She wanted to be that kind of ex. Given a little more time to get used to having him home, grudgingly, she might get there. Maybe. At least, she could pretend better.
Bending her head, she concentrated on an easier task, carefully removing the medical tape that attached a piece of gauze around one of the pin sites.
“How ’bout we try this again,” she suggested. “Truthfully, how’s your pain?”
A puff of warm breath teased the tendrils of hair that had escaped her ponytail as Alejandro blew out a weighty sigh. “Is there some kind of doctor-patient confidentiality? I have a rep to protect.”
“Quit being a smartass,” she grumbled, shooting him a droll glance before pulling back another piece of medical tape. “Come on, fess up or I can’t help you properly.”
“Fine. But my mom worries enough as it is, so whatever we don’t have to tell her, let’s keep it that way.” He waited for her nod before continuing. “It’s holding steady at a seven.”
“That’s not good.”
“Ha! You’re telling me,” he grumbled, wincing when she gently palpated his skin around the top pin sites.
“Oh, believe me, I haven’t even begun my bad patient lecture.” And she planned to relish every word.
Ten minutes later, Señora Miranda had yet to return with Alejandro’s snack. His mood had lightened, based on his irreverent quips, and Anamaría had finished cleaning each of the pin sites, relieved to find most of them healing well. One at the top of his shin was a little more tender than the others, not that his tough-guy act had let him admit it. She’d had to pester him for info. About that and his refusal to take stronger pain relievers.
“You have got to stay on top of your meds,” she warned him. Not for the first time. Unfortunately, his hardheaded nature had failed to mellow with maturity. Reminding herself to stay in paramedic mode was all that kept her from throttling him in frustration. “If you don’t, you’re only chasing the pain and the medicine won’t be able to do its job. It’s basic first aid one-oh-one.”
“Has anyone told you, you have a remarkable bedside manner?”
“Stop it,” she grumbled, fully aware his teasing was a diversionary tactic.
Head tipped back to rest against the wall again, he eyed her under hooded lids. “I’m sure everyone you help sends your boss glowing reviews. Am I right?”
“My Captain,” she corrected with a reproachful glare. “And flattery won’t stop me from lecturing you.”
He flashed her another tired grin, this one tinged with chagrin because he knew he’d been caught.
“Or stop me from siccing your mom on you if necessary.” So much for remaining impersonal.
Where was his mami anyway?
Anamaría would lay money on odds that the older woman was purposefully taking her time grilling that sandwich, intent on leaving them alone in the bedroom as long as possible. My, how times had changed. In many ways.
“Hey now, play fair,” he complained, nudging her knee with his fingers.
Irritated by his ability to so easily fall back into the banter they had once shared, pecking away at her steadfast resolve to keep him at a distance, Anamaría tugged off her medical gloves with a snap. She dropped them along with the other trash in the plastic waste bag she had brought, then jerked the ends closed in a tight knot.
“I’m not playing,” she argued, her frustration hitting its limit. “This isn’t funny. You didn’t have to witness the palpable fear on your mom’s face when she told us about your accident.”
He blinked, clearly taken aback by her brusque tone. “Hey, I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t hear the tremble in your abuela’s voice when a group of us gathered at the Grotto after mass last Sunday to pray a healing rosary in your name.” Anger spiked and Anamaría gave it free rein, slamming her first-aid kit shut. “Or try to answer Lulu’s questions about why her ’buela was so sad.”
“Okay, I get it.”
“I don’t think you do. You never have.”
He reared back at her accusation, banging his head against the wall and wincing in pain when his left leg slipped off the pillow propping it up.
Remorse flooded through her.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” he ground out, pushing her hands away when she tried to help him readjust his position.
She should stop pushing.
Back away from this argument.
Leave before she said too much.
But the words she’d kept bottled inside flowed from her like water from a fire hydrant cranked open on the street. “It means, how do you think they felt that time you were nearly trampled by a bull in Spain? Or when you had that hang-gliding fiasco somewhere in South America?” She gripped the plastic kit tightly to keep herself from grabbing his shoulders and shaking some sense into him. “Or the moped accident in Thailand? Or, let me see, what else was there? Oh, the—”
“I said, I get it,” he repeated, impatience hammering his words.
“Are you sure?” She jerked her head, punctuating her question, and her ponytail swished over her shoulder.
“Yes, I’m sure.” Jaw tight, lips pressed in an angry line, he glared back at her.
“Do you really understand how your actions affect those who love you?” Those who also longed for him to come home. A group she no longer belonged to. For her own good.
Her question hung between them, challenging him with its truth.
Several tense seconds later, his shoulders slackened. His dark eyes shifted, becoming deep pools of disappointment and . . . was that regret?
No. No way would she let herself fall for that.
“Yes, I do,” he murmured. “Believe me, I understand how the people we love are often the ones who hurt us the most.”
Wait, was that some kind of dig at her? Indignation burned deep in her chest, scalding her heart. Questions screeched like bitter banshees in her head. Crying out for answers.
Why, in all these years, had there been no effort on his part to make peace with his father?
Why had he walked away and never looked back? Then stayed away for so damn long?
Why hadn’t she, their comunidad, their island, been enough as his home base? A safe port to drop anchor after his travels.
Why? Why? Why?
The question reverberated in her head, yet she refused to ask. Refused to care about the answers anymore. They didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter.
Alejandro laid a hand over one of hers. She flinched, surprise catching her breath. A rough callous on his palm scraped her skin, and prickles of awareness skittered up her forearm, arcing across her breasts.
“I didn’t mean to cause them—anyone—any distress,” he said.
His face pinched with contrition, he squeezed her hand as if willing her to believe him.
She tried. Part of her wanted to. But her sense of self-preservation wrapped around her like a force field, protecting her battered soul.
“I’m not the one you owe that apology to,” she said. “You and I were done a long time ago. We’ve both moved on. But your familia, that’s—”
“Ay, look at you two.” Señora Miranda swept into the room carrying a serving tray with two plates and bottles of water. “It makes my heart so happy to see you together again.”