Page 13 of The Plus-One List

But the word feels stuck to the roof of my mouth. The sides of the room blur. Why is he looking at me like that? Why can’t he look somewhere else for a second? His gaze drags down the length of my body but not in the creepy way he was looking at Rachel just now. His eyes drip with disdain. Like I’m not good enough. Like I should never have deigned to interrupt his whiskey-neat-gold-watch evening with my curly-haired-romperness.

I try to imagine arriving at Rachel’s wedding with this man. Sitting at the same table as him at the reception. Every cell in my body repels the idea. I glance at Rachel, aware of how wide my eyes are.

Just say hello, Eloise. Come on. Don’t be weird!

But my lips feel like they’ve been glued shut.

“Does she, like, talk?” Luis asks Rachel, chuckling.

OhmyfuckinggodIhatethisman. Shame prickles over my scalp and down my back. I hate the tears that well in my eyes. Yes, she talks. Yes, she can hear you. She doesn’t want to talk. She just wants to be back home with her dogs.

Rachel’s nostrils flare. “She talks,” she says, standing up. “Just not to dickheads like you. Come on, El.” She grabs my hand, and I stumble out the door behind her.

“We didn’t pay,” I squeak as she heads down West 85th toward the park.

“Fuck that asshole,” she says. “He can pay.”

My limbs are shaking, and I feel lightheaded. “I’m sorry,” I croak.

“Don’t you dare be sorry,” Rachel says, whirling around, her eyes flashing. “He’s the one who should be sorry. Did you see the way he was staring at my boobs? No, you are not going to the wedding with a creep like that. I’d rather be cursed.”

The following evening, we’re back at Vin de Table at six PM to meet José Miguel Suarez (pilot, only wears black). This time I’m slightly better prepared. It’s one of those blazingly hot days in May where you really feel summer coming on, and the windows to the little wine bar are thrown open, tables set up outside with red wicker chairs. Rachel is already seated at one of them, along with a man who is, unsurprisingly, dressed all in black. Rachel smiles and waves when she sees me. My skin feels tight on my bones, but I force my lips to curve upward.

“Eloise, this is José Miguel,” she says. He stands and shakes my hand.

“Hi,” I say, because I’ll be damned if I don’t say something this time at least.

“Nice to meet you,” he says. He’s thin and wiry, with light brown hair and a very long nose.

I sit beside him as the drinks Rachel ordered for us arrive.

“So,” she says to José Miguel. “I hear you’re a pilot.”

“I am,” he says. “I work for AeroMéxico. I’m based here and in Mexico City.”

They launch into a conversation about Mexico City, which Rachel has visited a lot with Diego, and I happily sip my Chardonnay and watch a group of yoga moms sitting on the steps of a brownstone across the street, sharing a bottle of rosé and laughing about something. It looks very freeing, all of them so comfortable being in a group. Groups stress me out. Talking with a group of people feels like participating in a giant game of Double Dutch, where everyone competes to be the skipper, but there are no clear rules, and I never know when to tag in.

“El?”

I glance up to see Rachel staring at me.

“Mm?” I say.

“José Miguel asked what you do for a living.”

I meet his gaze for only a moment before looking away. I was happier when I was being ignored. “Nothing,” I mumble, which, oh my god what am I saying, I have a job.

He frowns. “What do you do all day then?”

“She didn’t mean nothing,” Rachel says. “Eloise works freelance.”

I nod, my gaze flitting to him and then back to the yoga moms. I shift in my chair.

“Oh,” he says. “Freelance what?”

“Treats,” I say. Nope, that didn’t come out right. “Baking,” I add. My face starts to heat up, and I feel the prickles of heat race across my hairline. “For dogs,” I say, making everything worse.

“Eloise bakes specialty dog treats for an online company,” Rachel explains. “Treats Gourmand. She’s really good, her treats are hands down the most popular on the site.”