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“My husband was a strange person too,” Madame says, her eyes wandering to a side table where some kind of shrine is set up with lots of old photographs. It looks a bit like an ofrenda for Día de Muertos, except that there is no color, no papel picado or flowers, just lots of pictures of a man with a thick beard in various outfits—a military uniform, a bathing suit, a seventies style blazer. “He was in the French navy. A hero. He died at sea.”

She takes a mournful sip of her coffee.

I look pointedly at Eloise, then at Madame Boularès. Eloise’s expression is confused.

What? she mouths.

“I am sorry to hear that,” I say to Madame.

Eloise’s cheeks turn a darker shade of pink. Her jaw is a blade of tension, and her shoulders are bunched up nearly to her ears. I see her swallow hard, her throat bobbing. I suddenly worry she’s stopped breathing.

“He was a remarkable man. A passionate man. We had the most fantastic sex life. You would not believe it.”

Eloise shoots up from the sofa. “ThankyoufortheteaIneedtogonowthankyou.”

The words jumble together as she tries to step past me, trips on my foot, catches herself on a large metal sculpture of a cat beside the couch, spins around once, steadies herself, then runs down the hall and out the door.

Madame Boularès seems completely unfazed by this. “It was very nice to see you again,” she says as I stand to leave. “Please do stop by sometime. I never have company.”

“Sure,” I say, privately thinking I’d rather not if it’s going to involve stories about her and her dead husband’s sex life. “Um, thank you for the coffee.”

“De nada,” she says with a small smile.

15Eloise

Agustín finds me having a full-blown panic attack in the hall.

I’m on my knees on the thick green carpet, my forehead pressing against the wall, sparks flaring in my vision, my lungs unable to expand. Tears spill down my cheeks and the shame is so so so bad, the agony of it, the tightness in my chest, the faint ringing in my ears. I will always be like this. There’s no helping me, there’s no escape, there’s no amount of practice that can fix me, there’s no air, I can’t find air, the Wheel spins and spins, so fast it hurts, my chest is on fire, and why do I have to be like this, why why why …

Count in five. My therapist’s voice comes back to me, and I press my fingers against the wall one by one in a five count, thumb to pinkie.

Inhale one, two, three, four, five.

I hold it, my body quivering, my lungs aching.

Count out five. I press my fingertips to the wall again, and exhale to a five count. The throbbing in my head starts to fade. I do this two more times before I hear the door open. My ribs are sore and my lungs feel like they’ve been wrung out, but at least I can breathe again.

“Are you okay?” Agustín asks, sliding down the wall to sit beside me. I press my forehead harder against the wall. Touching something helps. That tension, the sense of being in contact with something strong and sturdy and immovable.

“I can’t do this,” I croak. I hope he can’t hear me. I wish he couldn’t see me. I wish I could just disappear.

“Of course you can,” he says. “You just did.”

My head whips up to meet his eyes. “That?” I choke. Does he really think that disaster was a success? I couldn’t even take the most basic social cue of “tell an old widow you’re sorry her husband died.” I shake my head. “I’ll never—can’t talk in—”

Ugh, why are words so hard? How am I ever meant to make an actual speech in front of hundreds of wedding guests?

“Sure you will,” Agustín says cheerfully. “You just need some practice.”

Something in me snaps. I can’t stand his upbeat attitude, or his dimpled smile, or his kind eyes. Not when I’m this pathetic broken thing curled up in a hallway having a panic attack after someone offered me a coffee. The words begin to pour out in a torrent, a flood unleashed.

“You don’t know me at all,” I snarl. “You don’t know anything about me. This will never work! I’m not normal. I can’t just talk to people like you can, okay? Stop acting like I can do this when I can’t! Stop being so fucking positive! We’re done. This is over. I never want to see you again. Just … just … GO!”

I shout the word, my withered lungs expelling it in one powerful whoosh, shocking both of us. I didn’t know I had that kind of sound in me.

Agustín looks blank with surprise for a moment. Then he stands.

“Okay,” he says mildly. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something else then stops himself. He offers his hand to help me, and I fold my arms across my chest and look away. Yes, I am giving him the toddler treatment. Very high road of me. But right now, all I feel is molten, aching shame. I just want him gone.