Do I Know You?(14)

Eliza doesn’t question me. Whole trip, she jots onto the napkin. “And we have to commit. We stay in character except for emergencies,” she goes on, half in her head, inspiration ushering her on now. “I also think we should do something together at least once every day.”

“At least,” I repeat, privately glad, although I never figured she would use the game to avoid me. “And just because we’re pretending to be single doesn’t mean we’re opening up our relationship,” I go on. It’s a firm line for me. This is for us.

“Of course,” Eliza agrees. Monogamous, she writes. When she glances up, I can’t overlook the fresh excitement in her features. It is wonderful to witness. “Anything else?” she asks. “We can continue to discuss the rules anytime, you know.”

I hesitate. Past Eliza, Finance Guy has maintained his stride, captivating his female companion. Interesting you should mention fashion design. Fascinating world. Fascinating market. Ever stayed in Rome? “Are we . . .” I start, then stumble. I don’t know how to voice what’s on my mind. How to confess I’m . . . tired of myself. “We’re strangers, but are we us?” I finally manage. “Am I a lawyer from San Diego?”

While I read surprise in Eliza’s eyes, her reply comes out evenly. Like my question is interesting, not embarrassing. “I suppose we can be whoever we want,” she says. It’s reassuring how quickly she embraces my proposal. The fire in my cheeks starts to subside while she dashes one final point onto our napkin list.

When she writes, her penmanship doesn’t falter.

Whoever we want to be.

Like she knows neither of us has more to contribute, Eliza clicks the pen. Much more than the handwritten outline of the coming week sits within the space separating us. I don’t know what this week will bring. I don’t know who we’ll be when we drive home. But I’m ready to find out.

Eliza smiles coyly. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says.

I can’t help catching the mirror of her smirk. “Very,” I reply.

Noticing our plates pushed to the side, the bartender pauses in front of us. “Ready?” she asks, starting to stack our plates when we nod. “One check or two?”

I don’t speak. Eliza reaches for her purse.

“Two,” she says.





7


    Eliza


THE RESORT SERVES breakfast outdoors on the expansive stone-paved patio overlooking the cliffs. With the gentle breeze off the ocean playing with my hair while I walk out, I sweep my eyes over the patio tables, searching for Graham. It’s midmorning, and the space is crowded with everyone from athleisure-clad guests our age to older couples simultaneously reading on their phones, seemingly oblivious to the beauty of the view past the thin metal balcony railing next to them.

I head to the tasteful buffet, where I fill my plate with breakfast potatoes and a spinach omelet. Returning outside to choose my table, I note the weirdness of coming to breakfast separately from my husband.

Not bad-weird, though. I feel like I’m coming to the summit of some towering roller coaster I’ve never ridden before. I’m pretty sure I’m going to enjoy myself, but I know I’m going to get thrown for some loops in the process. When I filled Nikki in this morning, lying in my bed with my phone practically under the comforter, she replied with strings of emojis I didn’t realize they’d invented yet, then proceeded to heap some very welcome encouragement on me. I’m not certain this will work and end the stiff spell binding me and Graham recently, but this charge, right now, feels good.

Instead of routine expectation, I indulge in the tingling possibility that Graham will sit near me or with me. Strike up conversation. You can still date your spouse.

On the picturesque patio, I find myself remembering the first time Graham and I met in person, our first real date following weeks of messaging online. I was running late, per usual. Graham was right on time, per usual. I hustled into the coffee shop on Melrose and spotted him. When I saw his face, I remember feeling like I knew him. The details, the emotions, the impressions I’d developed of this person over our digital conversations suddenly mapped perfectly onto the man in front of me, inscribed on his strong yet boyish features in a way I found inexplicably natural.

I wonder how it’s possible I could forget how to read the signs in those ever-so-familiar features.

Picking up my fork, I find I’m completely unable to think about anything except when Graham will arrive. Left to his own devices, I don’t really know when he would get up. He goes into the office early on weekdays, sometimes even on weekends. We’re no longer the lying-in-bed-together-every-morning type of couple. We were—one more faded detail I haven’t bothered to bring back into focus.

It’s not until I’m nearly finished with my eggs that I glance up and—Graham. He’s walked onto the patio with David.

Our gazes lock, and he deliberately veers in the other direction, choosing a table far from me. I feel my eyebrows rise. He’s taking this seriously. He’s putting the ball in my court, practically inviting me to be the one to approach him. If I want to, of course.

Which I do.

I’m not going to rush right over, though, looking desperate. Instead, I sip my grapefruit juice, indulgently fanning my flicker of resentment. Oh, he doesn’t want to talk to me this morning?