Chapter 5 - Amaya

It started with laundry. Or at least that was the excuse I gave myself.

Clay and Xenia had graciously offered up their washer and dryer when I complained over dinner last week about the dorm machines eating half my socks. Clay said, “If you promise to fold everything and not just dump it in a basket, you’re welcome anytime.”

Which I did not promise, but hey—free laundry was free laundry.

So, I showed up late morning, canvas bag over one shoulder and hoodie sleeves pushed up, ready to conquer Mount Clothesmore as I turned onto Morton Street with my bag of laundry slung over one shoulder and my playlist just hitting a peak-loud ballad, only to catch a familiar profile disappearing around the corner at the far end of the block.

Alan.

I froze on the sidewalk.

He hadn’t seen me—or if he had, he hadn’t stopped. But I knew that walk. Not the brisk, working-one-dog-at-a-time pace he had during his shifts and not the casual stroll he used on slower days. This was faster. Tense. Intentional.

Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t part of the usual routine.

My grip on the laundry bag shifted. I looked toward the firehouse—Clay and Xenia’s place. The big double doors were closed, Clay’s truck and motorcycle were tucked safely inside, and there was no movement behind the front windows.

Good.

I jogged up the stoop and let myself in through the side entrance, calling, “Dropping laundry—don’t judge my sock situation!”

No one answered, but I heard music drifting faintly down the stairs and figured Xenia was elbows-deep in a baking project. I dropped my laundry inside the room and stepped back toward the door.

It wasn’t stalking. It was... proximity curiosity.

Besides, he looked like he needed someone to check on him. And maybe I wanted to be that someone more than I should’ve.

He was walking like he didn’t want to be followed—shoulders slightly hunched, head down, focused. But not in the usual way. There was a weight to it.

So I followed—not in a creepy way—just in a concerned neighbor kind of way, who may or may not be hopelessly crushing.

He ducked into a corner café a few blocks over. Small. Quiet. It was not somewhere I’d expect him to stop, especially when he was already running a packed schedule. I lingered outside for a few seconds before finally pushing the door open and slipping behind a couple with a stroller.

And there he was.

Alone, off to the side.

Hood down. Shoulders rigid. His gaze locked on the mounted TV above the counter, where a news segment was playing.

I was about to call out a casual “hey”—play it cool, like I’d just happened to show up here—but something about his expression stopped me.

He wasn’t just watching. He was unraveling.

The screen showed footage of a small city park—old trees, faded benches, and one of those stone arches that looked like they belonged in a fairytale and hadn’t been cleaned in decades. The headline crawled along the bottom of the screen:

Marigold Grove to Be Redeveloped: Community Divided Over Plans

Alan’s grip on his coffee cup was white-knuckled. He didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Didn’t breathe, as far as I could tell.

His face wasn’t angry or even surprised. It was… hollow, like the news had reached down his throat and scooped something out of him.

I watched from the edge of the counter, pretending to look at pastries I wouldn’t buy. And I wondered what kind of place could pull that reaction from someone who usually looked like nothing rattled Alan.

The clip ended. Alan finished his drink in one long gulp and slipped out without a glance in my direction. I didn’t follow. But I did file that name away. Marigold Grove.

And maybe I didn’t plan to dig into it right away. But I would. Because whatever it was—it mattered to Alan. And he mattered to me more than I was ready to admit.

I slipped back into the firehouse a few minutes later, pretending I hadn’t just gone on an unsanctioned recon mission. The washer was already whirring in the laundry room, and the smell of citrus glaze and warm cinnamon filled the air.

Xenia was in the kitchen, barefoot, ponytail askew, and licking icing off her thumb like she’d just wrestled with an entire tray of scones and barely survived.

“You look flushed,” she said, not even turning around. “Did a sock try to escape again?”

“Something like that.” I shrugged.

I dropped my phone on the counter and opened my laptop, pretending to check my email, while the real reason I was typing slowly took over my screen.

Marigold Grove redevelopment proposal NYC.

The first article popped up instantly—it had the same headline as the news broadcast, and I could only read every line now.

“New York City Planning Commission announced preliminary approvals for the Marigold Grove redevelopment project this week. The aging park in the Lower East Side will be converted into a multi-use luxury residential space, with a proposed wellness center, boutique shopping, and elevated green space available exclusively to residents and select community members…”

I stopped reading, and so did my heart for a beat. This wasn’t just a park renovation—this was a takeover.

“Ugh,” I muttered.

Xenia glanced over. “Let me guess—gentrification garbage?”

“Yup,” I said, scrolling. “They’re trying to turn a local park into a private shopping village wrapped in astroturf and overpriced matcha.”

“Gross,” she said, approaching the island to peek at my screen. “Where is it?”

“Marigold Grove,” I answered.

She blinked. “That still exists?”

“Not for long.” I sighed.

I kept reading—articles, community posts, and a few pictures that looked like they were taken with a flip phone in 2004. But no matter how deep I scrolled, none explained why Alan looked like the wind had been knocked out of him when he saw it.

“Is it close to where Alan lives?” I asked casually.

