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“Ugh, fucking Alonso. He’s a total control freak. Needs seven different versions of the same design. I wish he’d just let me do my thing. I know how to sew a fucking jumpsuit.”

I grin. “This is just a steppingstone, remember. Next, you start your own company.”

Caro works in fashion. She finally got a job working for a small clothing company with a store in Colonia Roma—the hipster area of CDMX.

“That’s the plan. Can’t have my big brother hogging all the spotlight.”

“I don’t like spotlights,” I tell her.

“Sure. I’ll remind you of that when you’re winning your Pulitzer.”

“Ha ha.”

Suddenly, my phone buzzes and I see a text from an unfamiliar number.

“Hold on a second, Caro,” I say, switching to my text messages.

Hi Agustín. My name is Rachel Lazcari, I’m engaged to Diego Alvarez. My maid of honor needs a date to our wedding in October, and you were recommended as someone who might be available to be her plus-one. Are you able to meet this Sunday at six pm? Let me know and I can confirm a location. Thanks!

For a moment, I just stare at the text, almost confused. Then a huge smile breaks across my face, and I hurriedly type my reply with shaking fingers.

“Good news?” Caro asks.

I switch back to FaceTime and beam at her. “The best,” I say.

7Eloise

Rachel has successfully set up all three of my plus-one list dates: one Friday, one Saturday, and one Sunday.

But as six PM on Friday rolls around, the panic I’ve kept at bay starts to creep in. Even before I arrive at the little French wine bar, the Worry Wheel is spinning out of control.

What if I say the wrong thing and embarrass myself so thoroughly that I’m forced to walk into the Hudson, never to be seen again?

What if he makes a joke but I don’t recognize it as a joke, and I don’t laugh and then there’s awkward silence, and I am haunted by it forever?

What if I actually can’t get a plus-one, not even from a transactional list? What if all the dates reject me, and I ruin Rachel’s wedding, and she gets divorced, and it’s all my fault?

It’s a beautiful spring day, but I’m already too hot, my pulse sprinting and beads of sweat forming on my hairline and dampening the curls that frame my forehead. I’m in an orange and yellow striped romper and my worn, trusty leather boots, with a butterfly clip pinning one side of my hair back to try and tame the curls. I didn’t bother putting makeup on because I’ll probably just sweat it off anyway.

“You look so cute!” Rachel says as she greets me, looking effortless in a gauzy white sundress.

When Luis Gonzalez (works in finance, has a cat) arrives, I can tell instantly that he wishes this date was with Rachel and not me. He’s tall and excessively muscular, with dark, slicked back hair. It looks like he threads his eyebrows. He has a very large, very showy gold watch that keeps catching the sunlight and flashing directly into my eyes. He orders a whiskey, neat, and seems offended when the bartender tells him they only serve beer and wine.

Did he not look the place up before he got here? I do extensive research anytime I have to go somewhere new.

“So,” he says to Rachel. “You’re marrying Diego Alvarez.”

His eyes seem to constantly drift to her chest. I clench my teeth and instantly decide I do not like this person.

“Yes,” Rachel says. “And this is Eloise, my best friend and my maid of honor.”

He juts his chin in my direction. “Hey.”

My pulse pounds at the base of my throat.

I take a breath.

This is it, Eloise. You can do this. Just … say hello.