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“Exactly. And this …” She grabs onto the pole as the train lurches forward, then pulls up the list on her phone again. “This is amazing. It’s all in Spanish, though, so I’ll need to translate it.”

“It’s more than just names?” I ask.

“Yeah, it’s got brief descriptions of the guys. Let’s see … ‘alto, más alto, super alto.’ Guess these ladies like tall men.”

“I don’t like tall men,” I say. I’m five foot nothing. Tall men give me a crick in my neck just trying to make eye contact. But I find myself warming to the idea of the plus-one list. It’s transactional. These men understand the rules. Whoever I choose will know he is here so that my friend doesn’t supposedly curse her own wedding. Maybe I won’t even have to talk to this person much. As long as they arrive with me, I’ve done my duty, right?

“Okay, no ‘altos,’” Rachel says. “Oh my god, check this one out: Rodrigo Sarmiento. ‘Músico.’ So he’s a musician. ‘Humor negro, no es apropriado en todas las familias.’” She pops it in Google Translate. “It means ‘dark humor, not appropriate for all families.’” She snorts.

“No,” I say immediately. Dark humor and I don’t mix.

“Yeah, that wouldn’t work. What about Daniel Belmont? ‘Bastante horny, pero muy buen bailarín.’ I don’t need Google for this one: Really horny, but a very good dancer.” Rachel waggles her eyebrows at me.

“I’m not even going to entertain that,” I say.

“Fair. How about Miguel Casco? ‘MUY intenso, pintor, nunca en México.’ Soooo … very intense, a painter, and never in Mexico.”

“Why is he even on the list then?” I ask.

“Yeah, seriously. Also, you and intense do not mix.”

I chuckle and have to admit, this is a little bit fun. The train stops at 86th Street and we get out, emerging onto the Upper West Side.

“Wait a minute,” I say as we head toward my apartment. “Are all these guys in Mexico?”

I don’t think I want to meet this person only after I land in a totally unfamiliar country, right before an event that, let’s face it, I’m not exactly thrilled about. Not that I want to hang out with him for any length of time. But it’s still over five months to the wedding. I can’t handle five months of stressing about this.

“Good question,” Rachel says. She switches to her WhatsApp and messages Diego. “He says he’ll do some recon and highlight the ones who live in New York. Which means he’s gonna ask his mom. I guess there are some guys that live in LA, as well as Buenos Aires and London.”

“An international plus-one list,” I mutter. Who are these people?

Rachel cheerfully greets Hector as we enter the lobby and take the elevator up to my apartment. As soon as we walk through the door, we hear the familiar stirring of the Colonel, then the tippy tap of Charleston’s feet as he comes careening into view.

“Charleston, buddy, over here,” Rachel says as he sails past her, skidding into the door. He pants up at her as she bends down to scratch his ears, then he plows into my legs, licking my jeans, his tongue making little scratching sounds.

I head into the kitchen to preheat the oven—I’ve got an order of sweet potato peanut butter dog bones to make for Treats Gourmand. I pull the family-size jar of peanut butter out of the cabinet and grab some sweet potatoes, wrapping them in foil. I hear Rachel talking to the Pack in the living room. When the oven beeps, I set the potatoes to roast and set a timer.

Rachel is on the couch with the Colonel when I enter the living room. I plop down next to her and scoop up Charleston, sniffing his diaper. No pees or poops yet. I rub his ears as Hazelnut snores lightly from the giant dog bed.

“Diego sent the list back with highlights,” Rachel says, showing me her phone. “I say we find a few options and then set up a meet and greet.”

I cock an eyebrow. “A meet and greet?”

“Would you rather I call them dates?” she says.

“No,” I say quickly, a flash of panic skittering over my ribs. “Fine, give me the list.” I should be in charge of my own destiny. I know approximately zero Spanish, but I scroll the highlighted names and Rachel translates. Definite nos to Angel Ruiz (‘medio famoso,’ which causes Rachel to immediately Google him and find out he’s a Sunday morning talk show anchor for Telemundo) and Juan Carlos Garcia (recently divorced, really into rock climbing). We get to the end of the list, and I point at the last name. “What about this guy?” I ask.

Rachel squints. “Agustín Martinez. ‘Bajito. Hoyuelos. Sencillo y trabajador.’ So that means … short, but like in a cute way? Dimples, oooh like those. And lower class but a hard worker.”

“Him,” I say immediately. We end up choosing two other highlighted names: Luis Gonzalez (works in finance, has a cat) and José Miguel Suarez (pilot, always wears black).

“I’ll set up the dates,” Rachel says.

I grip her arm as the Wheel starts to spin, click-clicking away in my chest like a second, frantic heartbeat. “You are not sending me out there alone.”

She gives me a gentle smile. “Obviously not. I’ll be right there with you. Let’s set them up so they all come to us—same place, same time, different days. Will that help?”

I nod, trying to calm my racing heart, but now I feel a thread of shame mixed with the panic. This shouldn’t be so hard. I shouldn’t need so many rules.