Chapter 1

My gran loved all holidays, but her favorite by far was Christmas. Every year, when December rolled around, she’d take out the Advent calendar she’d made herself, repurposed from an index cabinet discarded by a library after computers rendered the card catalogue system obsolete.

Gran polished that cabinet until the grain was tiger-striped and golden. On each one of the twenty-five tiny drawers, she hand-painted a date in December, and below each number, she added a Christmas-themed flourish—a snowflake for December 3, a Santa hat for December 12, and for Christmas Day, the three Magi, heads bowed, each wise man cradling a glorious gift in his palms.

When I was a child, and well beyond, Gran would fill each of those twenty-five drawers with a wondrous treasure she’d scavenged for all year long and had saved just for me—a soft-pink seashell, a cherry chocolate wrapped in red foil, a miniature silver spoon.

On December 1, she’d bring home a fresh-cut Christmas tree given to her by the Coldwells, the last family she’d worked for as a maid. We’d haul that tree up several flights of stairs, dragging it into our apartment and festooning it with popcorn garlands and an assortment of homemade ornaments.

Then, on Christmas Day, we’d wake up early, and still in pajamas, we’d open our presents. One year, Gran made me an entire crate of orange marmalade, my absolute favorite. Another year, she gave me a silver necklace, a gift, she said, given to her by a dear friend decades earlier. I gasped when I opened the box and saw the chain shimmering against the white cotton batting.

“But it’s your necklace, Gran,” I said. “I can’t accept this.”

“Of course you can. It will look lovely on you.”

And so it did. I wore that silver necklace from that day forward.

But no sooner had I received the beautiful gift than I recognized a new problem. “Oh dear,” I said.

“What’s the trouble?” Gran asked.

“The gift I got for you is useless now,” I replied.

I picked up the parcel I’d wrapped for Gran in brown paper and topped with a red satin bow. My gift to her was a heart-shaped jewelry box I’d thrifted from a nearby store. Pure brass, it was filthy and tarnished when I bought it, which is why I got it for next to nothing. I polished and buffed that heart until it gleamed and glowed.

“Oh, Molly,” Gran said when she opened it. “It’s a beautiful jewelry box.”

“Beautiful but useless,” I said. “You have nothing to put in it now.” We both knew that the only jewelry Gran possessed was the necklace she’d just given to me.

“No matter. I shall treasure this gift always.”

She placed that heart-shaped box on her bedside table, where it remains to this day.

—

Each year when the holiday season rolls around, I find myself taking stock of my life and ruminating about Christmases past. Gran died several years ago, and yet here I am, remembering her fondly at this special time of year. After Gran died, I thought I’d never know joy again, that I’d spend the rest of my existence living like a mushroom in the dark. But it is not so. I live with my beloved boyfriend, Juan Manuel, who reminds me how to shine. He’s a beacon of light adding hope and good cheer to all of my days. Sometimes, I have to pinch myself. My life is so good, I wonder if it’s actually real. And if it is real, will it last?

It’s silly, I know. And I try not to let doubts like these take hold, but they do get the better of me at times. Still, the truth is that Juan and I have lived together harmoniously for these past few years, sharing our modest little apartment and happily working at the Regency Grand Hotel. Whenever the calendar changes over to December, as it did about three weeks ago, Juan’s natural enthusiasm dials up even higher than usual. He infects everyone—including me—with his buoyant Christmas spirit. His joy is contagious even in the darkest of times. For this reason, and for countless others, I cherish him so much that I don’t know what I’d do without him.

With every Christmas that passes, Juan adds a new tradition to our holiday—a tradition à la Juan, as he likes to say. His fanciful rituals are wholly concocted by him, expressions of charity, mirth, and above all else, joy.

The first Christmas we spent together, I told Juan about Gran’s Advent calendar tradition, and since then, he’s kept that custom alive.

“I declare this the Month of Molly yet again,” he said on December 1 of this year. “A gift for my love, every day. What could be better?”

Each year he stocks Gran’s Advent calendar with daily treasures chosen especially for me. When I behold the childlike glow on his face as I open one of Gran’s cabinet drawers, I’m reminded of what she always taught me about gift giving: for the pure of heart, the giving is greater than the getting.

