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Her touch is featherlight against my skin, sending prickles over my arm. I try to suppress those too.

“Qué guapa!” Hector says as we walk out of the elevator. Over the course of traveling down nine floors, Eloise has gone from trying not to touch me, to clutching my forearm in a vicelike grip. A sleek black town car waits for us, courtesy of Diego Alvarez. Eloise told me he tried to get Rachel to use the cars and drivers his father provides him for all her travel in the city. She laughed in his face, asked if he’d ever been in midtown traffic at four PM on a Wednesday, and said no thanks, she’d stick to the subway.

I think I’m going to like Rachel very much. I’ve been dying to meet her, but I get the distinct impression Eloise has been keeping us apart on purpose.

I open the door for her, and she slides across the back seat. The car glides out into the traffic of Central Park West, the trees dappling the sidewalk in a patchwork of leafy of patterns in the warm, evening light of summer. There are joggers out for a run, moms pushing double strollers, men in suits shouting into their cellphones. I see a gay couple walking a pair of golden retrievers and tap Eloise on the shoulder.

“Perritos!” I say excitedly, as she cranes her head to get a look. It’s become our thing. Whenever we go anywhere (which is admittedly not a lot, but I have coaxed her out to that wine bar where we first met, and we do go to the park), we always point out the dogs we see by saying, “Perrito.” Sometimes we add descriptors: gordito, esponjoso, negro, feliz.

I feel proud that I’m slowly increasing her Spanish vocabulary. It’s helping with Pip too, which I think is more important to Eloise than any words and phrases to use at the wedding.

As the car snakes through traffic and heads downtown, I notice Eloise’s breathing starts to become a little ragged. She takes out her phone, then puts it away, then takes it out again.

“Is it hot in here?” she asks, fanning her face.

I angle the air conditioning vent, directing all the cold air toward her. When we finally pull up to the sleek building on Debrosses Street in Tribeca, Eloise is doing full on yoga breathing.

“Thanks,” I say to the driver as I get out and offer her my hand. She wobbles as she steps onto the pavement, and I snake an arm around her waist to steady her. I somehow missed earlier that the back of her dress has a diamond-shaped cutout—my hand comes in contact with a swath of exposed skin, and suddenly I’m the one who can’t breathe properly. I release her as soon as she’s steady, my palm tingling where it touched her. I flex my fingers and shove my hand into my pocket.

There’s a bouncer at the door with an earpiece and a clipboard. “Name?” he asks.

“Eloise Whitechapel and Agustín Martinez,” I say.

He checks us off. “Take the elevator to the roof,” he says, opening the glass doors and gesturing us toward a bank of elevators.

We press the button for the rooftop. Eloise is trembling all over, curls quivering, the pulse at her jaw fluttering.

“Take my hand,” I say in a more commanding tone than I’d usually use with her. It works. She instinctively reaches for me, like she’d been waiting for me to ask, her palm the faintest bit damp with panic sweat, her grip like a vise. I don’t care. I hold her hand like it’s my own lifeline and the firmer I squeeze, the harder she squeezes back. And the harder she squeezes, the less she shakes.

The elevator doors open and we step out into the party.

23Eloise

If it weren’t for the strong, steady feel of Agustín’s hand in mine, I think I’d collapse right now.

I squint in the light of the sun, glinting off One World Trade Center and shining right in my eyes. The lower Manhattan skyline greets us, the familiar shapes of the skyscrapers, the ribbon of the Hudson in the distance. The rooftop is decked out in ultimate style—flowers fill the space, perfuming the air with a sweet but not overpowering scent. Lilies and hydrangeas sit in large vases among wisps of baby’s breath, towers of white and yellow roses bracket the couches and chairs set up in carefully crafted arrangements, and the floor is covered in shockingly realistic fake grass, to give the whole thing an air of being in a garden. There’s a long table brimming with cheese platters and charcuterie boards, fancy looking canapés, and silver tiers of brightly colored macarons. Ornate lights are strung over it all, their tiny bulbs no match for the sun, but I bet they’ll twinkle perfectly later.

I take all of this in in a vague kind of way, colors, and smells, and sounds washing over me because there are so. Many. People.

Then Agustín looks at me brightly and says, “It’s not that crowded.”

It’s not? There are easily twenty people here.

He sees my expression and instantly pivots. “So, what first? Drinks or Rachel?”

I know he’s been dying to meet Rachel. And she’s been dying to meet him. And I have been determined to keep them apart for as long as possible.

One month into this whole plus-one arrangement and the sliver of sunlight Agustín brought into my world has only gotten bigger and brighter and frustratingly more potent. The stomach-clenching and mouth-watering that was already a huge distraction has now begun to include more annoying details, like thinking about what he’s doing when he’s not around, and lighting up whenever he comes over, and checking my phone a stupid number of times a day to see if he’s reached out. It probably doesn’t help that the Pack adores him. And so do my neighbors.

My life has suddenly started filling up with more people than ever before. Gretchen has taken to “just popping by” to say hi, Miriam is always coming over now to get more details about the wedding, Madame Boularès has sent a standing invitation for coffee on Saturday mornings, and Kate and Sanvi have been asking me to join them for their runs.

I don’t run unless something is chasing me, thank you very much.

Mr. Bloom and I have taken to leaving each other small gifts outside the other’s door. After the sopes, he left me a plate of lemon bars. And then I left him my battered copy of Death on the Nile, which I thought he’d enjoy, and he returned it with a copy of Into Thin Air by John Krakauer. Nonfiction isn’t generally my thing, but I actually liked the book. Sometimes, we’ll talk from down the hallway. But never for very long.

I like Mr. Bloom best of everyone on the ninth floor of the Archer.

Agustín is waiting for my response. I take a quick inventory of the guests and find my best friend. She’s deep in conversation with a few of her influencer friends.