Franco and I had an implicit rule: we never touched. I suspected it had to do with the fact that he considered me sacred, like the rest of the town. I often wished I’d never come up with that lie—I would probably be married by now if I hadn’t. Whatever the reason, there was always a tension between us that I didn’t know how to break through.

His house was exactly how I remembered it: the same floral wallpaper, the flight of stairs curling up behind the sofa, even the smell of fresh-baked bread. Besides being the town’s curandera, Doña Soledad was a baker.

From a wooden box, Franco removed a couple of cigarettes and lit them, hands shaking.

I took in a lungful of smoke.

The sun following a long winter.

We stood close to each other, enjoying our cigarettes, and then he broke the silence with his hoarse voice.

“Come.”

He held my hand, surprising me. I followed him up the stairs, as inappropriate as it was, but I was curious about his surprise.

On his bed was a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a blue ribbon. He handed it to me.

I undid the bow and ripped the paper to pieces. I’d always been impatient when opening presents, even though it was unladylike and disrespectful to the giver, according to my mother.

I gasped.

In my hand was a miniature violin so carefully carved and varnished that it looked like my own violin had been shrunk so Pul-garcita could play it.

“Franco, this is beautiful! Did you make it?”

He smiled. He so seldom did.

“I’ve been working on it for weeks.”

“But you hate classical music.”

“But I love anything you do.”

He’d never said the word “love” before. Especially close to the word “you.”

“This is the nicest thing someone has ever done for me.”

“Well, you’re the only person who’s ever been nice to me.” He cleared his throat. “It’s the least I can do. After all you’ve done for me.”

Why did this seem like a goodbye of sorts? Was he leaving? Franco extended his hand and touched my cheek. I could smell the cacao beans on his skin. That scent which invaded everything.

“So soft,” he said. “I’d been wanting to touch you for years.”

I flinched. I liked the safety of our platonic relationship, but I sensed our unspoken understanding no longer applied to him. He took a step forward and brought his other hand to my face. He smelled of smoke and sweat. We never stood so close.

Please don’t kiss me.

Though I’d been curious for years to know what a kiss of love felt like, I’d never imagined Franco to be the one to deliver it. It felt as wrong as if my brother Alberto were trying to kiss me.