Page 84 of The Plus-One List

He shrugs. “Love has no boundaries. It transcends age or class or creed.”

“I didn’t know you were such a poet.”

He points a finger at his chest. “Writer, remember?” I see that flicker of tension again, but then he clears his throat. “Anyway, today is for history. Are you ready to learn about some ancient cultures?”

“Yes,” I say, slipping my arm through his. It’s a beautiful sunny day, and the marigolds that line the center of Reforma burst with brilliant color.

“We can walk there, if you’d like,” he says.

“I’m a New Yorker,” I remind him. “I’d always rather walk.”

He smiles ruefully. The sunlight catches on strands of his hair, errant locks twisting in the breeze. His charcoal gray hoodie contrasts with his white tee. I can’t help the way my gaze keeps snagging on his chest. I feel like my stomach is filled with bubbles, rising and popping, making my steps buoyant. We walk down Reforma toward an enormous park.

“This is Bosque de Chapultepec,” Agustín tells me, as cars whiz past us along the giant avenue. “It’s like our Central Park.” There are all sorts of trees, and I recognize more jacarandas, their elegant limbs reaching out across the sidewalk, as well as lots of palm trees. I wish I could see the jacarandas in full bloom, like in the pictures Agustín sent me all those months ago.

When we reach the museum, there are vendors outside selling trinkets and souvenirs beneath white tents. We walk up the broad steps to enter a huge courtyard with a giant fountain in its center—a massive stone column encircled on the ceiling by what looks almost like a wagon wheel, water pouring down from evenly spaced spouts around it. There are so many different wings, it makes my head spin. And it’s not like the Met, with endless rooms filled with artwork—many of the exhibits are outside, artifacts presented as they might have been in their time.

I take lots of pictures to send over the group thread. It will be nice to give my neighbors some updates on our trip.

We have lunch in the museum café, which showcases cuisines from all the various cultures. Then we take a leisurely walk to the opposite end of the park, where a castle called Castillo de Chapultepec sits grandly—it’s a museum now, but Agustín tells me it used to house presidents. We climb to the top of the tower and take in the views. While there are a few skyscrapers and a handful of taller apartment buildings, most buildings are quite short, only a few stories high. Agustín tells me that’s because Mexico City has a lot of earthquakes.

“What would you like to do next?” he asks me.

I’m feeling pretty exhausted and overwhelmed, and talking about earthquakes made me unsettled. The Wheel starts to spin. I kind of just want to go lie down.

Can I tell Agustín this? Shouldn’t I want to explore more?

What if I hurt his feelings? What if he is just doing that thing where a person pretends to let you decide the next activity, but secretly they want you to say, oh let’s do whatever you want to do?

Beads of sweat prickle across my hairline. My fingers clench on the stone balustrade.

Suddenly, Agustín pulls me back against his chest. I don’t know why, but something about this contact calms the Wheel. Like Agustín’s heart is giving mine a hug.

“I want to lie down,” I mumble, half hoping he doesn’t hear me in case I’m saying the wrong thing.

“Perfect,” he says, his breath tickling my ear. I feel a burst of tingles erupt in my stomach and suddenly, I’m not quite so tired anymore.

We walk back to the hotel and I kick off my boots and crawl on top of the comforter. Agustín lies beside me, taking both my hands in his and kissing my knuckles. It’s such a tender gesture.

We lie there for a moment in silence, facing each other. I like just being with him in a way I never thought I could—with anyone. He doesn’t demand that silence be filled. I think about dinner with Rachel and Diego later this week. It doesn’t sound so awful. Certainly better than the wedding. But before that, I’ll have to go to the bachelorette party. My pulse starts to race. I’ve kind of pushed that event to the side, what with all the kissing.

A bead of sweat trickles down my temple. I’ll have to spend a full day with Rachel’s friends. A full day doing whatever it is they’ve got planned—I was on the email thread for the party, but I didn’t actually read the emails. No thank you.

“What are you worrying about?” he asks softly.

Of course he knows. Sometimes I wonder if he’s psychic. “Bachelorette party,” I croak.

“Hm.” He’s silent for a moment. “Can I ask what the biggest worry is?”

A thousand thoughts race through my mind, tangling together like socks in a dryer, spinning round and round.

“I say something stupid and everyone laughs and the shame is so great it haunts me forever,” I admit.

“Okay,” he says, nodding like that’s not an insane thing to fear. “What else?”

“I’ll have to do things I don’t want to do. I don’t like Rachel’s friends. They’re loud and … and I don’t think they like me. But I can’t embarrass Rachel. I have to be …” My throat tightens. Have to be what? Someone else who isn’t me? Who likes going to parties and being social?

Agustín’s thumb brushes across my temple, wiping the bead of sweat away. “Do you really think Rachel would ever be embarrassed because of you?”