On our second Christmas together, Juan and I added cookies to our seasonal ritual, baking together in our tight and tidy kitchen, decorating each cookie with sugar icing, though Juan’s creations always come out prettier than mine. Once the cookies are iced and boxed, Juan dresses up as Santa and I as his elf, and we give a box to every neighbor we know in our run-down apartment building, leaving extras at the doors of strangers we feel could use some holiday cheer.

On our third Christmas together, Juan had a new brain wave. “Our apartment window looks out onto the street. Some of the other tenants put up lights. We should, too!” he announced. Before I could stop him, he marched to the hardware store down the street, bought a set of multicolored twinkle lights, and installed them around our living room window, creating a blinking wonderland that could be seen from a mile away.

And then there was last year’s tradition à la Juan, by far his wildest yet. On the day of the first snowfall in December, he burst into the living room, where I was sitting on our threadbare sofa, and said, “Let’s take a ride in a horse-drawn carriage—jingle all the way! I’ve always wanted to do that—a romantic ride through the city streets with my Molly by my side.”

“What a nice idea,” I replied. “Let’s look into it sometime.”

“Look into it?” he answered. “Let’s do it right now!”

And so I found myself bundled in a warm coat, Juan cradling a flask of spicy hot chocolate he’d brewed himself. Down to the city’s main square we went, where the holiday carriages were circling. Juan’s face fell when a driver told him the price of a short ride—far beyond our meager means. His hand went to his wallet, but I stopped him before he could pay. “Juan, it’s too much money. Surely, there’s something else we can do instead.”

His eyes lit up then, and that devious little dimple on his cheek made an appearance as it always does when he gets an outrageous idea. “You’re right, Molly. I have a better plan.”

This is how I found myself back in the main square the day after. This time, I sat in a discarded children’s sleigh fished from a dumpster by Juan Manuel, who was wearing an old fur coat that once belonged to Gran, dollar-store reindeer antlers on his head, and a red clown nose. He pulled me around the main square on the sleigh—twice!—and I laughed the entire time, as did everyone else who witnessed our silly, joy-filled spectacle. A photo of this moment sits on Gran’s curio cabinet to this day. My head is thrown back in laughter, and Juan is looking back at me—expectant, jubilant, and maybe (I hope) a little bit in love. Who knew a reindeer could cherish a carriage ride so much?

Now, as I lie in bed struggling to sleep through the early Sunday morning hours, I watch Juan in the shadowy light, slumbering peacefully on his pillow. So many memories of Christmases past swirl in my mind. Soon, we will spend our fifth holiday season together—may it be as merry and bright as all the ones we’ve shared before.

Juan’s face is soft and so dreamy sweet. Even though it’s nearly eight o’clock, I won’t wake him. Not yet. He deserves a good lie-in. He’s been so tired lately. That man of mine never stops. He’s always seeing to some chore or another, making sure everyone’s okay—taking care of friends, family, colleagues, guests at the hotel, and me.

Yesterday, we worked a long day at the Regency Grand, me toiling in guest rooms as Head Maid and Juan doing double duty in the downstairs kitchen. He was promoted to Head of Pastry a couple of years ago. This means that during the holidays, he’s in charge of many more preparations, all of them above and beyond his regular responsibilities.

When we arrived home after yesterday’s shift, I was totally exhausted. I took my shoes off, wiped the bottoms, put them away in the front closet, then immediately flopped on the sofa in the living room.

“Good golly, Miss Molly,” Juan said, eyeing me from the front entrance. “You’re so cansada. ”

“I am tired,” I replied. “It’s Christmas mayhem in that hotel. You must be exhausted, too.”

He shrugged, then took off his shoes, wiped them down, and placed them neatly beside mine in the closet. A moment later, he was by my side, throwing Gran’s lone-star quilt over me and planting a gentle kiss on my forehead.

“You rest. I’ll cook us dinner.”

I noticed then how dark circles had taken refuge under his lovely brown eyes. He looked so pale and worn out. I know he’s working too hard, but he never complains, despite burning the candle at both ends. Sometimes, I think there’s a lot on his mind, too, maybe more than I know. But what it is that troubles him, I couldn’t say. He’s not one to share his worries. Like Gran, he prefers to keep them contained and out of sight, hoping that if he does so, they’ll simply shrivel from lack of light and cease to plague him. If only it were that simple.

“Juan,” I said as he stood above me where I lay on the sofa. “You don’t have to cook me dinner. You cooked for hundreds of people today at the hotel. We’ll just have toast and tea.”