Xenia gave me a look. I knew that look. It’s not exactly a secret, at least among us Rosario sisters, that I thought Alan was cute the first time I saw him. That doesn’t mean I was asking those questions for nefarious reasons. I’m not going to stalk him or do anything weird. I was trying to understand the look on his face as he watched that news broadcast about this park. Sure, paving over any park is horrid, but this just… I don’t know. It felt like it was bigger for him.

“Not that I’m asking about him,” I added, much too quickly. “Just… context.”

“Mhm,” she said, in that big-sister-knows-everything tone. “It’s a bit of a trek from here. East Side. Quiet. Kinda tucked away. People forget it’s even there unless they grew up around it.”

That landed harder than it should have. Unless they grew up around it. I looked at the screen again. At the photos. At the trees. The weathered stone path. He hadn’t just recognized it. He’d remembered it. And that meant something for someone like Alan, who kept his past locked up like a safe with no combination. I didn’t know what. But I was going to find out.

The next two days drifted by in a haze, my thoughts circling like autumn leaves caught in a gentle breeze. I didn’t bring up the park—I didn’t text him about it or utter a word the next time I saw him adjusting a harness with deft fingers or handing off Pickles, the spirited little terrier, to one of the other walkers. But my observation of him intensified.

He was… quieter than usual, even for Alan. 

He wasn’t in a bad mood—far from it. He seemed more distant, lost in a labyrinth of his thoughts. When I showed up for my regular shift, he still offered me that familiar, polite nod, his gestures as routine as the leashes he handed over, accompanied by the usual instructions. Yet, it felt as if his mind had slipped away, wandering back to Marigold Grove, perhaps seeking solace in its familiar embrace.

I longed to ask him what was going on. But I held back, hesitating—as if waiting for the right moment to unravel whatever was weighing on him.

On Tuesday, during a mid-morning break that held all the tranquility of a serene pause, he glanced over at me and asked casually, “Hey… I’ve got a bigger group walk on Thursday—more dogs than usual. Want in?”

His words hung in the air momentarily, and I blinked at him, caught off guard. My heart suddenly raced as if it had taken flight.

“You mean—like, the real pack walk?” I responded, struggling to keep my tone light and breezy despite the thrill coursing through me.

Alan shrugged one shoulder, eyes scanning the clipboard he held as if the answer was buried among the scrawled notes. “You’ve been keeping up. Figured you could handle it.”

That was his style—no unnecessary embellishments. No smile, no teasing, just the straightforward acknowledgment that I had earned this invitation. Alan Chambers didn’t extend his circle to just anyone, and in that moment, I realized I had crossed a threshold.

“I’d love to,” I answered, perhaps a bit too eagerly, my enthusiasm barely contained.

For a fleeting second, his eyes met mine, a flicker of something unspoken flaring between us before he turned away. “Cool. Be ready to move.”

And just like that, the conversation was over. No fanfare, no dramatic delivery. But my smile stretched wide as I made my way home, the thrill of being included igniting an undeniable joy within me, lighting up the path ahead.

I wasn’t nervous. Okay, I was, but only a little. Just enough that I changed shirts three times and reapplied lip balm like I was heading to a date instead of a dog walk.

“You sure you’re not secretly in love with this guy?” Delilah asked from where she lay sprawled across her bed, one ankle propped over the other, polishing her nails with practiced disinterest.

I shot her a look. “I barely know him.”

“Mmhmm.” She capped her polish and grinned. “That didn’t sound defensive at all.”

I groaned and flopped into my desk chair. “He’s just… complicated. And quiet. And maybe a little sad? I don’t know. There’s something about him.”

Delilah sat up, her tone softening. “The mystery-brooding type, huh?”

“I wouldn’t say brooding,” I hedged. “More like… careful. Like he’s holding something back all the time.”

“Dangerous past? Secret family? Witness protection?” Delilah rattled off possibilities, each more ridiculous than the last.

I snorted. “I’m being serious.”

“I am, too,” she said with a wink. “Those guys are always trouble—and always hot. So. What are you hoping to find out?”

I hesitated.

The truth was, I didn’t know. Not really. I just knew that whenever I saw Alan, I wanted to understand him more. And not just because I liked how he held Rufio like he was the most precious thing in the world or how his smile, when it appeared, felt like the rarest reward.

I wanted to know why he looked at a park on a screen like it had personally betrayed him.

“I guess I want to understand what makes someone carry that much weight behind their eyes,” I said quietly.

Delilah stared at me for a second, then nodded slowly. “Then I hope he lets you see.”

Two hours later, I met him on the corner of Perry and Hudson.

Chaos reigned as we sorted dogs into groups, leashes tangling and excited barks filling the air. Most dogs were familiar, but new arrivals Lucky, a mischievous doodle, and Baby Girl, an intimidating dachshund, stood out. Alan moved through the crowd calmly, handing me leads and instructing me to stay close as we approached busy intersections.

I mirrored his actions, noting how he seemed to navigate the chaos with an underlying tension, like someone familiar with danger. I used to think he was shy, but now it felt deeper—it was about survival. This was more than being closed off; he was protecting something or someone.

I remained silent, the realization settling within me: Alan Chambers had secrets, and they shaped his cautious approach to the world.