Page 101

As the elevator doors open, I take a deep breath and step forward. I’m wearing heels, but they’re nude patent wedges—I’m not insane enough to try and balance on stilettos and thankfully Rachel knew that too when she chose these shoes. You can’t see my feet anyway, with this huge, billowy skirt that cascades to the ground around me. I gather it up as I walk, very carefully, down the long hall toward the reception. The dress is gorgeous—even I, a nondress person, have to admit that. It’s the color of burnished copper, with an asymmetrical neckline that leaves one shoulder exposed. And best of all: it has pockets. My phone, with my speech, is tucked away in its many satiny folds. A pair of simple diamond studs adorn my ears. They were my mom’s, and I’ve never had an occasion to wear them. I am not a diamond studs type of girl. But it’s nice, in this moment, to have them with me. Like maybe, every once in a while, I am a diamond studs type of girl.

My heart is a blur in my chest as the receptionist—Lupe, the same woman from the very first day we checked in—catches sight of me. I have never been someone who has garnered a second look in my life. But her eyes widen and she smiles broadly.

“You look beautiful,” she says as I approach.

“Thanks,” I squeak, then clear my throat. “Um, thank you. Have you seen the guy I … um, my boyfriend?”

A thrill runs through me being able to call him that.

She gestures to the front doors. “He is waiting outside.”

I walk forward slowly, still clutching my skirts. God, I hope my palms don’t start sweating. I don’t want to ruin the satin. One of the porters opens the door for me, smiling. I step out into the warm, fresh October air as the now familiar sounds of the traffic on Reforma greet me. Agustín is standing with his back to me, chatting with Enrique. The moment Enrique catches sight of me, his eyes pop wide.

“Qué guapa!” he says.

Agustín turns and my breath catches in my throat.

Agustín in a tuxedo is a thing of utter beauty. It’s been tailored to perfection, the jacket hugging his shoulders, his shoes polished to a high sheen, his bowtie perfectly straight. His dark hair is slicked back, but one errant lock curls at his temple, like his hair simply refuses to be tamed.

When he sees me, his lips part. His beautiful warm brown eyes grow wide. I stand before him, feeling elegant and awkward at the same time. His puts one hand to his chest.

“Amor,” he says, and a thousand shivers run up my spine. “You take my breath away.”

A smile cracks on my face. “You look like James Bond.”

Agustín throws his head back and laughs. He snakes his arm around me and the air seems to shimmer. I feel it in my bones, in my veins, like light refracting off a crystal.

“Shall we?” he asks in a weird accent.

“What was that?”

“That was my Connery impression.”

“Oof.”

“Needs work?”

“Some serious heavy lifting.”

He laughs again and offers me his arm. I take it as Enrique hurries to open the door for me. “So much dress,” I groan. Agustín helps me with the skirt, and I somehow manage to climb into the back as he piles the dress in after me. He gets in on the other side and Enrique pulls out into traffic.

The wedding is in an area of the city called Centro Histórico. A lot of the buildings are large and square with orange or red brick façades and ornate molding. Tourists fill the streets, along with shops selling everything from shoes to clothes to electronics. We pull up to a huge, Baroque style building, red with gray sandstone details, pillars that shoot up above the flat roof in sharp points toward the sky. The windows on the first floor are rectangular while the second-floor windows are octagonal, which creates a cool effect. I see patches of graffiti on the walls as we park, so I guess nothing is immune from being tagged here. A set of enormous wooden doors, topped with more gray stone statues, is thrown open. There are men dressed in black with wires in their ears, security I’m guessing, who patrol the outside of the building. Other guests, women in gowns and men in tuxedoes, are waiting in a short line to enter, giving their names to another burly man in black with a clipboard who stands by the open door.

My heart seizes in my chest. This is it.

Agustín’s hand slips into mine. “Ready?” he asks, as Enrique opens the car door for me.

“You’ll stay by my side, right?”

He nods, and I think I see a flicker in his eyes but then it’s gone. “I promise,” he says, flashing his dimples.

He helps me and my giant skirt out of the car, and once I’m steady on my heels, we head to wait in the line. Agustín gives our names to the man with the clipboard, we step inside, and my jaw drops.

The interior is enormous: a huge courtyard, ringed with arches—two floors of arches that give the feeling of being transported to a different time. There’s a tile fountain in the center. And everywhere, there are flowers. Cascades of lilies hang from the second-floor balustrades, white roses and peonies are overflowing in the fountain, freesia fills the air with a pleasant scent, and baby’s breath adorns the rose-lily-peony centerpieces on the tables like little clouds. There’s a dance floor already set up, made of sleek white tiles, four posts surrounding it ensconced in ivory petals. There are tables in every shape and size, long rectangles, neat squares, small circular tables, and at the far end, a special table on a dais in front of a veritable wall of flowers, for the bride and groom and family members. Rachel already assured me I wouldn’t have to sit up there, and seeing it in person, I’m thoroughly relieved. I do not need eyes on me while I’m eating. But still, it’s probably where I’ll have to give my speech. My stomach clenches.

The ceiling is high and arched, glass and metal creating an airy outdoor vibe. Off to one side, there’s a large staircase. The chapel. A lump forms in my throat.

Not every guest was invited to the wedding itself, Rachel told me, because the private chapel is quite small. I’m grateful for that now. Seeing this cavernous space, all the tables, the flowers, the guests filing up the stairs into the chapel, my mouth has gone completely dry and sweat pricks at my hairline. I grip Agustín’s elbow tightly.