I stretched and stood, wondering if Simon was already awake. On the foot of my bed, there was a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with thick twine. My name was written on the front. I reached for it, sitting back down on the corner of my bed.

When I pulled off the last of the paper, I gasped. It was an original-print Spanish edition of Cien Años de Soledad, One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel García Márquez. An exact copy of my father’s book—the one I had lost. My heart started pounding. There was only one person who knew just how much the book meant to me. But what was he trying to say with the gift? What did it mean?

I opened the front cover and read the inscription there, which was written in a light, loose script. It is enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment. It wasn’t signed or dated. It could have been Simon who wrote it, but it was a used copy of the book. It just as easily could have come with the inscription.

I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and shrugged into my sweater before hurrying down the stairs, my new book clutched closely to my chest. I needed answers. And quick.

Simon didn’t strike me as a guy who could sleep in—he was too pragmatic for that—so I was surprised when I didn’t see him in the kitchen having breakfast with everyone else.

“Good morning, mija,” Abuela said. “Are you hungry?”

“Not yet. Have you seen Simon this morning?”

“I don’t think he’s up yet,” Dad said.

“I’ll go see.” I hurried to the basement steps just off the kitchen. If there was ever a place one might sleep later than expected, my parents’ basement was it. It was fully finished and was a nice space, but it was a true basement. No windows anywhere. Dad had set up a projector and turned it into a giant movie room when we were kids, and we’d used it well. More than once, we’d stumbled up the steps, bleary-eyed from hours-long movie marathons, surprised to see sunlight shining through the kitchen windows.

The overstuffed sectional in the center of the room had served as Simon’s bed for the weekend. It wasn’t particularly glamorous, but he’d had his own bathroom and more privacy than he would have enjoyed had he stayed upstairs and shared a bedroom with John. As I neared the bottom of the steps, I could hear Simon talking. I stopped, unnerved by the tone and urgency in his voice.

“If you don’t tell her, I will. It doesn’t feel right, you taking this next step under false pretenses.”

False pretenses? What on earth?

“It shouldn’t make a difference at all,” Simon continued. “If Lane loves you, none of that stuff will matter. But you do have to tell her.”