Page 51 of The Plus-One List

“Drinks,” I say. All the drinks. Maybe if I have enough gin and tonics, I can make it through this evening without falling apart. I thought I was going to have another panic attack in the elevator, as the Wheel spun frantically between I Will Be So Bad at This and Ruin Everything and AHHHHHHH!

But the feel of Agustín’s warm rough hand around mine is surprisingly grounding. Like an electrode conductor, rooting me to the earth.

He leads me over to the bar, where a young man in a white button down and black vest is mixing drinks.

“What can I get you?” he asks. There’s a large calligraphy list of specialty cocktails but my pulse is racing too fast and the letters blur and dance in my vision. Am I supposed to get a specialty cocktail? Is that what’s expected? But I spent the whole car ride practicing my drink order!

I’ll have a gin and tonic.

One gin and tonic, please.

Can I get a gin and tonic?

Over and over and over. All the iterations I could think of. And now it’s showtime.

“Ginntonic,” I blurt out, the words mushed together like I threw them in a blender. But the bartender just nods then looks to Agustín, who is of course deeply interested in the calligraphy special cocktails.

“What’s in the Diego’s Dream?” he asks.

I can’t help rolling my eyes. Diego named a cocktail after himself? Barf.

“It’s good. It’s like an old fashioned. The Retro Rachel is more of a French 75.”

Wait, Rachel has a fancy cocktail named after her too?

“I’ll do the Diego one,” Agustín says.

“Great choice.” A voice from behind us makes me jump, and I nearly topple over in these stupid heels. Agustín holds my hand tighter, centering me, and turns us smoothly to come face to face with Diego Alvarez himself.

“The name is ridiculous though,” he adds, rolling his eyes exactly the way I just did. “The event planner said it was ‘all the rage,’” he uses air quotes, “to have these sorts of custom cocktails. Rachel was pissed when she saw the names but it was too late to change them. Hi.” He extends his hand to Agustín. “I’m Diego Alvarez.”

“Agustín Martinez,” Agustín says, shaking Diego’s hand warmly. “Mucho gusto.”

Diego turns to me, smiling. “Eloise,” he says. “I’m so glad you could make it. It’s really great to see you.”

He moves in for a hug, and I stiffen—thankfully he seems to remember I am not a hugger, so his arms fall to his sides, and he just nods. His eyes dart to my and Agustín’s hands, still clasped together, and I release Agustín like a hot potato. Crap. Diego better not tell Rachel about that.

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve hung out with Diego. I think the last time was four months ago, when he met me and Rachel at our favorite margarita spot, El Taco Loco. I mostly just shoved chips and salsa into my face then went home early.

There’s a moment of pause, when the two men seem to be waiting for me to say something, which sorry, what, no, absolutely not. I shoot a panicked glance at Agustín, and he gets the hint.

“Felicidades,” he says, and ohhhh yes, yes yes, thank god. They’re speaking Spanish. I don’t have to participate if they’re speaking Spanish. They dive into a conversation where I understand absolutely nothing except CDMX (which sounds like Say-Day-Em-Ekeys and which I only recognize because I’ve heard Agustín say it so many times now). Then the bartender says, “Gin and tonic,” and huzzah, I have a drink and absolutely no obligation to make small talk. I take a sip and let the tart, crisp flavor fill my mouth, hovering on the edge of the conversation and scanning the other people on the rooftop from a comfortable distance.

I feel extremely underdressed. Maybe Agustín was lying when he said I looked perfect. The memory sets my heart fluttering in my chest. He was obviously just being polite. The other women here are in glittery dresses with tiny straps or no straps at all, wearing the highest, pointiest heels imaginable. Rachel looks stunning, of course. She’s wearing a midlength white pleated skirt with a beaded white crop top. Her hair is piled up on her crown and dotted with daisies and she’s rocking a pair of Grecian style sandals that wrap up around her calves. Her makeup is flawless, as always. I’m sure she did it herself.

I was kind of glad Sanvi and Kate came over to help me with my own hair and makeup. I would feel even more out of place here if I’d come with my usual nighttime look, aka mascara and lip gloss.

Rachel offered to do it, of course, but I didn’t want to be a bother. She has so much to organize. But she flat out told me she was doing my look for the wedding and threatened me upon pain of death to make sure I got a good night’s sleep beforehand so she could have (and I quote) “a suitable canvas to work with.”

I look back and forth between her and Diego. They do seem to fit as a couple. Diego is good-looking, I guess, if you like that angular-jawed, dark-haired, Disney prince in custom Brooks Brothers type thing. I like Agustín’s look better. His shirt color almost matches my eyes. And I think his shoes are cool. He’s not overly polished like the rest of the men here.

The two of them sip their fancy Diego-themed cocktails and chat in rapid fire Spanish, and I’m just starting to relax when Rachel shouts, “EL!”

Oh no. Here we go.

I brace myself for the coming onslaught of all caps level excitement.

“Eloise Madigan Whitechapel, look at YOU!” Rachel squeals, rushing over to scoop me up in a hug. “Oh my god, STUNNING. Magnificent. Exquisite. I DIE. Did Sanvi use the Recklessly Rachel lipliner kit I sent her?”