“But it’s Spaghetti Saturday!” he replied. “And it’s date night with my tired but most dazzling princess.”

He danced all the way to the kitchen then, throwing on Gran’s old paisley apron and doing a little salsa spin in the threshold to make me laugh. It worked.

Spaghetti Saturday, Taco Tuesday, Huevos Wednesday…. For years, I’ve tried to convince Juan that I, too, can cook for us and relieve some of the burden in the kitchen, but he insists on doing it all himself, every meal laid before me as proof of his love.

“Molly, you clean from dusk to dawn. The least I can do is make our meals. Don’t you know what they say about happiness? La felicidad, así como el amor, entra por la cocina. ”

“Which means?” I asked.

“Happiness, like love, enters through the kitchen.”

He started to hum then, disappearing amid a clatter of pots and pans. The sound lulled me, and before I knew it, I’d fallen asleep right there in the living room. I woke up only when Juan was by my side again, kissing my cheek and announcing, “ Princesa, your dinner is served.”

I peeled back Gran’s quilt and groggily made my way to the kitchen, where the lights were dimmed and our worn wooden table was set with two heaping plates of spaghetti and meatballs. A lit candle between them cast a warm glow over everything, including the beautiful man in a paisley apron who was pulling out my chair for me and urging me to sit, eat, and enjoy.

And I do enjoy. Every minute of our lives together is a pure and simple pleasure. How I managed to be so lucky as to win this man, I’ll never know. Sometimes, I wonder what I did to deserve him.

Last night, after dinner, I insisted on doing the dishes. Juan eventually relented.

“Fine,” he said. “While you’re cleaning up, I’ll do some chores downstairs. And I’ll pick up our mail.”

He returned awhile later with a small package in his hands. “My mother sent something from Mexico,” he said. “I wonder what it could be.”

He opened the package as I looked on, removing a strange contraption from the envelope—a colorful braided tube made of dried palm leaves.

“ Ay, mamá, ” he said, laughing to himself. “I can’t believe she sent one.”

“What on earth is that?” I asked.

“Proof that my mother has ideas. And that she’s very clever,” he replied. “Come closer. Let me show you,” Juan said as that devious little dimple made a reappearance on his cheek.

“Hold out your hand,” he instructed.

I held it out.

“This is an atrapanovios, ” he explained. “It’s a kids’ toy and a funny old Mexican tradition. The idea is that when you want someone by your side forever, you attach the atrapanovios to their finger. When I was a boy, I used to wonder why anyone would want such a thing. Now that I have you in my life, I completely understand. Here,” he said as he slipped the silly-looking tube onto my finger. It held tight, and try as I might, I could not slip it off.

Holding the other end, Juan, with a goofy grin on his face, pulled me toward him until I was happily enveloped in his warm embrace.

“Looks like I’m stuck with you,” I said.

“Exactly. That’s the whole point. But if you don’t want to be, that’s okay. I just do this…” He pulled some hidden lever in the device, and the contraption fell loose around my finger. “See? Now you’re free. What do you think?”

“I think you don’t need a toy to keep me by your side,” I replied as my hands found his cheeks. “My gran used to say, ‘If you love something set it free.’?”

“If it comes back to you, it’s yours,” he said, kissing my lips.

“…and if it doesn’t, it was never meant to be,’?” I said. “So you have the saying in Spanish, too?”

“We do,” said Juan.

Just then, I looked down at my left hand where it rested against Juan’s chest. The atrapanovios had left a dark, chalky mark around my finger.

“Is it supposed to leave a stain?” I asked, holding up my hand to Juan.

“Uh, yes. All part of the fun!” he replied.

Before I could question him further, he suddenly let go of me, rushed down the hall to the bathroom, then raced back a moment later and said, “I have an idea! For Spa-ghetti Saturday!”

“But we had dinner already,” I replied.

“Yes, but it’s time to put the ‘Spa’ in ‘Spa-ghetti,” he said. “What about a relaxing and rejuvenating date-night excursion to a luxurious couples’ spa—a bubble bath for two, right in the heart of the city?”

“Oh, Juan,” I said. “You know we can’t afford things like that.”

“Ah, but we can,” he replied. And again, he raced off down the hall, this time to the kitchen, returning to my side with a bottle of Sunlight dish soap in his hand.

