Chapter 10

When I wake, it takes a moment to orient myself. Why am I in Gran’s room? Then I remember…

I reach up behind me and open the curtains. The light falls across Gran’s bed, bathing everything in a warm glow. It’s true what Juan said last night and what Gran used to say—everything looks better in the morning light. Nothing has changed from yesterday to today, but somehow I feel a bit better.

I don’t know why it comes to me, but suddenly I recall that old childhood game played with a daisy—pick a petal, he loves me; pick the next, he loves me not. It occurs to me that for every petal I’ve plucked lately, I’ve drawn but one conclusion, allowing for no other: he loves me not. In the light of day, I have to wonder: have I been going about this all wrong, plucking and plucking until the flower isn’t even a flower anymore but a bare and spindly stem?

Accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative.

It gives me an idea. What if I search for evidence that he loves me instead of fixating on the proof that he does not?

I hear Juan stirring in the kitchen. He’s humming “White Christmas” as he prepares our breakfast. I can smell the scent of coffee drifting through the crack under the door.

I get out of Gran’s bed and head directly to the kitchen. I stand in the doorway underneath the sprig of mistletoe. Juan, bare-chested, his hair a rumpled mess, scrambles eggs for two on the stove. The bags under his eyes are the darkest they’ve ever been, and yet when he sees me, his eyes light up like our little misfit Christmas tree. He doesn’t speak, but I know it’s not the silent treatment. He’s waiting for me to speak first.

“I’m sorry about last night,” I say. “I know it’s not right to go to bed angry, but I felt overwhelmed and didn’t know what else to do.”

“ Mi amor, ” he says. “It’s okay.”

“I have just one more question for you, if you don’t mind me posing it,” I say.

He turns off the stove and puts his spatula down. “Ask me anything.” He faces me, his eyes serious, his chest exposed.

“Two days ago, you asked me a question, and I want to pose the same one to you. What do you want for Christmas more than anything else?”

He doesn’t even deliberate. It takes him no time to answer. “You,” he replies.

“But you’re smart and handsome and hardworking. You could have any other woman in the world. Are you sure that I’m enough?”

“ What? You’re more than enough. You’ve always been more than you ever give yourself credit for. You’re everything.”

I often have trouble reading the nuances of a face. And while most people are a mystery to me, Juan is an open book. Now, as I gaze at him, I see nothing in his face but love.

“Molly,” he says, “whatever questions you still have for me, I’ll answer them all. And just know, I have a question for you, too, a very important one. But you’ve guessed what I want to ask, haven’t you?”

“Have I?” I reply.

His brow furrows and his head tilts to one side. “You don’t know?”

“I’m afraid not,” I say. “But go ahead. Ask your question.”

“I will,” he says. “But not now.”

“If not now, when?” I ask.

“Very soon.”