Page 33 of The Plus-One List

Agustín walks down the hall. I hear the ding of the elevator doors open and turn to see them close behind him. I let out a long exhale and lean my back against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut.

What am I doing? Tears seep beneath my lids. How can I face five hundred strangers when one little old French woman sends me spiraling?

“Psst.”

The voice is so soft, at first I wonder if I imagined it.

“Psst.”

I open my eyes and look down the hall. Mr. Bloom is poking his head out of the door to his apartment, his silvery hair catching in the Art Deco lights, a pair of bifocals hung around his neck. I blink.

“Mr. Bloom?” I say. We’ve never actually spoken before.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Huh?”

He gestures toward the elevator. “Was that young man bothering you?”

What an odd thing to ask. Why would Mr. Bloom care?

“No,” I say. “He was trying to help me.”

“With what?”

Mr. Bloom and I stare at each other from opposite ends of the hallway. It’s easier to talk to someone when they aren’t so close. I wonder if he feels the same.

“With being social,” I admit.

Mr. Bloom snorts. “Overrated,” he says.

A tiny smile cracks on my face. “Yeah,” I agree.

We stare at each other for a moment longer. Then he clears his throat. “Well,” he says. His face disappears, and I hear the click of the lock. I sigh and get to my feet, my legs achy and trembling. Suddenly, the door opens again and his head pops back out into the hall. “I’m Harold, by the way,” he says.

Then his door slams shut.

“So you agreed to let him be your plus-one last weekend, but now … he’s not?”

It’s Bath Night for the Pack, and the tub is full of soapy, sudsy water. I’ve got Charleston on deck as I finish washing Hazel, looking a bit like a drowned rat, her long elegant fur now plastered to her tiny sausage body. She glowers at me as I fill a measuring cup with water and pour it over her, rinsing her off and handing her to Rachel.

“No,” I say, then “Gah!” as Hazel shakes out her fur, spraying us with water and looking extremely pleased with herself. Rachel wraps her in the towel as I pick up Charleston and plop him in the tub.

“All because the French lady across the hall overshared about her late husband and their sexy times?”

I shudder. The embarrassment at the memory makes my cheeks flame.

“It was a bad idea to go over there,” I mumble.

“I think it was a great idea.”

I shoot her a look.

“What?” she asks. “It’s good to know the people who live around you. I’m impressed he got you there at all.” She hesitates. “So … now you don’t have a plus-one?”

I sigh. “No. I’m sorry, Rach.” The truth is, Agustín has still been texting me. I’ve just been freezing him out. Again. It’s been three days since I told him to get lost. I really don’t understand him.

But there’s also a tiny little part of me that’s glad he hasn’t stopped texting. That he hasn’t just given up on me. It’s like a sliver of sunlight that I can’t quite dim. And that part scares me more than anything.