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I point at his glass of red wine. Whatever it is, I’ll drink it, I don’t care. He flashes those dimples at the bartender. “Can we get another Côtes de Rhône?” he asks.

She pours one for me, and Agustín raises his glass. “Salud.”

I lift my glass in a trembling hand, and we clink.

I am so completely fucked.

8Agustín

Eloise Whitechapel is quite the puzzle.

She’s clutching her wineglass like it’s the last life preserver on the Titanic and refusing to make eye contact. She almost seems frightened of me. I haven’t gone on many dates since I’ve moved here—maybe I’m doing something wrong.

“So,” I say, after a few moments of silence. “How long have you lived in New York?”

I’ve found this to be a standard question—there are deep levels of pride in New Yorkers about the amount of time they’ve called the city home. A competitive nature to it. According to Sex and the City, it’s ten years of living here before you can officially call yourself a New Yorker.

I can see Eloise’s pulse fluttering beneath her jaw. Her skin is very pale, and there’s a smattering of golden freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her chestnut hair is wildly curly, falling to just above her shoulders.

She swallows hard—I swear I can hear the muscles in her throat working. “I was born here,” she says. Her voice is so quiet, I have to strain to hear her.

“Really?” I say, delighted. “I didn’t think anyone was actually born here. Well, no, of course people are born here, but I haven’t met a born-and-raised New Yorker yet. You’re the first! I moved here in January. Very much a ‘newbie,’ as my friend Eva says.”

Eloise nods, still not looking at me, her curls bouncing. I wait to see if she’ll elaborate. Nope.

Well, Lupe always says I’m the gold medalist at wrangling conversations out of people. And I want Eloise to like me—I got the definite sense from Rachel that this is an interview, that I’m one of many candidates plucked from Eva’s list of más-unos.

“I love New York,” I say. “It’s been my dream to live here ever since I was a kid. I’m from Mexico City. Have you ever been?”

Another quivering of curls as Eloise shakes her head. There’s something at once fragile yet strong about her. The delicateness of her features, the softness of her pale skin, contrasts with the iron grip on her wineglass and the tense set of her shoulders.

“Oh, you’ll love it. You’re the maid of honor at the wedding, right? Eva’s told me that it’s in CDMX—sorry, that’s what we call it, Ciudad de México—but no one knows the exact location because of security stuff.” I chuckle. “My sister’s wedding was in the backyard of a house in Coyoacán. That’s an area of the city, kind of like Fort Greene. We got this local restaurant to supply the food—tacos and sopes and tortas. Mexico City has the best food anywhere in the world. Real Mexican food, not nachos or whatever. No offense.”

She shrugs. Hm. I’ve found Americans really love to proclaim their devotion to nachos. I thought I’d get more reaction here. I see her glance at her phone, then her eyes dart up to me briefly. They’re a startling shade of green—like sea glass, soft and clear. Then they widen in panic, and she looks at her phone again.

I take a sip of wine, stumped. She’s wearing an oversize cardigan with big flowers on it, hiding her figure. Her jeans are tucked into a cool pair of worn leather boots that come just above her ankles. They look vintage. Caro would love them.

“I like your boots,” I say.

That seems to surprise her. Her wide green gaze flies back to me. “They’re old,” she says.

I chuckle, glad I’ve coaxed a response out of her at last. “The best things in this world have history, don’t you think?”

Her eyes dart to my mouth, then back to her phone. I’m definitely doing something wrong. She keeps looking at the time like she wants to leave. And I notice sweat dewing along her hairline. Maybe she’s ill?

I lean forward and catch a faint whiff of something fresh and citrusy. “Are you feeling all right?” I ask her softly.

Her entire body goes rigid. Suddenly, without warning, she shouts, “Rachel was supposed to be here!”

Her voice is so loud it’s shocking, after all the nods and whispers. A few of the patrons sitting at tables turn to look at her. Her face flushes bright pink. Eloise grabs her wineglass and, in a pretty impressive display, chugs the entire thing.

She puts the empty glass back on the bar and leaps off her stool. “I’m finished,” she declares, then suddenly lets out an enormous burp. Her blush deepens to a rich scarlet that crawls down her neck and blooms across her collarbone. “Sorry,” she gasps, covering her mouth. Then she turns on her heel and flees the wine bar, running off down the street and out of sight.

“Everything okay over here?” the bartender asks, coming over.

“Yeah, fine, thanks,” I say, feeling anything but.

What just happened? What did I do wrong? Whatever it was, I’ve got to fix it.