepped toward them, but Anamaría shook her head. If he was in as much pain as she surmised, he wouldn’t be much help getting into bed. The last thing they needed was the older woman injuring her back trying to heft his weight.

  “Wait a second,” she ordered, reaching down to lower the footrest to make the transition easier. “Now, put your hands on my shoulders for support.”

  Bending her knees, she lowered to a half squat in front of his chair, his right knee in between her legs. She gritted her teeth, ignoring her pulse blipping at the anticipation of him touching her again.

  Several seconds ticked by without Alejandro making a move to follow her instructions. Anamaría glanced at him from under her lashes.

  A deep groove etched the space between his brows at his stubborn frown.

  She huffed, then matched him scowl for s
cowl. “Look, I carried a two-hundred-pound dummy over my shoulder down two flights of stairs during drills yesterday. I think I can handle another dummy—”

  “Fine,” he grumbled.

  Palms up, Anamaría crooked her fingers in a “come on” gesture at him. The sooner they got this over with, the better.

  With a disgruntled sigh, Alejandro set his hands on her bare shoulders. One of his thumbs slipped under her tank top strap to slide against her skin. Warmth seeped into her chest, and she barely kept her eyes from fluttering closed.

  “Now, using only your right leg and my shoulders, push yourself to a stand. Do not put any pressure on your left. Got it?” she ordered.

  “I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he muttered.

  He shifted, then froze on a hiss. His fingers dug into her shoulders, disgruntled pain filling his black-coffee eyes. His piercing gaze darted to his mom, then back to Anamaría in a silent plea for her to not say anything. Keep the degree of his discomfort a secret from his mom.

  Anamaría answered with a faint, affirmative tuck of her chin. “Okay . . . one. Two. Three.”

  His muffled groan punctuated the end of her count as he shifted his weight onto his right foot and bent forward. The muscle in his thigh flexed with the exertion and she grasped his waist to both steady and support him. The hard jut of his hip bones pressed into her palms, proof of his recent post-accident weight loss.

  Hunched over, he pressed the side of his face against her temple, his breathing labored. The urge to hug him closer, give thanks that the idiot was actually safe, consumed her. This close, his woodsy, patchouli scent assailed her senses, setting her body tingling in places it had absolutely no business tingling.

  Jaw clenched, she ignored the unwelcome reactions, focusing on the task at hand.

  Together they shuffle-twisted toward the mattress in a move that had them imitating two middle schoolers at their first dance, awkwardly holding each other at arm’s length. Leaving room for the Holy Spirit between them, like the nuns at St. Mary’s used to warn the students.

  With his fingers still clenching her shoulders, she guided his hips, turning him so he could sit on the edge of his bed. Without impressionable little Lulu around to hear, Alejandro didn’t bother whispering his curses as he pushed himself farther onto the mattress while Anamaría carefully held his injured leg aloft.

  Señora Miranda slid several cushiony pillows beneath his knee, careful of the top Ilizarov ring. She hovered over her son, mumbling prayers and Spanish platitudes about her precious niñito’s misery. Typical Cuban mami hovering, no matter her children’s ages.

  Seizing her window of opportunity, Anamaría put part one of her impromptu plan into action. “Señora Miranda, would you mind bringing Alejandro some water? It’s important for him to stay hydrated.”

  “Ay, sí, I will get it right away. Anything else, nena?” his mom answered.

  “Maybe a small snack. I’m sure he’ll need to take his pain medicine soon. Right?” She directed the question to Alejandro.

  Lips pinched with obvious discomfort, he nodded.

  “¿Un sandwich de jamón y queso?” his mom asked.

  “A ham and cheese sandwich would be great. Grilled, maybe?” Anamaría suggested, intent on getting his mom out of the room for as long as possible.

  Not that Anamaría had any keen interest in being alone with him. But something wasn’t right, and he’d made it clear he didn’t want his mom to know.

  As soon as the older woman left and the slap of her Kino sandals on the tile floor faded, Anamaría leveled a stern stare Alejandro’s way.

  “Truth. On a scale of one to ten, what’s your pain level?”

  “One,” he grunted as he pushed his hands into the mattress and tried shifting his position on the bed. His sharp intake of breath and full-body wince belied his answer.

  “Try again, and don’t bullshit me. After what you’ve been through, this is no time to play he-man.”

  “I was always more of a Batman fan, remember? You know, dark and dangerous. Lots of toys to play with.” His full lips twisted in what resembled more of a sneer than his cocky grin. The angles and planes of his haggard yet still remarkably handsome face taut with anguish.

  Heaving a beleaguered sigh, Anamaría set her backpack on the low dresser.

  “Look, cut the crap, okay? It’s obvious neither one of us really wants to be here.” Her back to him, she unzipped her bag, purposefully keeping her gaze away from the square mirror hanging on the eggshell-painted wall over the dresser. “Me, in this room. And you, anywhere on the entire island. But we can’t change that, so don’t make it any harder or more uncomfortable than it needs to be. Let me do my damn job and appease your mother, then we don’t have to see each other again. Deal?”

