Another soft knock rapped on his door.
“Come in.” He schooled his features, trying to summon what he hoped resembled a welcoming smile, to greet his mother. Only, when the door pushed open, it wasn’t his mami on the other side.
Victor Miranda, his rotund figure stiff and unyielding, stood in the doorway carrying the same metal and wicker serving tray from lunch. A somber expression blanketed his round face and full jowls, deepening the grooves bracketing his mouth on either side of his thick mustache.
“Oh, hi, I wasn’t ex-expecting you,” Alejandro stammered.
Shit, this was not how he’d wanted his first confrontation—damn it, conversation—with his dad to go down. Him sitting like a lame duck in his childhood bed. His papi serving him the food he’d cooked at the restaurant Alejandro had turned his back on.
No, the restaurant he had denigrated and then turned his back on.
“Your mamá says you should eat something and take your medicine,” his dad announced.
No Hola, hijo, it’s good to see you.
No It’s been too long.
No I fucked up all those years ago.
Of course, those same statements could be uttered by Alejandro himself. He could attempt to make amends. Only why bother when a negative response was a guarantee.
“Gracias.” Alejandro reached to take the serving tray from his father, keeping his tone neutral and eye contact minimal. “I appreciate dinner.”
His favorite meal no less. Was it a peace offering? Or merely the easiest leftovers to pack up after the kitchen closed?
“I was bringing something for your mom and abuela.” His dad hitched a beefy shoulder in an it’s-no-big-deal shrug. His black mustache drooped over the sober slant of his mouth, his craggy face telegraphing the indifference Alejandro had come to expect during the smattering of times they’d seen each other on video chat.
Alejandro dug into the ropa vieja, his eyes closing on an inner sigh of blissful satisfaction when the tangy taste of the shredded flank steak, its sauce teeming with the perfect combination of tomato, spices, and garlic, exploded on his tongue. A bite of congrí had the black beans and rice mixture adding to the taste buds party in his mouth.
His papi cleared his throat, and Alejandro’s eyes opened to find his old man watching him, a suspicious scowl angling his brows. His mustache twitched, as if his mouth itched to say something but refrained.
“It’s delicious,” Alejandro offered.
“You need to eat more. You’re too skinny.”
The gruff command was more insult than caring observation. But it was spot-on. In the weeks since his accident, Alejandro’s appetite had nose-dived. Thanks in large part to a combination of pain-induced nausea and a semi-depressive, feeling-sorry-for-himself state of mind. The result was the loss of ten pounds on an already-lanky frame.
He tapped his fork against the edge of the ceramic plate. “With food like this and a bum leg, I’ll wind up gaining too much weight. Being out of shape is a liability in my line of work.”
Arms crossed in front of his burly chest, Alejandro’s papi’s scowl deepened, his dark brows threatening to become a unibrow. “It seems to me that there are worse liabilities in this thing you insist on doing. Especially when you are not careful.”
Subtext, you are never careful.
Why was it that every word his papi said about Alejandro’s career held an undercurrent of disdain? Making it clear that nothing his older son did met with the man’s approval.
Truth was, his papi would never be satisfied with him until Alejandro set aside his “silly” aspirations and worked a respectable, steady job. One his abuelo, who had risked much to send Alejandro’s dad and his older brother to the United States in search of a better life during the Peter Pan Operation in the early 1960s, would be proud of.
Setting down his fork, Alejandro reached for his bottle of water to wash down the sour taste of reality coating his mouth. “Look, I don’t want to fi—”
“Your mamá told me that Anamaría was here today.” His dad dipped his head toward the external fixator rings encircling Alejandro’s left shin. “To check your injury.”
Alejandro nodded slowly, unsure where his father might be going with this unexpected turn in their awkward conversation. Leery of bringing Anamaría into their discord, Alejandro stayed quiet.
“Ella es una nena buena,” his dad said, repeating himself when Alejandro stared back at him blankly. “She is a nice girl. Do not—”
“Actually, she’s a woman now. A firefighter paramedic and small-business owner.”
His father’s eyes narrowed at the interruption.
Alejandro gave himself a mental smack on the back of his head. Why did he feel the need to bait the man by correcting him?
The question whispered through his brain as if his mom or Ernesto sat on the bed beside him, muttering the words in his ear.
“She is familia. She always will be. It does not matter that you—” His papi’s words cut off abruptly, as if he couldn’t even be bothered to spit them out.
“That I what?” Alejandro pressed, picking at the scab over a wound that had never, probably would never, healed. “Accepted a paid internship, then worked my ass off to earn a dream job? That I chose to be true to myself and what fulfills me?”
His papi lurched forward a step, hands fisted at his sides. “No, that you refused to fulfill your responsibility to your familia. Our name. To the legacy your abuelo gave his life for!”
The familiar accusations pelted Alejandro like stones thrown at a sinner. His father’s dark eyes flashed with hostility and resentment. His nostrils flared with his chest-heaving breaths.
Tension sizzled in the air of the small bedroom.
“I don’t want to have this argument with you again,” Alejandro said, both his urge to fight and his appetite evaporating. “It does neither one of us any good. And it will only hurt them.” He jabbed his fork toward the front of the house, indicating the rest of their familia.
His father huffed his disdain.
Several seconds ticked by, the gulf between them widening.
Finally, Alejandro’s old man gave a curt, tight-jawed nod. The most he would acquiesce.
With a bone-weary sigh, Alejandro laid his fork across his half-eaten meal. He wiped his mouth with the neatly folded paper towel, then reached for the bottle of pain pills on the nightstand.
“Gracias por la comida.” He nudged the tray, emphasizing his thanks for the meal. “I’m going to try and wash up, then get more sleep.”
It was as close to a dismissal as he could make without disrespecting his father in his own home. Again.
“I agreed to you coming here because your mamá and abuela were sick with worry,” his papi admitted, head high, shoulders stiff with pride. “But you will not cause them, or Anamaría, any more trouble while you are here. And you will not toy with her feelings again. ¿Entiendes?”
Oh, he understood, all right. As far as Victor Miranda was concerned, his elder son couldn’t get the hell off this island fast enough.
The unfairness of the blame laid solely at his feet made Alejandro’s blood boil with anger.
Why was he the bad guy when she was the one who had reneged on their plan to see the world, find their place in it, together? When he simply hadn’t settled for a life he’d always made clear he didn’t want to live? When he had followed his father’s edict and stayed away from where he was no longer welcome.