Do I Know You?(17)

It’s not David.

Eliza stands outside wrapped in a hotel robe. Her hair is up and lightly wet from either the shower or the pool. The sight works on me profoundly—not just how the gauzy fabric hugs her willowy curves or how her lithe legs peek out from the hem, or the faintly freckled skin of her chest exposed by the front. I’m caught up, too, in the way the light over my door casts on her features, breathtakingly beautiful in their combination of shadow and illumination, familiarity and surprise.

I realize how much I missed her in just the last couple hours.

Shaking myself from my stupor, I blink. “Eliza.”

“Hi,” she says, hurried, businesslike.

“You shouldn’t—” I stumble, sorting myself out. “You wouldn’t know where my room is. Aren’t you breaking character?”

“It’s an emergency,” she says. “So it’s allowed. Per our rules.”

“Are you okay?” I look her over, instantly concerned. She doesn’t seem upset or hurt. “What’s the emergency?”

“My heels are in your suitcase,” she informs me.

I smother my laughter. Emergency. Right. Even if this is breaking the rules, I don’t care. I won’t question this quest for her shoes. Not when it’s led her to my door.

“Wait, how did you know this was my room?” I ask.

“I asked the front desk,” she says. “My name is still on it.”

I nod. “Right.”

We stand on either side of the doorway for a moment, until Eliza raises her eyebrows indicatively. “So can I get my shoes?”

Impatience hints in her demeanor like fire licking the edges of dry wood. The joy I felt seeing her sags, because I know why. She wishes I’d invited her out instead of David doing it. Makes two of us, I want to say. Instead, I swing the door wider. “Your name is on the room.”

Eliza walks in. I see her pause for a split second, taking in the suite. Part of me wonders if she’s regretting spurning the room. She doesn’t comment, instead only heading into my bedroom, where she flips down the lid of my suitcase to reach the top zipper.

“So . . .” she says. “Santa Fe.”

I’m not certain which Eliza the question is coming from. Does the shoe “emergency” extend to this conversation? I don’t want Eliza to feel like I’m giving up, looking to ignore the game I committed to, so I match her vagueness. “Why not? Santa Fe is lovely.” In truth, the city choice sprang easily from my lips. When work is demanding and I need to decompress, sometimes I’ll pull up Airbnb and search wherever inspiration carries me. I’ve found myself drawn to Santa Fe’s Southwestern architecture, the rich scenery of the desert, the art scene. I’ve never mentioned it to Eliza.

She starts rummaging in the compartment and looks at me, raising an eyebrow. “Fair enough,” she says. “So what is it you do in Santa Fe?”

I consider for a moment. Part of me wants to invent something wild. Maybe I could make her laugh. I write bestselling legal thrillers, or I breed corgis. Or I’ve inherited untold fortunes from my mysterious great-uncle.

I settle for something closer to the truth—something closer to why I suggested new personas in the first place. I want the freedom to be someone else, but I want to prove something maybe just to myself—that this professional world of business and finance can be fun, even interesting. I remember the guy charming his date at the bar, his confidence unwavering.

“I’m an investment banker,” I say.

Eliza blinks. Then she frowns. “You’re an investment banker in Santa Fe?” she asks skeptically.

I deflate. Fine, my story has inaccuracies. I don’t care. I bluster forward, projecting Wall Street confidence. “Yes, I close Santa Fe’s hugest deals,” I declare. While this, regrettably, only increases Eliza’s confusion, it can’t be helped. This is exactly what worried me yesterday—I don’t have her or her improv friends’ readiness for this type of fabrication. Hastily, I change course. “I fly to New York plenty, of course,” I concede.

“Interesting,” my wife remarks, giving up none of her interrogative poise. “Do you . . . like it?”

I’m in this now, I tell myself. It’s everything or nothing. “Oh yeah,” I say, summoning the conversation we overheard. “It’s electric. Chasing the high of every million we move. I thrive on it.”

Eliza nods, and I feel like maybe I’m starting to sell my story.

“What do you do in Boston?” I ask pleasantly.

“Oh, so much. Some theater, some teaching.” While she speaks with poise, I’m satisfied to note she seems to be groping for something to say. I see the moment inspiration flickers into her eyes. “But mainly, I run a business with my three sisters.”

I frown. Eliza only has one sister, and they’re estranged, or something close. Eliza hasn’t spoken to Michelle in months. She never mentions it to me, and the one time I tried to bring it up, she swiftly shut down the conversation. “What kind of business?” I ask.

“Vacation planning,” she replies. “I specialize in cruises.”

Vacation planning—it hits me in the next split second she’s playing the same game I just was. The profession sounds familiar because the character she was narrating in the car was a vacation planner. The one who was wet with— I close off the memory of the drive. Eliza knows exactly what she’s doing.