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“Not you?” I ask as the pigeon takes off.

“Nah, I’m a peacemaker. Like my dad.”

This doesn’t surprise me.

“Do you miss them?” I ask.

He nods. “A lot. But the US is where the opportunity is. It’s where I can really grow. There are limits in Mexico. Not that I don’t also love Mexico. But I always wanted more. And New York was this paradise in my mind, filled with people from all over the world, everybody working hard to make better futures for themselves. And there’s so much to do.” His face lights up as he talks about the city. “So much to explore. It feels alive here, you know? Like the city is a living organism. I wanted to be part of that. Like my abuelo was.”

His face puckers, and he looks down into the champagne bottle.

“This isn’t how I thought my dream would go,” he says. “It’s very, very hard to get published in The New Yorker, especially nonfiction. Almost impossible, in fact. They just happened to be doing a series on prominent New York figures, and I just happened to hear about it through my boss, and I’d just happened to find out about my abuelo, pretty much the day I moved into my apartment back in January. It felt like a series of unlikely events, leading me to the cusp of the highlight of my career, but not in the way I’d planned. When I’d imagined my life in this city, I hadn’t pictured so much complication.”

“That’s New York for you,” I say.

He sighs. “It is very hurtful. That sense of betrayal. I am so angry with Abuelo, and I can’t yell at him or demand answers.” His mouth quirks up on one side. “Not being able to demand answers is especially hard for a journalist.”

I think about that for a moment. “I can totally understand the feeling of betrayal, but … I don’t think this makes your abuelo wholly bad, you know? I don’t think anyone is really all bad or all good. Except maybe, like, Hitler. And Pedro Pascal.”

“That is the spectrum?” he asks me wryly.

I smile. “I just think that if your abuelo knew that his story was your opportunity, to accomplish your dreams, I don’t think he’d begrudge you exposing the less-than-cool stuff he did. And I also kind of agree with Caro—call him out. I wish there was more calling out of men in positions of power in general, to be honest. Maybe this is your way of yelling at him. So it might make you feel better, once the article is out there.”

Agustín seems to be thinking very deeply about something. He taps the champagne bottle with his index finger, considering. “Listen, Eloise—”

“There you are!” Rachel’s voice startles us as she comes around the corner. “Having a little private party, I see.” She flops down beside me and grabs a piece of cheese from the plate. “Diego’s work friends just arrived, so it’s all big slaps on the back and work work work.”

She mimes a talking mouth with one hand.

“But we’re going to do a little speech,” she says, standing and helping me up. “Ready, O Great and Glorious Maid of Honor?”

The Wheel jolts to life, spinning frantically as beads of sweat start to form on my hairline.

“What?” I splutter. “I’m not making a speech.”

“No, oh my god, sorry, I just meant, I want you there,” Rachel says, giving me a quick squeeze. “Then you can leave,” she whispers in my ear.

And this is why we’re best friends.

26Eloise

Rachel: Eloise Madigan Whitechapel! I’m so sorry I’ve fallen off the face of the planet. This launch is killing me. But it’s almost over! Just one week to go.

Me: It’s going to be a smashing success! I’m really excited for you. Miss you though.

Rachel: Miss you tooooooo

Rachel: Oh my god, ALSO.

Rachel: Agustín is such a great guy!!!!

Me: Yeah, I know.

Rachel: He’s really cute too

Me:

Rachel: Oh come on. Don’t you think he’s cute? I just mean objectively. As a human. A man-shaped human. He’s a cute man-shaped human, right?