Page 104 of The Plus-One List

“Well, cheers to her,” Eloise says, clinking her flute with mine.

The table begins to fill up with people, though ours is one of the smallest tables, which I’m sure was by design. Eloise actually jumps out of her chair when an elderly Black couple approaches.

“George! Mina!” she says, embracing them.

“Eloise, oh my lord, don’t you look stunning,” the woman says. Eloise introduces me to them—apparently, they were Rachel’s foster parents when she was in high school. Even though Rachel was never adopted, Eloise told me that Mina and George have stayed in Rachel’s life and are the closest thing she has to family, along with Eloise and Diego.

“Eloise used to come over to our house all the time on the weekends,” the husband, George, explains to me. He smiles widely at her. “Look at you now. You and Rachel both.”

We all turn to where Rachel is being helped onto the dais by Diego.

“Isn’t she just the most beautiful bride?” Mina says, dabbing at her eyes. Eloise nods.

We all take our seats as the dinner service starts. To Eloise’s delight, the appetizer is aguachile.

“A little more elevated than the one we made,” I murmur to her as she takes a spoonful.

She shrugs. “I liked ours better.”

I smile, my heart feeling tender. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I glance at it under the table.

Neil: Any updates?

I put it back in my pocket without answering, my eyes darting to Ricardo’s table. I can just see his profile through the sea of guests. I keep track of him all through dinner, waiting for the right moment. Just as the dessert plates are being cleared, the woman with the headset comes over to us. “Speeches in ten minutes,” she says.

At the same moment, Ricardo stands and starts to make his way toward one of the many halls.

Shit. This is my chance.

I will be lightning fast—she’s got George and Mina here so I feel slightly less guilty about leaving her alone.

“I’ll be right back,” I whisper in her ear. “Restroom.”

“What? No, the speeches are in ten minutes,” she hisses, grabbing my hand.

“I’ll be back in two, I promise,” I say, squeezing her palm and releasing her. I weave my way through the tables, walking as quickly as I can across the expansive courtyard and into the hall, lined with elegant sconces, my footsteps echoing off the stone walls. I wander down the hall, my heart jammed in my throat. Where did he go? I don’t have much time. I turn left and nearly run straight into Ricardo as he’s leaving the bathroom.

“Disculpa,” he says to me.

I don’t think—I grab his arm.

“Ricardo Cuevas?” I ask. He frowns and glances at my hand. I release him immediately.

“Yes?”

“My name is Agustín Martinez,” I say in a rush. “El Rasca was my grandfather.”

I can see the blood drain from Ricardo’s face. As we look at each other, it’s impossible not to notice the similarities. He has a dimple in his left cheek. Our hair has the same sheen, and his seems unruly as well. Our eyes are the same shape and color.

“No mames,” he gasps.

“Can we talk for a minute?” I ask.

To my surprise, Ricardo looks … excited. “Yes,” he says. “Absolutely. Wow.”

We walk a bit farther down the hall. I glance at my phone—I need to get back to Eloise soon, before the speeches start. We find an alcove near a roped off staircase.

“I want to be up front with you,” I tell him. “I’m writing an article for The New Yorker about El Rasca. My family only found out about everything at the start of this year.”