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I hold her pale green gaze. “You did great in there.”

Her mouth twists wryly. “Yes, congratulations to me, I didn’t have a panic attack while buying earrings.”

“Yes,” I say to her, without a trace of teasing in my voice. “You just went shopping in a completely new city. In a different country. You socialized with a stranger. And you got some very cool jewelry.”

She considers that for a moment. “I tried to move the goalposts again, huh?”

“You did.”

She purses her lips. “You know, you are very annoying when you’re right.”

I bat my eyelashes at her and she laughs. “Ready for tacos?” I ask.

Her expression brightens. “Yes.”

I take her hand. I love how easily it happens now, this physical connection between us. It feels effortless, natural, like our hands were crafted specifically for each other. Eloise’s palm fits snuggly in my own, her slender fingers twining through mine. I have to fight the urge to wrap my arm around her, tuck her into my shoulder, walk with her along this street as her boyfriend instead of … I don’t even know what I am anymore. Her emotional support friend? It seems like we’ve grown into something else.

But I know that’s just wishful thinking on my part. Eloise isn’t mine and never will be.

I lead her through the little streets of Roma, toward one of my favorite spots and try to shake off the gloom that’s taken over me. I wonder if Eloise can sense it. She keeps glancing sideways at me. I shoot her an extra big smile as we cross Calle Tonalá.

“Here we are,” I say, sweeping my hand out at the small restaurant in front of us.

La Planta Madre is my own personal Mecca.

I really hope Eloise likes it.

32Eloise

The restaurant has a bright red awning, with tables lining both sides of the sidewalk.

The chairs are painted in light colors, sea green and bubble gum pink and pale yellow. The ceiling is all exposed beams and there’s a wooden bar tucked away in the back corner. The walls are covered in plants—shelves of ferns and spider plants and all different types of ivy that drip toward the tables below. A handful of them are full, people laughing and chatting, and sipping drinks or eating all sorts of delicious-looking food. The air is filled with the scent of meat and spices, and there’s a large black dog, some kind of lab mix, following one of the waitresses around.

I instantly love this place.

“Tinito!” An elderly woman in a green top and a pair of beige slacks scoots around from behind the bar and comes bustling up to Agustín. “Cómo estás, corazón? No sabía que estabas en México!”

I have zero idea what she’s saying but she kisses his cheek then embraces him warmly. Agustín says something back to her in Spanish then gestures to me.

“This is Dolores, she owns the restaurant,” he says.

“Mucho gusto,” Dolores says, smiling warmly. She’s got a round wrinkled face, and her short dark hair is streaked with gray. She leans forward like she’s going to kiss my cheek and oh god, I freeze, because I don’t want to insult this woman but oh no, please, no touching. Agustín says something, and she pauses, frowns, then shrugs.

She gestures to the tables, says, “Esta es tu casa!” and gives him another hug.

“Gracias, Dolores. Oh, y dos mezcalitos, por favor.”

“Espadín o Tobalá?”

“Un espadín para ella y un tobalá para mí, por favor.”

“Bueno. Y para comer?”

“Un momento,” he says. I understood that last part. Agustín turns to me. “She said we can sit wherever we want. Maybe there?” He points at a small table under the awning along the sidewalk. Its two chairs are side by side, facing out onto the street.

“Sure,” I say, and he pulls out a pale green chair for me. “It seems like you know her really well.”

He sits beside me, so close I can feel the heat of his body. “I used to come here all the time, first when I was in college and then after work. She saw me go from being this hopeful, dumb kid to a professional journalist.”