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Zoë loved the farolitos. Each Christmas their mother would pile Zoë and her sister into the car and take them to Canyon Road, where they’d walk until their feet hurt and their cheeks were numb from cold. The shops and houses decorated their facades with ristras and lined the walk with thousands of the lanterns; Zoë’s mother always stopped at the same café to get three paper cups of hot chocolate with a pinch of red chile mixed in to warm them up on the way home.

She moved an hour south to Albuquerque for university and met Marco in her premodern history course. They flirted carefully, building a connection over fresh-made tortillas and sticky buns at The Frontier and smiles between class and unacknowledged touching knees in the library. He bought her a turquoise pendant for her birthday and she wore it all the time. She liked to fidget with it, twisting it back and forth on its chain between her fingers and running her thumb over its smooth face.

He refused to call them anything but luminaria and told her their best display was in Old Town. She disagreed and they’d go back and forth, her advocating for the farolitos on Canyon Road and him incredulous as he corrected her about the luminaria in Old Town. Their first Christmas together he caved and made the drive with her back up to Santa Fe, and they filled up on pozole and held hands and shared their first I love yous in the middle of an oblivious crowd.

They rented a stucco house off campus for their sophomore year and made their own ristras to hang on the stoop. Zoë missed her period two weeks before finals and waved it off as stress; it wasn’t until Marco’s cooking made her stomach turn over and she spent two days sick in bed that her thoughts prodded her to sneak out and buy a test at the grocery store. She took it in a stall at The Frontier, scared to go home lest he see it, and quietly wept at its two appearing lines.

Marco said they’d do whatever she wanted to do. The upcoming holiday made appointments sparse, and they could only get one a few days before Christmas. Marco held her hand on the drive and in the waiting room and told her he’d be right there when she got out. The nurses spoke softly and were kind and commented on what a pretty pendant she was wearing. She didn’t have to change; when the doctor came in he talked to her about the decision and gave her one pill to take then and four more to take home.

She’d promised Marco that they could go to Old Town and see the luminaria, but after several days in bed she asked if they could skip it and go next year. He offered to drive them up to Santa Fe again so she could be with family but she shook her head and said she just wanted to be alone. Finals finished, they watched movies and played board games; on Christmas Eve he kissed her forehead and went to spend the day with family, and she curled up with a book and some tea. He came home in the evening and asked if she’d come outside with him, and when she did she found that he’d lined their walkway and the sidewalk with the paper lanterns.

“You love the farolitos,” he said. “I couldn’t let you miss them.” She hugged him and pressed her face to his chest and they stood watching the candles flicker through the paper bags.

She thanked him and he tilted her chin up to kiss her. “We’re a family, even if you call them farolito when luminaria is clearly the superior term. Maybe one day we’ll decide to grow it, when we’re ready. But I want it to be on our terms.”