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She makes it seem so easy, putting the right words in the right order.

“Oh,” he says again, then turns the conversation back to Rachel.

Blissfully, the interaction only lasts about forty-five minutes. Now I can spend the rest of the evening working on a batch of bacon maple biscuits and reading Agatha Christie.

Rachel comes back to the apartment with me to say hi to the Pack. As we step out of the elevator, I hear the faint strains of Mr. Bloom playing Bach. Uncle Lenny was a big fan of classical music, so I can usually recognize Mr. Bloom’s pieces.

“That went well, right?” Rachel says.

I shrug. Did it? I guess I actually said words this time. Someone get me a medal.

But I can’t picture attending the wedding with José Miguel any more than with Luis. The plus-one list was much more fun when it was just names on a screen.

A door opens down the hall, and Soul Cycle struts out of their apartment, dressed in matching lululemon. I wonder if they’re going to meet the yoga moms for rosé on the stoop. I don’t know their names, even though we’ve been neighbors for years. One is short and blond and muscular, the other a strikingly attractive, willowy Indian woman. Both have their hair in high ponytails. My muscles tense, and I avoid eye contact as they walk past. Rachel gives a faint, “Hey.” She’s seen them around of course.

We’ve all seen each other around, but I’m happier when we pretend we’re strangers. Like Mr. Bloom and I do. He gets it. That’s the best part about New York—everyone’s a stranger, even when they live in the same building as you. I wouldn’t even know anyone’s name at all on this floor if it weren’t for Miriam.

We step inside my apartment. Charleston is in the kitchen having a drink of water. Hazelnut is chewing on her SpongeBob squeaky toy while the Colonel watches, having managed to temporarily reclaim the giant dog bed. I sidestep Charleston to open the fridge and grab a package of bacon.

As I turn on the oven to preheat and line a baking sheet with parchment paper, Rachel’s phone pings. She looks at it and frowns. “So … it’s a no from José Miguel.”

“Oh.” I feel an odd mix of rejection and relief. “Why?”

“No real reason,” Rachel says airily as Charleston wanders over and starts licking her shoe.

“Is it the fact I couldn’t look at him or the fact that I can’t speak in complete sentences,” I say flatly.

“You can speak in complete sentences,” Rachel points out. “You just did.”

I sigh and lean back against the kitchen counter.

“There’s still one date left,” she says.

“You really think it’s going to be any different?” I ask bleakly.

She comes over to lean beside me and nudges me with her shoulder. “You never know.”

I glance at her, and can’t even come up with a snarky comment, because I see the hope in her eyes, tinged with desperation. Of all the people Rachel could fall for, it had to be someone with the most bizarre family superstition.

The next day is cool and overcast. I slip into a pair of jeans and a green tank top, throwing on a cardigan with big crochet daisies stitched on it. I have to make an effort this time. For Rachel. So I spritz some of the curl reactivator spray she insisted on buying me into my hair and put mascara on. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. A pair of pale green eyes stares back at me. My eyes are probably the only thing I like about my appearance.

“Bye, guys,” I say to the Pack. “Be good.”

Charleston is chewing on one of his front paws. Hazel ignores me. I give the Colonel a scratch behind the ear and he licks my hand.

I’m waiting for the elevator, listening to the faint strains of Brahms coming from 9B, when Miriam pokes her head out of her door.

“Where are you off to?” she says. She’s wearing scrubs, her tight black curls puffing out in a halo around her open, friendly face. Miriam used to be a nurse at Mount Sinai, but now she runs her own business, as a home aide. Her husband made a small fortune running some big shipping company—they moved into the building when I was just out of college. He died a few years ago, though. As she takes me in, her eyes narrow. “Are you wearing makeup?”

“Going out to meet Rachel,” I say. I definitely do not want to tell Miriam about the plus-one list. She’d have way too many questions and be way too excited about it.

The elevator doors open and I step inside just as my phone rings.

Rachel.

“El, I’m so sorry,” she says. “I can’t make it tonight”

My heart plummets like a stone. “What?”