Just the mention of the shredded flank steak sautéed to perfection with onions, peppers, garlic, spices, and tomato sauce, with sliced green olives and capers sprinkled in for extra flavor, had Alejandro’s mouth watering. Ropa vieja paired with congrí, the savory black beans and rice concoction cooked together in the same pot, had been, hands down, his go-to meal growing up.
He’d sampled the dish in five-star restaurants across the globe, but no one, not even a Michelin chef, could serve him a plate that made his taste buds sing like his papi’s dish. Which was the same with pretty much anything Victor Miranda whipped up.
The man was a freaking whiz in the kitchen.
Like Alejandro when he held a camera in his hands.
Too bad his papi hadn’t considered the two professions the same caliber back when Alejandro was starting out. Apparently still couldn’t, based on his absence at Alejandro’s last exhibit a couple years ago in Atlanta. Mami, Abuela, and Ernesto had made the trip. Papi had remained noticeably absent.
“The restaurant needs him,” Alejandro’s mother had explained.
Alejandro had shrugged off the excuse. They both knew the real reason his papi refused to acknowledge Alejandro’s success.
“I appreciate the food, Mami, pero I’m tired from the trip,” he told her. Truth, but also the coward’s way of avoiding his dad. “Would you mind if I ate here instead of joining you in the dining room?”
His mami’s hopeful smile dipped, the corners trembling before she rallied. “Of course, hijo. Anamaría said you should rest.”
One of the litany of orders his ex had rattled off before racing out the door as if the hounds of hell, or more like two harpies resembling their matchmaking mothers, nipped at her heels.
He would have fled, too, given the opportunity.
“Gracias, Mami. Maybe I’ll feel better enough to join you soon.”
Shuffling quickly toward his bed, she sat on the edge and tightly grasped both of his hands with her smaller ones. “I know coming here is not what you wanted, hijo. And I wish your return home would not have been because of this.” She tilted her head, indicating the RoboCop contraption encircling his injured leg. “But I have prayed for you to be here with us again.”
“Mami, por favor,” he warned.
The weight of her expectations. Hers, his abuela’s . . . everyone’s desire for him to relegate his passion to mere hobby status and prepare to take the reins of Miranda’s. It was all like a heavy shroud hovering over him. Threatening to smother his dreams.
It had been like this since the first time he begged off a shift at the restaurant to take pictures during the annual powerboat races. Papi had scoffed, relegating Alejandro’s photography to nothing more than a waste of time. Child’s play when there were responsibilities to uphold.
“Talk to him, mijo. This is where you belong,” his mom insisted now.
The sorrow etched on her slightly lined face brought the bitter taste of guilt to his tongue. The knowledge that the animosity between father and son hurt her as much as him made the situation even worse.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t belong here.” Tugging his hands free of hers, he clasped them on his lap and leaned back against the pillow behind him. Distancing himself from her disappointment. “I love you, Mami, but I can’t be who you want me to be.”
“Ay, Ale, I simply want you to be happy. It’s what I pray for every day.” Cupping his face with her hands, his mami leaned forward to place a kiss on his forehead. The tender gesture sent a pang of nostalgia through his chest.
“I am happy. I have a good life. I’m proud of the work I do,” he assured her.
“We are, too.”
Yeah, if by we she meant her and his abuela. Maybe Ernesto and Cece. Because his papi sure wasn’t.
As if she could read his thoughts, his mami’s shoulders rose and fell on a sad sigh he felt in his soul. She gave Alejandro’s cheeks a gentle pat, then rose to leave.
Her slow, defeated steps reminded him why he should not have come. Part of why he had stayed away for so long. There was no mending the rift between him and his father. Being here only made things uncomfortable for the rest of his familia.
“Bueno,” she said, pausing in the doorway without turning to look at him. “I will bring a tray with your food after I serve your father.”
The door closed behind her and Alejandro jammed a fist into his mattress. Damn it, he’d known coming here would be a mistake.
There had to be another option. His gaze trailed around the room while his mind raced through different ideas. All of which he’d considered before boarding the cruise ship. None of which were plausible.
His attention caught on the empty shelf above his desk. His baseball trophies had once been proudly displayed there. Until the summer his dad had laid down his first ultimatum: baseball camp or photography. There was no time for both when Alejandro was needed at the restaurant. Aware of how much his father enjoyed sharing their love of the game together, hurt by the blatant disregard for Alejandro’s burgeoning creative interest, he’d tossed his first barrage of artillery in their battle by quitting the high school varsity team.
Anamaría’s younger brother, Enrique, who together with Alejandro had created the varsity’s best double-play duo . . . Enrique at second and him at first base . . . had been dumbstruck by Alejandro’s rash decision. She’d reacted with the same level of shock.
Alejandro had figured his papi would give in. Allow his son to choose his own path, learn to juggle his responsibilities while exploring photography more. But Victor Miranda wasn’t one to back down. Neither was his firstborn son.
Scrubbing his hands over his face, Alejandro groaned with frustration as he tried to wipe away the hurtful memory. It’d been years since he thought about that summer. Or the slew of head-to-head battles against his old man that had come after, with collateral damage to those around them.
Like his mami and his abuela, who worried and prayed for the rift to mend. Even Ernesto, who hadn’t understood Alejandro’s need to get out from under their dad’s archaic rule, had been caught in the crossfire, torn between staying close with his only brother and respecting their father. Eventually, with Alejandro out of the picture, Ernesto had stepped into the role of Miranda’s successor. A role that didn’t have Ernesto feeling like he’d been strapped into a straitjacket. Unlike Alejandro.
A sigh weighty with recrimination blew through his lips and he turned away from the unwanted memories this house, this room, evoked.
Outside his bedroom window, Mother Nature continued her nightly artwork. Peach and orange and purple streaks slowly melted away, leaving an inky blue sky. The end of his first day back on the Rock.
He’d made it through the gut-clenching reunion with Anamaría relatively unscathed. Without revealing how she still made his pulse race, his body perk up with need. Foolish as that may be. Her obvious closeness with his familia bugged the hell out of him. Reminded him with sharp clarity of her ultimate choice . . . familia over him.
One difficult first meeting down, one more to go. Tipping his head back, Alejandro stared up at the swirls of eggshell white paint on the ceiling. At least, he’d put off dealing with his dad until tomorrow.
The thought set a mental clock in motion ticking down the hours, minutes, seconds until the next unavoidable detonation between them.