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“Dolores makes them in house,” he says. “They are stuffed with refried beans and topped with onion and lettuce and crema.”

Everything tastes incredible. The air is cool, the beers are crisp, the food just the right amount of spicy. And the whole time, Agustín’s knee is pressed against mine.

I wonder if he notices it the way I do.

33Agustín

Holy shit, Eloise and I are touching.

And not in our usual holding-hands-for-emotional-support type of way. I’m desperately trying to act cool about this. When I put my arm over the back of her chair, I was certain it was going too far. That she would tense and pull away from me.

But she leaned in. And I swear I caught her looking at my mouth.

My heart pitter-patters in my chest like it’s tap dancing. I refuse to move my knee, fearing to break this connection and lose it forever. Even as my left thigh has started to cramp. Too bad thigh. You stay right where you are. I’m not ruining this moment.

At any minute, the spell could break.

She sighs and leans back in her chair, taking her last sip of beer.

“I’m stuffed,” she says.

“Me too.”

“That was so good.”

Her eyes are heavy, her mouth curving with contentment. I feel like she could be seconds away from her resting her head on my shoulder. I wish she would. I think she would fit perfectly in the crook of my arm. She rubs her stomach and grins at me sleepily. A shudder rips through me, my throat tightening.

“Shall we get the check?” I ask.

She nods. I signal to Dolores. After we’ve paid, we stand and stretch, then head back out onto the streets.

“Do you want to go back to the hotel?” I ask.

She checks her phone. “No,” she says, and I imagine Rachel hasn’t gotten back to her about the room.

I feel this internal battle waging inside me. We should get separate rooms. We shouldn’t sleep in the same bed. I never want Eloise to be uncomfortable. But I can’t stop the flashes in my mind. Waking up beside her. Her curls splayed out across her pillow. Her green eyes dewy in the morning light.

The echo of her knee against mine lingers.

“Want to go for a walk?” I ask. It’s only five PM. “We could go to Parque México.”

Her eyes light up. “Perritos!”

She slips her hand into mine and something about it feels different this time. More intentional, and less out of necessity. Or even habit. Hope buoys up inside me, bobbing just under my skin and dancing like light on water. I lead her off in the direction of the park. We wait to cross Insurgentes, as one of the large, bright red MetroBuses pulls up in the center of the avenue, where passengers wait to board on an elevated platform beneath a metal awning. We cross at the light and head down Avenida Sonora until we reach the edge of the park, where a line of trees greets us.

There’s a man playing jazz on a guitar on one corner, a hat out in front of him, busking for tips. A small café with tables and wicker chairs set up under a pale green awning sends the delicious scent of fresh brewed coffee our way. I figure we could use some caffeine, so we stop in and I order at the counter. There are a few remaining pan dulce in a glass case next to the register, a sad looking oreja and a couple of deflated conchas. But tomorrow morning, this case will be filled to the brim with freshly baked pastries. Pan de muerto, rol de guayaba, garibaldi … my mouth starts watering at the thought, even though I just ate.

I order a latte for Eloise and an Americano for myself, and we cross the street and head into the park. The trees cast patches of shade over the paths, some dirt and gravel, others inlaid with curved patterns of brick that snake around playgrounds and weave between low hedges and wild blooms. I point out the Art Deco signs that say things like Respect for trees, plants, and grass: is an unequivocal sign of culture. We pass the enormous stone bust of Einstein, with a quote engraved on a plaque beneath it.

Si quieres vivir una vida feliz, átala a una meta, no a una persona o un objeto.

“What does that mean?” she asks.

“If you want to live a happy life, tie it … or maybe you would say attach it to a goal, not a person or an object.”

We wander beneath elegant jacarandas and ancient ahuehuetes, with palms scattered among them, their spiky leaves punching up through the foliage, then pass the lake, where snowy white geese bob on the water, and arrive at the one place I know she’ll love the most.

The amphitheater, the park’s central feature, called Foro Lindberg. Supposedly, the famous aviator landed his plane here. It’s fronted by a giant Art Deco sculpture called the Fuente de los Cántaros—a naked woman holding two water vessels. There are five enormous white columns at its back, and two pergolas lining each side, hung with bougainvillea, bursting with magenta flowers that cascade over the latticework and reach toward the ground in creeping fingers. In its vast center, a young girl wobbles on roller skates, a couple of teens zoom past on skateboards, and a dance troupe rehearses, women in sports bras doing handstands as shirtless men spot them. People sit on the low walls drinking coffees and chatting, while dogs roam freely.