Before I knew it, I was chest deep with Juan in our scuffed soaker bathtub as he counted and kissed each of the toes on my right foot while sporting a sudsy Santa bubble beard with a matching foam mustache.

We stayed in that tub, talking and giggling and telling stories, until our flesh was pink and pruned. Then, my beloved wrapped me in a fresh towel and meticulously dried me off inch by inch. I did the same for him, lingering as I sponged the terry cloth over his strong shoulders and across the vast expanse of his deliciously smooth chest.

Dried off, drunk with warmth, we ran to our bedroom with not a stitch of clothing on and collapsed into bed.

“I’ll be right back,” Juan announced.

“What are you doing now?” I asked.

I could hear him in the bathroom, cleaning out the tub, knowing it would bother me to find rings on it in the morning. He was determined to leave the entire bathroom spick-and-span, not for his sake but for mine.

I curled deeper into our bed, anticipating his return, breathing in the lemony scent of our bath together. And that’s when I must have drifted off to sleep, only to wake early this morning. Juan must have tiptoed into bed beside me last night, careful not to wake me, though I would have relished feeling him wrap himself around me before both of us drifted off to sleep, at rest in each other’s arms.

Now, as I lie in bed, a shadow from the curtain falls across Juan’s serene face. I feel a sudden pang of despair, and I don’t know where it comes from. Nothing in my life would be what it is without Juan, and I suppose I still struggle to comprehend why he’s with me. I’ve felt this before, of course—this fear, this dread. I felt it when Gran was sick. I worried myself ragged about how I’d forge a life without her. And yet, here I am. I did it. But I don’t think I could survive that kind of loss again. I don’t know what I’d do without this man beside me, because no matter how much brightness he brings, I’m still so afraid of the dark. There is no atrapanovios strong enough to keep Juan with me forever. All I can do is hope that my love is enough.

These are the thoughts that make me spin and plummet backwards, traversing well-worn paths to the darkest of memories. I can’t help but recall that first Christmas I spent alone without my gran. It was the most dismal holiday I’ve ever endured—a long season of sadness. It wasn’t just the loss of her, the absence of carols sung in her cheerful voice, or finding each of the drawers of her Advent calendar empty of small treasures. It was the deep, abiding loneliness that surrounded me at work, the constant reminders that the social world was a mystery I couldn’t solve without her.

The staff Christmas party at the Regency Grand is always a lovely event. Held in the lobby en pleine vue, it features mulled cider, tea, and Christmas cookies. I look forward to it every year. But that first year without Gran, the staff party was the only holiday festivity I was invited to, and that made it feel even more special than usual. Mr. Snow had the idea of doing a Secret Santa gift exchange amongst staff members, and I drew Cheryl’s name, much to my chagrin. Still, I was determined to show her some holiday spirit.

The day of the party, all the staff gathered in the lobby—bellhops and bartenders, doormen and dishwashers, clerks and cooks. Everyone was festively dressed and full of holiday cheer. The Secret Santa gift exchange proceeded, with Mr. Preston handing out one gift at a time as the staff looked on. I was excited when he grabbed my gift for Cheryl and presented it to her.

But the second Cheryl unwrapped the brown paper, her face fell. “Eww. It’s used chocolates from our turn-down service, shaped like a Christmas tree. So much for Secret Santa, Molly,” she said with a guffaw.

“How did you know that gift is from me?” I asked.

“No one else is weird enough to regift discarded turn-down chocolates,” she replied.

“They’re not discarded. They’re upcycled,” I explained. “Waste not want not.”

“Now, now,” said Mr. Snow before I could say anything further. “Christmas is about kindness, a quality some here are rather short on.” He eyed Cheryl, then bent to pick up another gift from under the tree. “Here, Molly,” he said. “This one has your name on it.”

The package he offered me was wrapped in gold-striped foil with a silver ribbon on top.

“Who do you think it’s from?” I asked the staff members gathered.

“Dunno,” said Rodney, the handsome bartender I was besotted with at the time. “They call it Secret Santa for a reason,right?” Rodney winked at me then, and not knowing at that point what a bad egg he was, I instantly grew weak in the knees.

“Open it, Molly,” Juan Manuel said as the others watched.

I ripped off the wrapping paper to reveal an action figure encased in a cardboard and plastic bubble—Rosie the Robot from the old TV show The Jetsons. I was utterly perplexed. “But this is a child’s toy,” I said. “Surely this gift was meant for someone else?”

