Do I Know You?(16)

“You just don’t strike me as a New Mexico guy,” I say, forcing myself with more effort now into the role of vacationing stranger.

“Well, we don’t know each other,” Graham replies pleasantly. “Yet.”

I study him. What he’s said floats lightly over the sounds of clinking silverware and the redwoods rustling in the distance. Once more, we’ve wandered out onto the ledge of the truth. It’s a little frightening, in the way of high places. Like last night, I’m not certain what waits over the edge, but I’m still glad we’re here.

Then the moment vanishes into the morning. I nod, resuming our performance. “True,” I say.

Hope flickers in me suddenly. Because, it occurs to me, this morning we’ve pretended we’ve only just met, we’ve invented other selves, or the start of them—most of what was on our list planned out last night. The next piece to be played is obvious.

A first date.

I guess I’m expecting Graham to make the next move. I was the one to walk over to his table. Now, though, would be the natural time for me to get up. This would be Graham’s window. His opportunity.

But Graham says nothing.

It dampens my mood like the wispy clouds on our street filter the sun—still bright, but not the same. Finally, I stand, then push in my chair. “Enjoy your breakfast. It’s past time I hit the pool,” I say breezily, to the table, not to Graham. He can take the time he needs to ask out his own wife.

It’s David who speaks up. “Maybe the three of us can get dinner sometime?”

I wrestle down disappointment. Somehow David is the one upholding Graham’s and my promise to see each other every day.

“I’m in,” Graham says. “Eliza?”

His green eyes linger on me. “Of course.” The short sentence echoes with unspoken questions.

It’s day one, I remind myself, making my case to the whispers in my heart. I wanted to plan our “first date”—not dinner with David. We’ll get there, I insist. We’ll get to dating.

I turn to leave, feeling my husband’s gaze on my back.





8


    Graham


I STARE AT my wedding ring, the sun reflected in the metal searing my eyes.

If I’m going to mope without my wife, I’m going to do so on my private balcony, lounging on my deck chair under the crystalline California sky. The view is stunning. I can follow the rolling hills endlessly, the greenery decorated with sun-dappled ripples of tree branches.

I’ve spent the day out here, finishing off the room service I ordered for lunch. I don’t plan on leaving, either, despite how David has texted me several times, trying to get me to go to a happy hour mixer tonight in the hotel’s lobby.

I’ve replied vaguely, knowing introductions with complete strangers—real ones, not Eliza—are the furthest things from what I want out of tonight. I’d rather soak in my private Jacuzzi, then respond to work emails on my phone, hiding from the worry—the regret—with which breakfast left me.

Why couldn’t I ask out my own wife?

I know she wanted me to. I’m not completely vacant in my faculties for reading her wishes. Yet when the moment presented itself, I just—couldn’t.

I face the frustrated jury in my head, presenting my case. Isn’t it true that asking out Eliza Kelly was hard enough the first time? Isn’t it true that you’ve loved her more with every passing day, grown even fonder, even more dazzled by her wit, her beauty, her everything?

Then, jury persons, would you have no choice but to conclude asking her out now would be exponentially, immeasurably harder?

Just because it makes sense doesn’t mean it’s comforting.

I flop onto my cloudlike bed, gazing up into the white expanse of the ceiling. Heaven may be a place on earth, but purgatory is a luxurious hotel room without your wife. I just—need everything to be perfect, I rationalize. The invitation, the date itself. Part of the point here is giving Eliza what she deserves. Offhandedly mentioning grabbing coffee isn’t enough.

The breeze picks up over the hills, chilling me on my bed. Time for the Jacuzzi, I decide. Barefoot, I cross the room to the steaming tub, where I pull off my shirt. When I get in, I sigh with the sensation, the heat so shocking it nearly hurts until my body acclimates. Leaning my head back, I close my eyes. With the dull warmth of the sunset on my face, my limbs soaking under the water, it’s bliss.

I’ll figure out how to contact Eliza later, I comfort myself. It’ll take ingenuity—I don’t think I can text her because we’re committing to our performances. Our “characters” don’t have each other’s numbers yet. I’ll think of something, though.

Right then, my room’s doorbell rings.

My eyes flit open. I didn’t order more room service and I did put up the do-not-disturb sign. If this is the hotel surprising me with some honeymoon-suite, romantic-sunset champagne bullshit, I won’t be thrilled. I ignore the chime, hoping whoever it is takes the hint.

The doorbell rings again.

Exasperated, I haul myself out of the Jacuzzi and head, dripping wet, to the bedroom. When the bell rings for the third time, I conclude it must be David, tired of my evasive replies to his texts and here to drag me to the mixer. Hustling into my pristine hallway, I fight down my irritation. He’s just being friendly. I reach for the handle and reluctantly swing the door open.