  The words sliced her throat like shards of her broken heart forcing their way up. Doggedly, she reminded herself of her vow to no longer allow a ghost from her past to haunt her present.

  “You look good,” he said, his voice gruff.

  Her stupid heart tripped, then lurched into a higher gear. She clenched her fists, cursing the injustice of her reaction to his words.

  Unwilling to let him see the effect his too little–too late declaration had on her, Anamaría ducked her head, pretending to search for something inside her backpack.

  “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you look like death warmed over,” she countered.

  If death sported a week’s worth of sexy scruff covering a square jaw and highlighting his angular cheeks and full lips, plus a head of thick black wavy hair, windblown and mussed in a carefree style some paid hundreds of dollars in hair product to achieve.

  Not that she had noticed or anything.

  Behind her, Alejandro gave a hoarse chuckle. The raspy sound sent an unwanted shiver of awareness skittering down her spine.

  “What are you talking about? I just got off a cruise,” he complained.

  “Practically a stowaway. Leave it to you to hitch a ride on a cruise ship because you’re not medically cleared to fly.”

  “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

  And he’d obviously had no will to return home until he’d been forced.

  She’d known this already. Still, hearing his confirmation hurt. Not that she’d let him know.

  Shoving aside her wallet inside her backpack, she grabbed the first-aid kit. “Well, unlike the rest of the passengers, you neglected to disembark with a relaxed smile and new tan lines. And that souvenir of yours . . . it kinda blows.”

  “I didn’t bring this contraption on my leg home by choice,” he mumbled. “Believe me, I’ve been better.”

  That made two of them.

  A peek at his reflection in the mirror found him hunched forward, tracing a finger along the top Ilizarov ring.

  “I’m wondering, is this is a new look or were you already going for gaunt and haggard before you went and slipped off that rock ledge while you were . . .” She set the kit and the bottle of sterile water on the dresser top. “Exactly what were you doing in the El Yunque National Forest, climbing up the side of a waterfall alone, anyway?”

  When he didn’t answer, she glanced in the mirror again, surprised to find him staring back at her.

  Dark eyes hooded, he lay sprawled on top of the comforter, a white-and-navy-checked pillowcase covering the pillow tucked behind his back, matching the two under his knee. His lanky frame was too thin. His skin too sallow. And damn it, his magnetism too strong.

  A couple months ago, his image on her cell phone screen had appeared larger than life. Mimicking the photographs that made him a sought-after talent. Broad shoulders and chest evident under a formfitting gray tee tucked into a pair of black jogging pants cinched at the ankles. Muscular arms looped around a young guy on his left and a strikingly beautiful woman on his right, Alejandro shot a cocky, confident grin at whoever snapped the photo captioned “Ready to celebrate a successful shoot on location at El Morro, Viejo San Juan, Puerto Rico”
followed by the camera and Puerto Rican flag emojis.

  He didn’t post pictures of himself very often. When he did, she occasionally allowed herself a glimpse. Or two. Nothing more.

  Even then, she couldn’t help noting the laugh lines radiating from the corners of his nearly black eyes. The faint grooves on either side of his mouth. Testaments to the laughter in his life. The joy he found wherever he was and in the people he spent time with.

  The fact that she wasn’t one of them shouldn’t . . . couldn’t . . . didn’t bother her. Not anymore.

  The mystery woman’s infatuated expression as she gazed up at him meant nothing to Anamaría. Her life and his had been separate for a decade. No longer the inseparable duo their classmates, familia, and friends had dubbed them.

  He kept himself busy off photographing the world. Making a name for himself. Cavorting with people from all walks of life—celebrities and up-and-comers, hardworking villagers and unsung heroes in communities across the globe.

  She was the one who had stayed in place. Marking time without realizing it. Unable to fully commit to either of the two serious relationships she’d been involved in. Silencing her secret dreams for too long.

  But she was done with that. Over the past two years, she’d put her dating life on hold to dive 110 percent into her business. Now she was going places, too.

  “When I set off to explore El Yunque, it was not with this outcome in mind.” He gestured at his leg.

  “Accidents like yours rarely are. But I see them all the time on the job,” she answered, relieved to return her focus to his injury. Not their broken past.

  “The rainforest has been hit hard by hurricanes in recent years. I wanted to document some of the change.”

  Anamaría stepped toward the bed. “We’ve had some harsh years with hurricanes here in the Keys, too. Big Pine really took a beating from Hurricane Irma.”

  “Yeah, I saw video and images online.” Alejandro shook his head in commiseration. “Thankfully, El Yunque’s slowly coming back to life. When I finished my job in Puerto Rico, I stuck around for a bit before I was supposed to move on to Belize. That day, I planned an easy hike. Thinking I’d unwind to the coquís singing their high-pitched frog song from the trees. A cool mist on my face from the rush of water tumbling over the rocks. Then I spotted an iguaca.”