Page 66 of The Plus-One List

Is this allowed? He seems to really like the bed.

Gretchen sent a photo of Charleston licking Begonia’s cheek, the little girl caught midlaugh. And Kate sent a photo of Hazelnut and Sanvi, wearing matching shades and wristbands:

Look at these ICONS.

I wonder when Sanvi got dog-sized gear, but then I realize they’d all been planning this nannying situation for a while.

Eloise lets out a long, slow breath. “They’re okay,” she murmurs.

“How many matching outfits do you think we’re going to see Hazel and Sanvi in?”

Eloise groans. “Too many.”

We grab our carry-on bags, deboard the plane—first! I’ve never deplaned first before!—and get to immigration before the lines get out of control. Eloise holds my hand the entire way, and I tell the guard she’s my wife, so he lets us both go in the Mexican passport line. Glad she doesn’t understand Spanish for that, but I think she’d appreciate the lie. I’m not about to let her go by herself in the Extranjeros line, which is far longer and slower than the Mexican line. We get our luggage at baggage claim and emerge out into the massive glorieta, a madness of cars honking and swerving around one another, swarms of people, and the shrill whistles of the airport employees directing traffic.

There’s a driver with our names on a board waiting for us, standing in front of a huge black SUV.

“Hola,” I say.

“Agustín?” he says.

“That’s me,” I reply in Spanish. “What’s your name?”

“Enrique. Mr. Alvarez sends his greetings. Miss, please, let me take your bag,” he says to Eloise in English. We slide into the cool, leather interior as Enrique loads our luggage into the trunk. The windows are tinted, and there are bottles of water, mints, and even a dock to charge our phones.

“This is nice,” I say cheerfully.

“Mm,” Eloise mutters. I wonder if she’s even aware of her surroundings, or if there’s a panic alarm blaring in her brain, whirling red and drowning everything else out. Enrique pulls forward, and we slowly make our way out of the airport traffic and onto the highway that leads into the city. We pass through a tunnel where advertisements for Liverpool, a big department store chain, give way to brightly painted street art, down a wide avenue lined with trees, and then the buildings begin to crowd around us, street vendors popping up beneath worn white tents, selling everything from tacos to clothes to bright orange bunches of cempasuchiles for Día de Muertos.

Eloise’s leg is bouncing furiously the whole drive. And it’s Mexico City, so the traffic is terrible. I mean, really terrible. I chat with Enrique as we creep slowly down Avenida Chapultepec, and he tells me he’s only been working for Jorge Alvarez for about a year. He’s surprised to learn my family lives in Colonia Napoles. He tells me his sister lives there, and we find out she’s only a couple of blocks away from Lupe’s house. He’s a lot less formal with me after that—he gives me his number and tells me if I ever need a driver while we’re in the city, to text him. We circle the rotary at Insurgentes, before finally picking up speed for the last few blocks and arriving at our destination.

The Four Seasons.

The cream and gray stone building has Mexican and Canadian flags hung over its entrance. Narrow windows are fronted with beige awnings, and as Enrique pulls up to the glass front doors, two porters hurry out to greet us, one opening the door for Eloise as the other helps Enrique with our bags.

“Gracias,” I say and shake Enrique’s hand.

Eloise seems to be vibrating with nerves as she gets out of the car. One porter assures us our bags will be taken to our room, and the other brings us to the desk to check in with the concierge. She’s a very polite young Mexican woman in a tailored blazer with a pin declaring her “Lupe.”

“That’s my sister’s name,” I say to her, and she smiles, her eyes sweeping curiously over my and Eloise’s matching sweatsuits. We definitely don’t look like the usual clientele.

“You are with the Alvarez party, correct?” she asks.

“Yup.”

“Here’s your room key, sir. If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks,” I say, then pause. “Wait, just the one room?”

“Yes.”

I glance at Eloise, who is clenching her jaw so hard I think she might break her teeth. She’s not paying attention to our exchange, just quietly freaking out as she takes in the opulent, bustling lobby.

I didn’t realize we’d be sharing a room. I bet Eloise didn’t either. I’m sure someone on Diego’s end handled the reservations. Maybe they just assumed we were a couple.

“Is it possible to get two rooms?” I ask, though the thought of putting a full week at this hotel on my credit card makes my brain short circuit.

Lupe frowns. “I’m sorry sir, we are fully booked at this time.”