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There’s a long silence. I can feel Rachel’s eagerness. The sliver of sunlight inside me rejoices, glowing a fraction brighter.

“So?” Rachel finally says, barely hiding the glint of excitement in her eyes.

I groan. “I’ll ask him to be my plus-one. Again.”

“Yay!” she squeals, tackling me with a hug. The Colonel decides to get in on the action, rearing up and landing on top of her with his front paws.

“Oof,” I gasp.

“You’re not going to regret this,” Rachel says.

“I already do,” I say, my voice muffled against her shoulder.

She laughs, and kisses the top of my head.

18Agustín

I stand outside El Mercado Mexicano on 116th Street and check the time.

Maybe I should have offered to pick Eloise up from her place. I couldn’t believe my luck when she texted me back so quickly last night. I’m officially her plus-one again. I’ll call Neil tomorrow and confirm the interview is a go.

THE AGUSTÍN DAILY was more effective than I thought. It was also really fun to put together, deciding which pieces of my home would speak to her most strongly. I knew I had to put Parque México on there, for the dogs. And the jacarandas on Reforma, of course. It’s a shame she’s not coming in March when they bloom. There will still be plenty of green places for her to explore in October though.

The streets of East Harlem are bustling this afternoon, people coming home from church, abuelas doing their shopping, kids crowding around the woman selling raspados from a little cart. The sounds of my native language are everywhere. They call this area Spanish Harlem, though in the US, “Spanish” seems to be a blanket term. I don’t think many people from Spain live in this neighborhood. It’s all Latinos. Lots of Puerto Ricans. I also hear accents from Colombia, Guatemala, El Salvador … and Mexico, of course. There are big baskets of produce outside the market, with its weathered, faded awning in the colors of my country, green and white and red.

It felt right to take a step back from the socializing front and let Eloise focus on something a bit more fun: food. Mexico has the best food in the world. Yes, I may be biased, but it is also the truth. While I’m sure this wedding will have extravagances like caviar toasts or miniature beef Wellingtons, there’s also no way it won’t have some basics. Things that are quintessentially Mexican but that Eloise won’t be familiar with.

Just then, I spot her down the street, scurrying past the man with a table set up selling agua frescas, huge plastic tubs filled with vibrantly colored juices, tamarindo and jamaica and pepino con limón. She darts around a cop and nearly runs into two teens on scooters. It’s a perfect summer day, not too humid with a handful of fluffy clouds playing tag with the sun. Eloise wears those same vintage leather boots, and a pair of denim short overalls over a white tank top. Her curls are pinned back with clips shaped like butterflies and a pair of yellow-framed sunglasses hides her eyes. She’s so focused on avoiding the crowds that she walks right past me.

“Eloise!” I call, and she jumps and whirls around. I smile and wave. Her cheeks turn pink as she hurries back toward me.

“Hi,” she croaks, then clears her throat. “Hello. Hi.”

“Hello,” I say cheerfully. “You came!”

“Yeah,” she says. I can tell her eyes are darting around behind her shades, assessing the social-interaction threat level of whatever my plan might be.

I sweep my hand out at the store behind me. “Today, I thought we’d cook.”

She blanches. “Here?”

I chuckle. “No, at your apartment.” I don’t miss the relief that flickers across her face. “But we need supplies. Come on.”

I lead her inside. The market is cramped and smells a little funny and the floors are a mismatched pattern of brown and beige tiles, but oh, all the familiar sights! Packets of dried chiles hang on the walls, there’s a fridge full of quesos, Oaxaca and cotija, along with a large metal stand with all the Mexican snacks I grew up eating. I swipe a bag of Takis Fuego.

Eloise looks at them, intrigued. “I’ve seen those before,” she says.

“Yeah, they sell them everywhere here,” I say. Most bodegas will have them, and I’ve seen them in Duane Reade too.

“Are we cooking with them?”

“No, no, you don’t want to eat these,” I promise her.

She frowns. “But I like chips.”

“Not these. Trust me.”

The man behind the counter chuckles. “El de atrás paga,” he says.