“Oh no,” Rodney said with a chuckle. “It was definitely meant for you.”

Like a virulent contagion, muffled laughter traveled from person to person. Receptionists hid giggles behind cupped hands. Valets chortled and elbowed each other. Even some of the maids I worked with every day tried hard to suppress their smiles.

I stared down at the toy in my hands. Roomba the Robot, Oddball Moll, the Formality Freak—all names I’d been called before by the people I worked with every day. The joke was on me, but I was not laughing. I felt so small, so foolish. I studied the sheen of my perfectly polished shoes.

“That’s enough,” Mr. Preston said as he tried to quell the laughter.

Juan Manuel sidled up to me. He laid a comforting hand on my arm. “My Secret Santa got me Earl Grey tea, Molly. Would you trade gifts with me? I’ll send that toy to my nephew in Mexico. He’ll love it. Upcycle, right? Waste not want not?”

I searched his face for signs that he, too, was mocking me, but his dark brown eyes were serious and glassy, his mouth downturned in an expression I could not have named at the time, though as I recall it now, I do believe it was compassion. “Thank you, Juan Manuel,” I said. “That’s kind of you.”

“At least someone around here understands the Christmas spirit,” Mr. Preston muttered under his breath.

“Hear, hear,” said Mr. Snow.

—

I’m still in bed, wide awake, circling the past, searching for what, I do not know. It’s been years since that Christmas, and yet my memory catapults me back. Try as I might to resist the pull, I sometimes get carried under.

The light is starting to break through our bedroom window. The clock on the bedside table says it’s nine, and yet Juan remains sound asleep beside me. I can’t remember the last time he slept this late on a Sunday; he’s usually up at the crack of dawn, chirping away like a little songbird, singing a happy tune.

In the distance, bells jingle-jangle, with Christmas just around the corner. I listen to the rise and fall of Juan’s breath as he slumbers. I love his long, curled eyelashes, which all the ladies coo over. In this cold weather, snowflakes catch on those beautiful lashes, framing his chocolate eyes in a rim of sugary white.

“You’re my special snowflake,” I told him just last week. We were holding mittened hands, making our way home from our shifts at the Regency Grand as the first snowfall gently alighted. I do realize that the expression “special snowflake” is meant as an insult. I should know. After all, it’s one that’s been directed at me more times than I can count, but I’ve chosen to transform it into a compliment, for what could be more precious than a snowflake, no two alike, each so perfectly, wondrously itself?

Juan’s eyelids flutter. He adjusts his head on the pillow beside mine. Then his eyes spring open. A smile blossoms on his sleepy face. “ Mi amor, ” he says with a big stretch. “What time is it?”

“Precisely two minutes past nine,” I reply.

“ Dios mío, it’s late!” he exclaims. “We must cease the day.”

“Better yet, why don’t we seize it,” I reply. I lean forward and kiss each of his eyes. He pulls me into an embrace and plants a garland of kisses down my left cheek.

“What would I do without you, Mrs. Molly?” he says.

“Mrs.?” I reply. “That makes me sound much older than my thirty-something years.”

“You are anything but old, mi amor. You are youthful and picture perfect in every way. You’re the apples of my eyes.”

“A veritable orchard then,” I say, and at this we both collapse in laughter.

Juan folds me into him so that I’m resting on his smooth, bare chest. He grins, then pulls the covers up over our heads.

“You can’t still be tired,” I say.

“I’ve suddenly woken up,” he replies. “You?”

“Wide awake. For hours.”

His hands find my face, and he holds them to my cheeks as though reciting a silent prayer. Then he kisses me.

It’s like this every time—I melt at his touch. There’s a fire in me I never knew existed, one that ignites the second he lays his hands upon me. Somehow, he expels all shadows of grief and doubt that creep into my being with alarming regularity. He is my balm and my comfort. No one but him can so easily banish my worldly concerns. Before Juan, I had no idea that such a pure pleasure as this existed, that love could be expressed in this physical form. It is a delight I could never have dreamed of, a wonder for which I have no words.

Later, we rest in each other’s arms as the light streams through the crack in the curtains. For once, the dust motes dance on the sunbeams and I have not the least inclination to clean them. Never in my life have I felt more content than in this moment.

Suddenly, Juan gasps out loud, and I almost jump out of my skin. “What is it?” I ask, my heart pounding.

“The Advent calendar! I almost forgot—today is a very special day.”

