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I chuckle.

Me: Correct. Not me, though.

Me: I mean, I have a job.

Me: And I live in a studio apartment with only one functioning sink.

My landlady is a very intimidating Ukrainian woman who seems to always be promising repairs that never materialize.

Rachel: Lol.

I feel hope bloom in my chest.

Rachel: Listen, I would NEVER normally do this but … would you be willing to go to her apartment and check on her? I’d go myself but I’m stuck in New Jersey. And there’s no one else I can ask. I’ve even tried calling the doorman but no one is answering the phone.

Me: I’d be happy to! And I can share my location with you so you can track me if you’d like. So you’ll know I’ve left after I’ve made sure Eloise is okay.

Rachel: That would be great, actually.

She sends me an address in Manhattan, on Central Park West. Which seems quite expensive. Eloise didn’t strike me as a Nico/Eva type.

Me: I’ll head over there now.

I send her my location info, setting it to share for three hours. Then I weave through the crowd to find Paulina.

“I’ve got to run,” I tell her. “Family emergency.”

11Eloise

Not to be dramatic but … death has come for me.

In the form of food poisoning, I think. I’m never getting chicken vindaloo ever again.

Or maybe it’s some horrible virus that’s gripped me in its clutches and won’t let go. Or maybe I’ve been poisoned, Agatha Christie style. Just when I think there’s nothing left inside me to vomit, my stomach lurches, and all the progress I’ve made trying to get into bed is ruined as I have to crawl back to the bathroom. I’ve set up shop here, resting my cheek on a towel pulled down from the rack, my back pressed against the cool porcelain tub. My skin is clammy and prickles with fever. My throat is parched, my muscles ache, and there’s a constant, dull pounding in my head.

The dogs are worried. Hazel is pacing back and forth between the bathroom and the living room. I think Charleston has pooped on the floor somewhere, but I can’t leave the bathroom long enough to clean it. The Colonel has been sitting in the doorway watching me, his head on his paws, his deep brown eyes full of concern. Thank god I gave him his insulin this morning, before this thing really took hold.

I have no idea where Pip is—that’s what I’ve renamed Picante, after the character from Great Expectations. My guess is he’s in the decompression room, where he’s been pretty much all week.

He’s having a lot of trouble adapting. Not with the Pack—after the first day, Hazelnut immediately pushed her way into the room and asserted herself as the Boss. To my surprise and delight, Pip seems to enjoy being bossed around by her. She even lets him share the giant dog bed with her sometimes, on the handful of occasions he’s come out into the living room. And Charleston and the Colonel are both so amenable, that Pip has fit right into the dynamic. Hazel rules the roost, and everyone else falls in line.

But he won’t let me come near him, and he still spends most of his time in the decompression room. Every time I try to pet him, or put on a harness, or offer him a treat, he snarls and snaps at me, or runs and hides. He’s even bitten my hand a couple times. I’ve been nipped by a scared or anxious dog before, but still. Usually after the first few days, the dog warms up to me. The rule of threes and all that: three days, three weeks, three months. But we’re at week one and there’s been no real change in his attitude toward me. It hurts that this poor animal was so betrayed by humans. I can’t imagine what he’s been through.

But you don’t rescue seniors without having a high level of patience.

And I’m glad the Pack has taken to him and vice versa. That’s the most important thing. But I want to get him out of the house and on walks, and I can’t do that if he won’t let me get near him.

So being on my deathbed right now is more inconvenient than usual.

I need water so badly. But I think I’ll only throw it back up.

Tears prick my eyes. Haven’t I suffered enough this week? I totally ruined any chance of finding a date for the wedding, I humiliated myself in front of Agustín, and the worst part is, he won’t stop texting me! I just don’t get it. Why does he keep asking me out? Is this some sort of prank? No one in their right mind would want a second date after the way I behaved.

No, the real worst part is, I want to say yes. Despite all my efforts to keep the Agustín Feelings Box closed, I think about him all the time. Those dimples. That hot-chocolate smile. The way he smelled when he leaned in close to me, warm and spicy, like cardamon and leather. He’s lodged in my mind, fluttering in the pit of my stomach, a constant pulse next to my own.

I cannot see that man ever again because if I do it’s going to become an If You Give a Mouse a Cookie type situation and that is the last thing I need. He doesn’t know what he’d be getting into anyway. I’m a joke. A total mess. I have my dogs, and that’s all I’m cut out for. Romance is one thousand percent off the table for me.

I feel another wave of nausea and scramble into a sitting position just in time to vomit again. I slump back onto the floor, my head throbbing, my skin burning, and wish I had someone to call for help. Miriam is clearly the best (and closest) option. But I can barely make it to my own bedroom, much less down the hall. I don’t know where I left my phone, but Rachel is in Jersey all day, making sure everything is ready for the launch. I don’t want to bother her.