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“Shouldn’t you?” I ask timidly. I’m the last person to give familial advice, but it seems like her opinion should be the most important. She’s the one who was betrayed at the fundamental level.

“I’ve tried,” he admits with a sigh. “She doesn’t have her own phone, and my mom and tías are not letting me speak to her directly. We are all very protective of Abuelita. I know they don’t want to hurt her by bringing up the past, but still …”

Well, I guess I can’t entirely blame them for that. How would you even start that conversation? Hey Grandma, can we talk about the fact that your husband left you, married someone else, and had a baby, all while you were still married? Oh, and he also became an activist fighting for others’ rights while you were back home getting evicted? Talk about awkward.

“Anyway,” Agustín says, leaning back on his elbows and looking up at the sky. The moon is a pale white crescent set amid a backdrop of deep blue. The first stars are just starting to peek out—the few that we can see in the city anyway. “Enough about my crazy family. Lupe will live, and she and Caro will find something new to argue about.”

He smiles indulgently.

“Are you close with your sisters?”

He takes a drink of champagne. “Yes. Especially Caro. But I love Lupe too—even when she’s being stubborn.” There’s a deep, burning passion behind his words, and it’s impossible to doubt the truth of them.

I suddenly feel very empty and very, very small. I hold out my hand, and he passes the champagne to me.

“What about you?” he asks softly.

“What about me?” I know what he means though. He knows I know. He’s mentioned his family a million times in the month and change we’ve known each other. I know them all—Lupe, Caro, his parents, his nieces. I think I’ve said Lenny’s name twice.

Agustín waits. He always knows when to wait. He never pushes me.

“I don’t have a family,” I say. Agustín goes very still. “I have Rachel. And I used to have Lenny—my uncle, the one I inherited the apartment from. But he wasn’t …” I pause and take another swallow of champagne. I don’t ever want to talk about my childhood. But I feel, in this moment, that I should. I think Agustín has earned the right to know. “My parents died when I was two.” My voice can barely be heard above the fan. “I don’t remember them. No, I have one memory of my mom, like …” My throat tightens. “Like warm fabric against my cheek. Something soft. And her smell. I can’t describe it but I remember it. But their faces or voices …”

A pigeon lands on the ledge and struts back and forth, looking at us with one judgmental eye.

I inhale a slow, deep breath. “They were taking a trip upstate, for my dad’s work. I guess they thought they’d make a quick, child-free weekend out of it. They left me with Lenny. They were on their way back when the train derailed. Twenty-two people died. It was the biggest tragedy in Metro North history.”

I can’t look at him. I don’t want to see the sympathy in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Eloise,” he says.

“I don’t remember it,” I say, taking another sip of champagne and handing him the bottle. “The funeral, the papers, the lawsuit, nothing. All the families got a settlement. Money, that’s what I got from losing the anchors of my entire tiny world. Like my parents’ lives could be compensated by a dollar amount. It just sat in an account accruing interest. I never touched it until I started adopting dogs. My therapist says my anxiety stems partly from the trauma of losing them. PTSD. Abandonment issues. Whatever.” I feel tears well up, and I blink them back quickly. “Both sets of my grandparents had died before I was born. My dad was an only child. Lenny, my mom’s brother, became my guardian. And Lenny was …”

I hesitate. What was Lenny? He wasn’t cruel or a disciplinarian or neglectful. But he wasn’t a parent, that’s for sure.

“Lenny was like a cardboard cutout,” I say at last.

“Like a what?” Agustín’s brow furrows.

I pick at the hem of my dress. “Lenny got up every day, and ate his Cheerios with sliced banana, went to work, came home, read the paper on Sundays in his armchair, and never, ever changed his routine. He provided me with food and shelter and sent me to school and signed permission slips. We never had deep conversations or talked about feelings or got to know each other in any meaningful way—I think the only activity we ever did together was watch reruns of Alf. Lenny and I both really liked Alf.”

“That old TV show?”

I nod, and half smile, because it’s such a depressing memory yet one of the only good ones I have of my uncle. “We circled each other like two ghosts haunting that apartment.” The stupid tears come back, and one lands on my cheek. I brush it away impatiently. “I wonder if he was sad, when my mom died. I never saw Lenny sad. I never saw him happy either. He existed. His life was his work. His real home was his law office.” A lump swells in my throat and another tear falls. “The apartment was so quiet when I was growing up. My world was so quiet.”

I finally risk a glance at him. He’s sitting up, leaning forward, those soulful eyes focused entirely on me. My skin tightens over my bones, and I brace myself for his pity.

“What about Rachel?” he asks.

All the air leaves me in a whoosh. It’s the exact right thing to say. A smile breaks across my face like a sunrise.

“I met Rachel in elementary school,” I say. “She was loud and funny and bold and didn’t care what anyone else thought of her. I cared what everyone thought.” I hiccup. “There was a boy who made fun of me every recess, called me a freak and stuff. He used to pull my hair too. He was really mean. Anyway, one day he said something about me having no parents and Rachel punched him in the nuts. She had to skip a week of recess after that, but she said it was worth it. And the kid never bullied me again.”

Agustín chuckles and looks out over the skyline.

“My house was so loud,” he muses, a gentle smile playing across his face. “And so full. There were always tías and primas visiting, or friends stopping by. My mom has a lot of friends. And of course, Lupe and Caro would get into fights. They were both very well-spoken. No, outspoken. Very outspoken.”

I’m glad for the change of subject. Talking about my childhood leaves me feeling hollowed out and itchy.