Holiday Home Run - Priscilla Oliveras Page 0,35

the man who had broken her heart were about as high as a snowball’s chance of surviving a Key West summer day. There was damn good reason why she hadn’t spoken to Alejandro Miranda for over ten years.

“Por favor, dile que sigo rezando por el,” her mami insisted.

“Mami, I’m sure he already knows you’re praying for him.”

In fact, prayer chains had been activated throughout their comunidad the second news had 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 to the man 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 came shallow and quick 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 high school graduation. 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 flying at her in quick succession. Sharp cross-hook-upper cut jabs delivering blows as if she were a punching bag.

Gravel crunched underneath her car tires as she parked in front of the Miranda’s place. Her gaze cut to the cinderblock 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 awhile, 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 hard-headed man whose presence, twelve years later, forced her visit today.

Annoyed by her current situation, 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 mas 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 was what best for someone, there was no shying away from letting them know it. Or from using her mad 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 voice softened with concern while it also 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 the plan. That was her focus now.

The black and red script in a font painstakingly selected because of its strong, hip vibe indicative of the brand she sought for her burgeoning business reminded her of how far she’d come since the last time she had seen or spoken to Alejandro.

Her heart had mended. Her conviction that she’d made the right decision by staying behind had solidified. Her anger at his mulish behavior had dissipated to mere indifference.

Ignoring her trembling fingers and the annoying jitters in her stomach, she tugged her keys from the ignition, grabbed her backpack, then left the safety of her vehicle.

Like many in this older Midtown neighborhood, the Miranda’s was