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“What does that mean?” Eloise whispers.

I grimace. “Well … it means your butt is gonna poop fire,” I explain.

Her eyes pop open wide. “Okay, no chips.”

“But try these,” I say, grabbing her a package of Gansitos. “They’re chocolate covered cakes filled with strawberry jam and cream.”

“Ooh,” she says, examining the package with interest, and I know food was the right call. It’s hard to be nervous around food.

I switch to Spanish and ask the man behind the counter for the ingredients I need. They’ve got chiltepin chiles, and I get a couple of jalapeños and a serrano as well. Not sure how much spice Eloise can handle, so best to cover all the bases. I get a bunch of limes, a cucumber, red onion, and cilantro, along with a bag of tostadas and a few ripe avocados. I brought my tortilla press with me in my backpack—a gift from my mother, who was very concerned there wouldn’t be good tortillas in New York. And sopecitos require extra love and fresh tortillas. I get a bag of corn flour (Maseca, obviously), a can of refried beans, a pound of chorizo, some queso fresco, lettuce, and white onion for toppings.

I’m hungry already.

“What are you making?” Eloise asks as the man bags everything up.

“Let me guess,” he says to me in Spanish. “Sopes y aguachile?”

“Exacto,” I reply. I turn to Eloise. “It’s a surprise. And I’m not making it—we are making it.”

Our next stop is a local fishmonger for some shrimp. The guy serving us is from CDMX; he and I chat about the city for a bit while Eloise hovers behind me like a shadow. She seems to be trying to take up as little space as possible, shrinking from one side of me to the other. Then we head to the 2/3 train. It’s been nice to spend an afternoon speaking Spanish. Rejuvenating, like a brief spa day for my brain, where it doesn’t have to be constantly translating.

We get off at 96th Street and head toward the park. The stately brownstones that front the tree-lined streets, with their sweeping stoops and large windows, feel like a world away from the rusted fire escapes and cramped storefronts of Harlem.

We walk a few blocks down Central Park West to Eloise’s building. The Archer, it’s called. All the buildings on this street have names, like they’re more important than other buildings. There’s a Latino dude in a cap standing outside smoking a cigarette. I saw him when I came here the first time.

“Hola,” I say, giving him a cheerful wave.

“Qué tal,” he replies, offering me his hand. “Hector.”

“Agustín.”

“Mucho gusto.”

We shake.

“I didn’t know Miss Whitechapel had a boyfriend,” he says in Spanish, glancing at Eloise.

“Just friends,” I reply.

“Oh,” he says, frowning as if that makes just as little sense as her having a boyfriend.

Eloise gives him a tight nod without quite making eye contact, which seems to be her typical greeting for everyone. Hector opens the door for us, and we walk into the cool lobby with its sleek couches and modern art.

As soon as the elevator doors close behind us, I feel a strange tension fill the air. Eloise is still wearing her sunglasses, so I can’t see her eyes, but she grips the bag of shrimp tightly, and the space between us hums. I shift my backpack, the straps digging into my shoulders. The tortilla press is like an anchor. But it will be worth it.

The elevator doors open with a ding, and the second we step out into the hall, Miriam throws open the door to her apartment.

“Hello again,” she says to me, as an orange tabby cat weaves around her ankles.

“Hello,” I say brightly.

“It’s nice to see you,” Miriam says, her eyes darting between me and Eloise, a sly smile on her lips.

“It’s nice to see you too,” I say. Eloise seems determined to stay out of this conversation. She’s hugging the bag of shrimp to her chest now, like it’s a talisman that can ward off evil.

“What are you all up to on this fine sunny Sunday?”

“I’m teaching Eloise how to cook some Mexican dishes, so she’ll know what to expect at the wedding,” I say.