“Juan, you scared me half to death. I thought there was some sort of emergency.”

“Sorry,” he says. “You know how excited I get about the Advent calendar. Come! I can’t wait for you to see today’s gift.”

With that, he hops out of bed, stumbles into his reindeer pajama bottoms, and shuffles to the living room while singing “ Feliz Navidad ” at a decibel level that I fear may elicit noise complaints from our neighbors.

Alone in our bedroom, I make my way back into my matching reindeer pj’s and smooth out my rumpled hair. I wonder what treat Juan has in store for me today. For a couple of weeks now, he’s been thrilling me with daily delights, populating each index-card drawer with thoughtful trinkets and treasures. So far this month, I’ve received a silver thimble, an upcycled turn-down chocolate from the Regency Grand, a green pet pom-pom named Frank (complete with googly eyes Juan glued on himself), some jingle bells, a fresh and festive dusting cloth, and a miscellany of other marvelous objets.

Once I’m properly dressed, I check myself in the full-length mirror on our bedroom door. My cheeks are unusually flushed. My sharp black bob is mostly back in ship-shape order, if not perfectly coiffed then at least acceptably neat for first thing on a Sunday morning. As I study myself, a dark shadow crosses my face. What does Juan see in me? I wonder. When he could choose so many others, why in the world would he choose me?

There’s no one more precious in all the world.

It’s Gran’s voice I hear, and for a moment, I swear I can see her behind me in the mirror, her hands on my shoulders. But when I turn, she’s gone. My eyes are playing tricks on me as they sometimes do.

I smooth out my bob one more time, then amble to the living room, where Juan has tuned in to Christmas carols on the radio; he’s singing along, making up the words when he can’t remember the real ones. He stands by Gran’s giant Advent calendar, a Cheshire cat smile on his face and his tousled hair like a rooster’s off-kilter coxcomb. He points to today’s date on a drawer. “Open sesame,” he says.

I approach and slide the drawer open. Inside is a snow globe, which I pick up and cradle in the palms of my hands. The scene within the glass orb takes my breath away. It’s the Regency Grand in miniature, complete with two tiny figures poised halfway up the red-carpeted stairs.

“Where did you get this?” I ask.

“Mr. Snow was throwing it away,” says Juan. “Apparently, these were made years ago to drum up special-events business at the hotel. Give it a shake, Molly.”

I do so, and the globe swirls with white specks, turning the hotel into a magical wintry wonderland.

“Snowflakes!” I exclaim. “And look! There’s a little tuxedoed doorman on one knee helping a woman in white up the stairs.”

“Really, Molly?” says Juan. “Is that what you see?”

“Yes,” I reply. “What do you see?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he answers. He turns away from me then, and for a moment I wonder if I’ve made some kind of faux pas because his smile has completely disappeared. But when he turns back to me, all is well again, his smile kind and warm.

“I should know better than to insist you see what I do, Molly,” he says. “And besides, this is your gift, not mine. Do you like it?” he asks, pointing to the miniature world in my hands.

“I love it,” I reply. “It’s a treasure. And so are you.”

He wraps his arms around me. “Tell me, Molly. What do you want for Christmas more than anything else?”

I consider this. Gran and I used to make long Christmas lists for each other, filled with impossible items that we could never afford or that simply didn’t exist—a time-traveling unicorn; a luxurious rent-free apartment; education without school or bullies; endless clotted cream with scones. Buried amongst the impossible was the one item within reach.

“Tea towels?” I say now.

“Honestly, Molly.” He looks at me with an expression that may very well be exasperation. “Can you dream just a little bigger for once? Please? If you could have anything in the world, what would it be?”

On the radio, a familiar singer croons a carol, offering the exact answer I hear in my head.

“All I want for Christmas is you,” I say.

“Are you sure about that?” Juan asks. “You must tell me now—right now—if you’re not sure.”

“Of course I’m sure. I’m one hundred percent, absolutely and definitively certain,” I say.

Juan lets out a massive sigh, then brings my hands to his face, smothering them with kisses. “The perfect answer from the perfect woman,” he says. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m not understanding, like maybe I’m interpreting the cues wrong. Do you know what I mean? Has that ever happened to you?”

“You can’t seriously be asking me that,” I reply.

“Oh, I am,” says Juan. “In fact, I’m more serious about this than I’ve been about anything in my entire life.”