Do I Know You?(15)

I wait five minutes, then casually saunter over to Graham’s table. To strike up a conversation with David, of course.

As I come nearer to them, I see they’re hunched over David’s phone. Graham’s voice is encouraging. I catch the end of his reassurance to David, who’s eyeing his phone nervously. “The hair looks great, dude. Really,” Graham promises. “The undercut really stands out.”

David slants his head. “I don’t know, man,” he says somberly. “With the blazer and T-shirt, don’t I just look too hipster?”

“It’s a clean look. I promise.” Graham is emphatic. “You look great. Women seeing this will know you take care with that kind of thing.”

I can’t help smiling. Is Graham . . . pumping David up on his dating profile photo? It’s sweet enough for me to consider eavesdropping instead of cutting in.

Except—my heart is pushing me not to hesitate. One night in my solitary room and . . . I miss Graham.

So I sidle up to them. “How was the online-dating crash course?” I ask David, inserting myself in their conversation.

His concentration pulled from his photo, he looks up, grinning. “Eliza, hey,” he says genially. “Join us.” He pulls out their table’s spare chair.

I cut my husband a loaded glance as I sit. Graham’s performance is perfect. He looks politely interested, nothing more.

“It was fine,” David answers my question. “I’m now set up on more dating apps than I care to enumerate.” He looks to Graham. “Which one did you meet your wife on?”

“Hinge.” We answer at the same time—me without thinking. David notices, obviously, his eyes flitting to me in confusion. I flush, ignoring how smug Graham looks in the corner of my vision. Yes, the improv classes I took in college focused more on comedy and less on extricating yourself from strange blunders you’ve made while pretending you and your husband have never met, but skill is skill. I find my cover fast. “I knew it,” I say, pleased how confident I sound. How normal. “It’s the only one I’ve ever had luck on as well.”

“Oh yeah?” Graham speaks up, a note of challenge in his question. “What kind of luck?” His stare fixes on me.

“I met someone really great,” I reply. This time, though, improv classes haven’t given me what I need to come off detached. Staining my voice is wistfulness—I remember the first messages we exchanged, how we went from hellos and how are yous to what’s your favorite book? and who are your childhood nemeses?

“Did it work out?” David’s question pulls me from my recollection. He looks at my hand, but I stow it in my lap too quickly for him to clock the ring on my ring finger. I haven’t taken my ring off—it’s one practical point we overlooked in our napkin negotiation last night. Standing over my nightstand earlier this morning, feeling some insistent, fond instinct squeezing my heart, I slid the ring on—my reminder of why we’re doing this.

However, I don’t know how I’d explain a wedding band to David. Graham has the plausible reason he’s supplied David for acting single despite wearing his wedding ring. Me, not so much.

Unable to come up with a good reply to David’s question, I change the subject. “David, where are you from?”

“San Luis Obispo.” David’s voice is light, easily letting me grab the conversational steering wheel. “You?” He reaches for his coffee on his saucer. He seems interested, like he’s not just making chitchat. I wonder if his chattiness is a product of the dating workshop or just how he is. My reply is on my lips when David continues, looking to Graham. “Wait, where are you from?”

Catching myself, I close my mouth. La Jolla dries up on my tongue. My eyes lock with Graham’s. I remember how, last night, he didn’t just want to be strangers. He wanted to be someone new. I don’t know why, but the reason doesn’t matter now. In everything else, he’s committed to what I’ve suggested, what I’ve proposed.

I can commit to what he wants, too.

“Boston,” I blurt.

Graham watches me curiously, head cocked. There’s something genuine in his gaze, like he just wants to know why I picked Boston out of nowhere. Honestly, I don’t know why I did. I haven’t been to Boston in years. One summer right out of college I interned at the American Repertory Theater there before moving to LA. I hardly ever think of the Charles River and the redbrick buildings.

Slowly, Graham turns back to David. “Santa Fe,” he says in answer to David’s question. While he shifts in his seat, his hand finding his gold sunglasses hanging from his collar, his voice sounds solid. Sure.

The surprise of his choice pulls me from my summer recollection. “Santa Fe?” I repeat. Graham has never once mentioned Santa Fe. We’ve never taken a trip there or even talked about taking a trip there. I’m pretty certain he’s never been there before in his life.

His eyes swivel to me. “Yeah. Why? You’re surprised?” Wind gusts off the ocean, shifting his hair, the only movement on his otherwise unreadable face.

Of course I’m surprised, I want to say. In fact, I’m full of questions. Why did he choose this southwestern city we’ve never once considered visiting? It’s not a question I can ask here, though, with David drinking his coffee between us.