Page 29 of The Plus-One List

And I don’t know why I haven’t told him to leave yet.

I realize too that I don’t know anything about him, except short, dimples, lower class but hard worker. The whole disastrous date is a blur in my mind. I remember he said he was from Mexico City. That’s about it.

“How did you get on the plus-one list?” I ask.

He brushes a stray lock of unruly black hair out of his eyes. “Nicolas and Eva Garcia. Their family knows Diego’s family. Eva put me on the list. Are you excited about the wedding?”

“No,” I say automatically.

Then I clap my hand over my mouth.

14Agustín

Somehow, this answer doesn’t surprise me.

In the almost twenty-four hours I’ve spent in Eloise’s apartment, I’ve noticed much about her. She’s very private. She seems to love plants and dogs but not people. There are no family photos, only pictures of her and a woman I identify as Rachel, based on the wedding announcement photograph I’d seen in Quién. She has lots of books. Mysteries and romances seem to be her favorites, but there’s some nonfiction and classics in there, as well as some books with titles like How to Rewire an Anxious Brain.

This is a woman who has taken in a diabetic dog, an incontinent dog, a dog who is (no offense to Hazelnut) a bit of an asshole, and a traumatized dog who bites her. I can see in the photos of her and Rachel that she adores her friend. I wonder what happened to her parents—why she was raised by her uncle, why she lives in this apartment but keeps no memories of him, or them. I sensed she did not want to talk about it when I asked about her home.

One thing I’ve come to learn, through talking with Miriam and texting with Rachel, is that Eloise is a very unique, very special person. The few people she lets in love her fiercely.

“I don’t … I didn’t …” She splutters, her face turning red, her chest heaving. Her legs tremble in her rainbow sweatpants. “You can’t—didn’t hear me say that.”

“Of course not,” I say easily. I think she does not want to be looked at when she’s anxious like this, so I turn back to Charleston for a moment, who happily licks my hand. “You are the maid of honor, right?” I ask. “So, you will give a speech?”

She squeaks. I glance up at her, and she’s shaking, both hands gripping her mug of tea, her lips pressed together into a thin line. I once again have the sense that there’s strength lurking beneath her delicate surface. Of powerful emotions that scare her. Her sea-glass eyes are like literal windows—so clear, I can see the inner workings of her mind through them. Panic. Fear. Something deeper too. Some innate sense of predetermined failure.

“Listen,” I say gently. “I can help you. I know what Mexican weddings are like. Well, I’ve never been to one this … glamorous, but I know what to expect in general. I’m very good with words—I’m a journalist. I can help you write your speech. I can tell you about all the traditions. And I’m Chilango—that’s what someone from Mexico City is called. I can help you navigate the city. I know it inside and out. It’s my home.”

She stares at me almost helplessly for a moment. “Why?” she asks. “Why do you want to be my plus-one?”

I study her features, the high cheekbones, the little point of her chin, the hesitant curve of her lips. I feel like there must be a smile inside her so big and radiant that if she ever actually unleashed it, it could outshine the sun.

I wonder if I should just tell her the truth.

“My abuelita always says helping people is in my blood,” I say. “You see …” I pause, trying to figure out the best way to explain about Abuelo and Ricardo and the article, but then Eloise puts down her mug on the table and straightens her shoulders. Oh boy. I can tell she’s about to lay out the law. Or is it lay down the law? Ya valí madres.

“You can be my plus-one,” she says. “On one condition.”

“Anything,” I say eagerly.

“This is a business arrangement,” she says, stressing every syllable. “There is nothing romantic about this. It’s not a date. It is a transaction. Because yeah, I could really use some help. As you’ve probably noticed, I’m not good in social situations. But I don’t want you getting the wrong idea. I don’t need any new people in my life, okay? Not friends, not boyfriends, no one. I’m good. You help me prepare for this …” She waves her hand, fluttering her fingers. “And then we’re done. We go our separate ways after the wedding. Deal?”

“Deal,” I say quickly. I should definitely tell her I’ve got my own reasons for wanting to go. But as I open my mouth to explain, she seems to sink in on herself, her shoulders wilting, her eyes turning impossibly sad.

“I’ll probably ruin it for her,” she mumbles.

I don’t need to ask who her is. And I have a sudden instinct that this isn’t the right time for my reasons—this isn’t about me. She doesn’t let anyone in, and I’ve just been given half a centimeter. Anything to upset the balance, and I’ll get shut out for good.

“No, you won’t,” I say gently.

She sighs, and I feel a heaviness that belies her age—a deep weariness, like she’s been carrying some ancient weight around for so long, she’s forgotten what it’s like to live without it. It’s a weight that has soldered itself to her bones.

“I need to give the Colonel his shot,” she says, yawning. “Then I need to sleep. No, shit, I need to walk the dogs.”

“I’ll walk the dogs,” I say. “I’ve already done it a couple of times. Pip really likes being in the park.”

Strong emotions spasm across her face—something like grief and shock mixed together. “You walked him?” she gasps. “You walked them all?”