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“Yes,” I say before I can overthink my own name. I am Eloise. Eloise is me.

“I just wanted to stop by and give you this.” She holds out the casserole dish, balanced on her palm.

“Why?” The word tumbles out of my mouth before I can stop it and the Wheel instantly jams on This Interaction Will Haunt You Forever. My heartbeat pounds at the base of my skull, mortification creeping over my scalp in sharp prickles.

“Your boyfriend came looking for medicine when you were sick, and I’m so sorry, I didn’t have anything but Children’s Tylenol, and Mansion was being fussy before his nap, and I wasn’t much help. I’m Gretchen, by the way. Mansion and Begonia’s mom.”

She beams at me like those are sensible names to call your children. Or that I’d know her children’s names at all.

Then my brain screeches to a halt at the word boyfriend. No, no, no. How can I explain this? I can’t, I don’t have the right words in the right order, and why is she even here? I didn’t ask for a sympathy casserole! I feel the moment stretching out, the appropriate window of time in which I should respond expanding into longer and longer silence. It’s getting awkward. Gretchen blinks at me, her smile faltering.

“Hi!” Rachel’s voice come from behind me, saving me like she always does. “I’m Rachel, Eloise’s friend.”

Gretchen’s smile brightens to a thousand watts, clearly relieved she’s encountered someone who knows how to hold a conversation.

“I’m Gretchen,” she says. “I live down the hall in 9C.”

“That smells amazing,” Rachel says, looking at the casserole dish. It really does smell good.

“It’s my specialty,” Gretchen says proudly. “Chicken Divan. My kids love it. Well, Begonia isn’t eating anything ultra processed right now, but I thought something homey after being sick might be comforting. I’m really sorry I couldn’t help—I was just telling Eloise, her boyfriend was so kind, coming by to see if we had any medicine.”

My face feels hotter than the surface of the sun. I didn’t tell Rachel about how Agustín went from neighbor to neighbor trying to find Miriam—just that he went and got her. I didn’t tell her why we went to Madame Boularès’ apartment the other day, just that he wanted to help me socialize.

I can feel Rachel’s eyes boring into the side of my face. I stay extremely still, like she’s a T-Rex, and if I don’t move, she can’t see me.

“Oh my god, that’s so sweet of you,” Rachel says, descending on Gretchen to sweep the casserole dish out of her hand. “Isn’t Eloise’s boyfriend just the nicest guy?”

At that, my head whips around to glare at her but now it’s Rachel who’s refusing to make eye contact.

“He is,” Gretchen says eagerly. “Oh, I brought this too.” She holds up a bottle of white wine, condensation dewing on its glass surface.

“Oooh El, it’s a sauvignon blanc, our favorite,” Rachel says, finally meeting my glare, her face alight with triumph. “Gretchen, come on in. Want to stay for a glass?”

No! Gretchen cannot come in. We cannot have a glass of anything. This is my space. Why is Rachel doing this?

“I’d love to!” Gretchen says. “If it’s no bother.”

It is so much bother. I am supremely bothered. But the two of them walk past me into the hall. “My word, your apartment is incredible, Eloise. Look at all these wonderful plants. Oh hello, who’s this?”

A very wet Charleston has padded forward, his sharp nose detecting a new arrival.

“That’s Charleston,” Rachel says. Charleston sniffs her shoes as Gretchen coos.

“He’s so cute,” she says.

Then I watch in horror as Charleston wobbles around, lifts one leg, and lets out a stream of pee right on Gretchen’s probably-definitely designer loafers.

“Oh!” she cries, as the Wheel spins frantically in my chest and jams on AHHHHHHH!

I leap into action, grabbing Charleston around his middle and hauling him away from her.

“I’m sorry–I’m sorry–I’m sorry,” I stammer, the embarrassment a violent writhing thing, like a thousand bats have been released in my chest, all flapping wings and sharpened claws. I can’t look Gretchen in the eyes. With shaking hands, I awkwardly tuck Charleston like a football under my arm, grab a roll of paper towels from the kitchen counter, and unspool it like a huge, Brawny ribbon, trying to mop up the pee as Charleston wriggles in my grasp. “I’m sorry–I’m sorry–I’m sorry,” I gasp, trying to keep the tears at bay, wishing she had never come here with her stupid, delicious smelling casserole and her crisp cold bottle of my favorite wine, being all nice and neighborly, as if that’s something I can handle.

Suddenly, she’s crouched down next to me. “Oh sweetheart,” she says, putting one hand gently on my shoulder, and I don’t like strangers touching me, but something about the words and action combined are so … so … motherly. Such an unfamiliar sensation. It stops me in my tracks.

I meet her gaze. Her eyes are a very dark blue, almost navy.

“It’s okay,” she says slowly. “They’re just shoes. I have two little kids—dog pee is nothing. Try getting vomit out of your hair at four in the morning on zero sleep.” She stands and steps out of both her shoes. “I’ll just leave these here by the door if that’s all right. I’m sure my dry cleaner can sort them out tomorrow.”