Page 36 of The Plus-One List

Just then, there’s the pop of a cork and Rachel, who has watched this scene unfold with her usual discerning eyes, smiles at us broadly. “Wine?” she says.

16Agustín

“Hey Agustín, it’s Neil Rasmussen with The New Yorker. Just calling to check in about that interview with Ricardo Cuevas. If all is going well on your end, we can confirm you for edits in mid-November with the article published in our January issue. Talk soon.”

I listen to the voicemail for the third time then stare at my computer screen, an old article in El Diario, New York City’s oldest Spanish-language newspaper, staring back at me.

I haven’t called Neil back yet. I’m not ready to accept defeat. But the truth is, I’m not going to make it to that wedding.

I rub my eyes and scroll the article. It’s the first time Abuelo was mentioned in the press—a couple of Puerto Rican kids were wrongfully arrested, accused of assaulting a man on the 5 train. Abuelo went to the courthouse and a reporter asked him why he was there, if he was family. He gave an impassioned response about how we are all one big family and any injustice that happens against someone from the community is an injustice against all. He talked about the system working against the poor, the marginalized, the ones with no voice, no money, no influence. His words resonate because they are so similar to mine.

The date of the article haunts me. It’s the day after we were forced to leave our home. I remember it so clearly, my mom with red-rimmed eyes, Lupe sobbing, Caro asking if we could take our garden with us—especially the fig tree. Dad tried to stay positive, telling us this was an adventure. Abuelita was silent but strong, iron faced as she left the home where she’d raised her children. Did she know then that Abuelo had betrayed her? When did she find out? How did she keep this from us? And why? Why protect him?

I glance at my phone. Still nothing from Eloise. It’s been three days. I should just stop trying. Clearly, my invitation as her plus-one has been rescinded.

I turn back to my computer and open my own article.

October 12th was a Monday. All throughout Mexico City, kids were headed to school, adults were on their way to work, the buses ran their usual routes, the traffic on Insurgentes was as bad as ever. It was a normal day. But not for my family.

I pause and lean back in my chair, my gaze wandering over my studio apartment, cramped but clean. My tiny kitchen table also functions as a desk. And a counter. And sometimes an ironing board. I have a floor lamp with an orange shade that casts a warm glow over the room. A couple of button-down shirts are drying on a rack near the window that looks out over Troutman Street. I wonder if I should get some plants. I really liked all the plants in Eloise’s apartment.

Why did I have to push her? My mom is always telling me I used to try and run before I could crawl. Always rushing to the next thing, always impatient. And now that impatience has cost me—Neil keeps making it painfully clear that no interview means no article. This article is more than just the pinnacle of my career. It’s more than just exposing the truth. I need others to witness Abuelo’s betrayal. I need people in this city to know that we were important too. My family mattered.

And there’s another part of me that honestly is worried about Eloise. I’ve never met someone so consumed by fear. I don’t know her well, but I feel this urge to … I don’t know, protect her? No, that’s not it.

I crack my knuckles and pull my laptop closer. I’m determined to fine tune the article, even if it never sees the light of day. I pull up the section about Fernanda, Ricardo’s mother. Abuelo’s second wife. Her family immigrated from Guadalajara in the fifties and she was born and raised in New York. She worked at a bakery for most of her life from what I can tell. I wonder if that’s how they met. Abuelo stopping in for his morning coffee and maybe a pan dulce. Starting a conversation with the petite Mexican-American woman with dramatic eyebrows (I’ve seen a couple of photos of her). Abuelo charming her with his gift of gab. He was always telling stories, always animated, always making me and Lupe laugh when we were kids. Did he charm Fernanda with one of his wild tales? There’s so much that research can’t tell you. Tone and nuance are lost in black and white print, or census information, or public records.

I tweak one sentence, then stand and grab a beer from my fridge. I crack it open and look down at the street below. It’s seven PM on a Saturday in June, so the sun is still out and the streets are bustling with people, a hundred stories carried in each one, a hundred threads weaving together to create the living, breathing tapestry that is New York City. I take a sip of Pacífico and wonder what Eloise is doing right now. I was so close—she was finally beginning to peek out of that shell. I don’t know why that matters so much to me. The point is the invitation, right? She was the one who made it very clear this is a business arrangement and she never wanted to see me again after the wedding.

It just feels like she’s existing on the edges of life, getting by on scraps. But life is a full, multicourse meal. She deserves to enjoy it.

And this wedding is going to be quite the meal, both figuratively and literally. I started following Rachel and Diego on social media. He doesn’t post much but she’s mega successful, with a huge following, and whenever she shares her wedding plans she gets tons of likes and comments. Which in turn boosts the makeup line she’s launching this summer. She’s very smart with her brand. I wonder how she and Eloise ever ended up as such close friends. They seem like polar opposite types of people.

Eva was right, there’s absolutely no information on where the wedding will be held in Mexico City. I bet Eloise will love all the plants and flowers in Mexico. She’d love how green Colonia Roma is, how the tree roots bubble up through the concrete sidewalks with their pure force of nature. She would love the jacarandas that bloom in March, bursting in froths of brilliant purple, lining Paseo de la Reforma, the most beautiful avenue in Mexico City. I think there are a lot of things she would love about my city.

Suddenly, an idea occurs to me. A way to help Eloise and also maybe salvage my invite. I started too big; I shouldn’t have jumped right into socializing. And if she’s not going to talk to me, maybe I need to think outside the box. Use my other skills. Try a different approach.

Maybe I should be getting her excited—not about the wedding, but about Mexico City.

I take another swig of beer, my nerves buzzing, and sit back down at my laptop. I open Adobe InDesign and find the right template.

Then I get to work.

17Eloise

“And I said to him, I said well Harrison, she’s your daughter too, and if you don’t start dealing with some of this s-h-i-t,” Gretchen spells it out like Rachel and I might not be able to handle hearing a curse word, “then I’ll tell everyone at the club that the ’82 Margaux your mother served at Thanksgiving last year was really a 2012 Pomerol!”

I sense this is some kind of devastating insult only to be understood by the upper echelons of New York society. But Rachel and I nod like we totally get it, and Rachel says, “No way,” while shooting me a private grin, and Gretchen says, “Right?” and the whole thing kind of makes me smile. Because I feel in on the joke, even if I don’t quite understand it.

Our plates sit on the coffee table, scattered with Ritz cracker crumbs and stray bits of chicken and broccoli from the casserole. Our wineglasses are empty. Maybe it’s because Rachel is here, or maybe it’s the wine, but I haven’t felt quite as awkward with Gretchen in my house as I thought I would when Rachel first invited her in.

I haven’t said much, but no one seems to mind. And I wonder if it’s more than Rachel or the wine. If, in the wake of all my interactions with Agustín, and the disastrous Madame Boularès incident, I’m slightly more prepared for human contact. Which means, to my chagrin, that Agustín might in fact be right on the money about practice before the wedding.

“Oh lord, look at the time,” Gretchen says, checking her diamond-encrusted watch. “I’ve got to get back and let Paloma head home for the evening.” She beams at us. “It was just lovely to get some girl time. And talk to adults.” She chuckles. “We’ll have to do this again!”

I don’t know if I’m up for that yet, but I do manage another smile, so that’s a win. Rachel, of course, agrees enthusiastically and gives Gretchen a hug on her way out. She closes the door and turns to me.

“Wow,” she says.