Do I Know You?(18)

She smiles winningly, suddenly looking fresh faced, whatever strain of ideation I saw a second ago completely gone. It looks easy for her, which it probably is. She’s a compelling actress.

In fact, despite my confidence at the bar, I’ve found myself with no choice but to concede she’s better than me. She handled the Hinge hiccup during brunch seamlessly. Now she’s snared me hook, line, and sinker with this vacation-planner line. While I’m not sure if this game of ours has a score, if it does, I’m losing.

It’s impressive—and strangely motivating. I went into today wanting to cooperate with her, to honor the terms of her unconventional proposal. Whether out of courtroom competitiveness or the playful spark of something deeper, I suddenly want more. I want to show her I can go toe-to-toe. And I want to show myself, too.

Eliza pulls from my bag black stilettos I’ve never seen before, and I can’t help myself. Curiosity steals my voice. “Going somewhere?” I ask.

She stands up, gripping her shoes in her hand. “There’s a happy hour tonight. Figured I would check it out. Since I don’t have any other plans,” she adds with a loaded look.

I don’t let my reaction steal onto my face. There’s a mask I put on in court, for my clients, for the judge, for the jury watching. I need the mask now, to hide how directly the hit landed, how cleanly she’s called out what I’ve wrestled with this whole morning. “Maybe you can get some new clients,” I get out calmly. “For your vacation-planning business.”

Eliza’s grin spreads slowly. “Maybe,” she repeats. She heads for the door, then turns back, giving me a final once-over. For the first time in this exchange, I’m conscious that I’m currently shirtless, my trunks wet and sticking to my thighs. “I’d say I’d see you there, but you seem really busy,” she finishes.

As she stands by the door, I feel like I’m watching the end of sunset waver on the horizon, miragelike, before day cedes to twilight. It grabs hold of me.

“Eliza,” I say before I can restrain myself.

She spins, heartbreakingly hopeful.

I need to rewrite my failure this morning. Instead, questions begin to pile up in my head. To do what? Is now the right time? Will it be enough?

“Our—our rings,” I say, changing course. Swerving from oncoming collision. “David keeps telling me I have to take it off. To get out there, you know,” I go on, cringing inwardly from my own cowardice. “Obviously I don’t want to, but if we’re really doing this . . .”

When Eliza’s eyes widen, it occurs to me there are plenty of ways to betray people while being faithful to them. “No, you’re right,” she finally says with put-on pragmatism. “It’s just for a couple days.”

With those final words, she walks past me, out the door of the honeymoon suite, her shoes dangling in her hand. My wife, on her way to the hotel’s happy hour.

The moment the lock on the door clicks, I march miserably to the Jacuzzi. I immerse myself in the tub, grimacing from the too-hot water.

I slide my wedding ring off my finger, placing the platinum band on the side table.

Five minutes later, I feel weird with the ring off entirely. I know we’re playing parts, but not even this joint performance of ours will make me ditch my wedding ring. I don’t want to be that in-character. In private surrender, I pick up the ring, compromising by putting it on my right hand instead of my left.

Leaning back in the Jacuzzi, I exhale, trying to lose myself in my spectacular scenery. But this time, my body refuses to get used to the temperature. The heat feels wrong. I know it’s because of the images jammed into my head, impossible to dislodge.

Eliza in her dress and heels.

Me, here, in my Jacuzzi.

Mustering my resolve, I get out of the water. I head for the shower, deciding I do have plans tonight.





9


    Eliza


I PULL OUT the flowy red bohemian dress I wore to one of Graham’s work events last year, stubbornly set on the plan I envisioned for the night.

It’s such a me dress. With its bell sleeves and plunging neckline, I stood out like a sore thumb in the midst of the professionally sleek lawyers and preppy spouses. I’d wondered if Graham minded, if he wished I fit in more, made more sense in his world. But I decided it didn’t matter when later that night Graham took the dress off me slowly, untying the wrap and letting the fabric fall.

In front of my room’s narrow mirror, I put on the dress, inspecting my reflection. If I were me, I’d let my hair dry in loose curls I’d wear over my shoulders. Instead, however, I remember one thing. Tonight, I’m not me.

I consider the character I’m playing, the one I invented in Graham’s neatly organized honeymoon suite. Eliza, the travel planner from Boston. I pulled from the book I’m recording, put on the spot by questions I should’ve expected from my husband. Yet the more I spoke, the more I found myself weaving in my own details spontaneously, not knowing entirely where from.

Staring into the mirror, I imagine those details on the image of the woman in front of me, like an existential Instagram filter. Eliza from Boston is harried, running her own business with her family. She juggles so many obligations, pursuing everything that catches her interest while spending most of her time with three women. She probably has no patience for air-drying.