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25Eloise

The light casts shadows across Agustín’s face, highlighting his features.

His sharp cheekbones, his proud nose, the dent of his dimples. His eyes look onyx in this light. His dark eyebrows have a teasing curve to them, and his thick tousled hair falls across his high forehead playfully. I grip the neck of the champagne bottle tightly, prickles erupting over my thighs. Why does he have to be so beautiful?

I take another swig, the bubbles tickling my nose, then pass it to him. I don’t want to argue when I’m know I’m right. That no amount of practice will ever make me normal. And the wedding will be so much bigger than this party. And I have to make a speech. And I have to leave my dogs for a week. And I’ve never been away from my apartment, or New York City, for that long. And—

I close my eyes and take a deep inhale, allowing the gin and the champagne swimming through my veins to pull me away from those feelings. It’s nice and quiet back here—well, no, not quiet, but the giant fan helpfully drowns out the sounds of the party.

“You didn’t tell me you were getting published in The New Yorker,” I say, shredding a piece of prosciutto.

Agustín tenses ever so slightly. If I weren’t so in tune to him, I might not have noticed. “You never asked,” he says.

“Isn’t that, like, really hard?” The New Yorker is the best of the best, in a city where being the best isn’t easy.

He nods. “It’s been my dream my whole life,” he says softly. “Ever since I decided to become a journalist. It’s a big part of why I wanted to come here. To live in this city.”

“Wow,” I say. “And it’s happening?”

He looks at me, a frown creasing his face. “Yes. I think it is. The article is not quite finished yet.”

“And it’s about the Rasca guy who was your grandpa?” I ask. The name was vaguely familiar. I don’t watch a lot of NY1. Or really much television at all.

He chuckles. “El Rasca. Rascacielos, that was his nickname. It means skyscraper in Spanish.”

“So what’s the article about?” I ask. Agustín seems weirdly reticent to talk about this, which is unusual since talking is like his favorite thing.

He sighs and takes a long drink. “My abuelo moved to New York City when I was five years old. My family all thought he was supporting us by working as a janitor. Turns out, he was keeping a lot of secrets from us. Not just that he was an activist in the Latino community here. But he also had a secret second family in New York.”

I feel my jaw hanging open. “I’m sorry, he had a what?”

“A second family.”

“Like … he married someone else? While he was still married to your grandmother?”

He nods.

“But … but … how? Isn’t that illegal?”

“He pretended he was single. It’s not like they were calling up Mexico to check. He took his new wife’s last name after they got married. They had a son.”

“Holy shit,” I say. “Agustín, that’s so fucked up.”

He gives a sharp nod. “I agree.”

“So then … is your article like a condemnation of him?”

Agustín slowly tears a piece of soppressata in half. “Yes,” he admits. “The New Yorker is doing a series called The Voices of the City. They want to highlight important people in New York from the past twenty-five years. Obviously, I have a unique perspective on El Rasca.” He chews the soppressata thoughtfully. “Yes, I want to condemn him. We were being evicted from our home when he was fighting for people he didn’t even know. We had to move into this tiny apartment in a very bad neighborhood, and he wasn’t there for us.”

“Why did you have to move?” I ask.

“Corruption in the government,” Agustín says with a defeated shrug. “It happens a lot in Mexico.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, I can hear the echo of pain in his voice. “How can I not be angry at him? Am I supposed to make excuses for my abuelo not being there for his family? Family is everything, and yet he lied to us. It makes me so mad—he was my hero, and he let us down.” His jaw clenches and his nostrils flare. “But he was also a real hero to people in this city. I’ve done the research, and I’ve seen the lives he affected, the positive change he made. He did so many things I agree with, things that I have tried to do with my own writing. To speak for the voiceless. Is doing good here meant to give him a free pass? I don’t think so. He never even came to visit us after he left. He always said he couldn’t afford to come back, but now I wonder if he just didn’t want to.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, and it flops back over his brow. “My sister Lupe is furious with me for putting our family’s private life on display. Caro thinks Abuelo is no different than other men, and he should be called out for abandoning his family. It’s unfortunately not that unusual, men moving to the US and having second families. It’s just not something I ever thought my abuelo would do.”

“What does your grandmother think?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I haven’t been able to ask her about it yet.”