Do I Know You?(20)

Then I see a familiar dress. The billowy red one I love that I haven’t seen in a year. It’s draped almost delicately on her frame, and I remember in vivid detail how easily it comes off to pool at her feet.

Despite the familiar dress, Eliza is . . . transformed. My eyes rove over every little change hungrily. Her hair, worn up tonight, leaves the pale line of her neck bare, while her dark red lipstick draws my eyes directly to her mouth. She’s standing at one of the tables, looking entirely comfortable conversing with a group of four strangers.

When she reaches for her drink with her left hand, though, I notice the biggest change she’s made.

Her ring is gone. Of course it is. Still, the sight provokes something like possessiveness in me. I want to see the ring I gave her on her finger. I want to turn around, find the hostess tucked somewhere near the makeshift bar, demand Eliza’s room key, and storm upstairs to find where exactly she’s hidden the diamond ring I gave her the day after I proposed to her in the middle of the night.

It hadn’t been the plan, of course. I’d had the ring picked out. I’d paid for it. I’d intended to wait until we’d known each other longer, not because I felt I needed more time to be sure—I was sure. But because I knew it was fast. I was going to give it to her in the coffee shop where we first met. Then our shoe rack collapsed in the middle of our night of unpacking. Somehow, I’d known I couldn’t wait.

Seeing her bare finger now, I’m struck by how that spontaneity clashes with every opportunity I’ve let pass me today. It strips whatever streaks of confidence I’d managed to hold on to clean out of my grasp. Maybe the old me is fundamentally too far to reach, despite flashes of feeling otherwise. Losing my nerve, I turn to walk in the opposite direction.

Threading through tables, I feel my pulse slow with every step I take. The questions stacked high in my heart and head start to shift in one direction.

I don’t want to leave. But I feel like I need to warm up before the main event tonight. I just need some distance. Distance, and a drink.

When I reach the bar, I spot David in a navy sport coat standing on his own. He sips a beer, sizing up the room. It surprises me how much relief I feel finding him. I barely know the man, but already he’s becoming a friend. Even though he doesn’t know the real me, doesn’t even know who my wife is, he’s the only person aware of a small piece of what I’m going through.

He grins when he sees me heading for him. “You came! I thought for sure you’d hide in your room.” He claps me on the shoulder in a good-natured bro greeting. I don’t know what he does for a living, but I’d guess it’s something in finance. Maybe I can parrot his language next time I talk to my non-wife.

“I still might.” I feel my eyes pulled to Eliza, dragged like she has her own mystical gravity. Defiant, I turn to face the bar, keeping her entirely out of my view.

David looks genuinely crestfallen. “You can’t leave,” he says. “I have to tell you how I fell in love today.”

My eyebrows shoot up. Sufficiently distracted even from my simmering thoughts of Eliza, I face him. “You—what? With who?”

“I didn’t catch her name,” David replies.

Now I start to smile. David’s begun mulling this over earnestly, like the inconvenience of the fact is just occurring to him.

“Well,” I say patiently, and not unthankful for the distraction, “what happened?”

David instantly looks renewed. “I was on a hike and I got a tad turned around and this woman—this goddess—pointed me back to the trail.”

I wait for the end of the story, until I realize that is the end of the story. “Let me understand this,” I start. “You’re saying a woman gave you directions and now you’re in love with her?”

“Yes.” David nods once, like I’ve finally caught up. “Exactly.”

I blink. Without hesitating, I flag the bartender and order a drink, knowing I’m going to be here awhile.

David looks sincere. It’d be comical if he didn’t seem genuinely nervous. He runs one hand through his hair, his eyes pinging over the room. It’s obvious he’s looking for someone. He has the lovestruck intensity of a high schooler waiting for his crush to get to class. “I was hoping she’d be here,” he says, sounding like his hope is flagging. “But I haven’t seen her yet.”

“You’re sure you’re in love?” I press him when the bartender hands me my drink. I sort of know what he’s going to say, but in depositions, some questions function just to double-check unlikely truths. “You’ve only met her once,” I point out, holding in the fact that met is a strong word for their encounter.

“That’s all it takes!” David replies exuberantly. His eyes go distant. “You should have seen her. She has these dark eyes and she was covered in dirt like she’d been hiking for miles.”

I consider what he’s said. Not the dark eyes or the covered in dirt parts—the premise. That’s all it takes. Frustrated by how poorly I’m managing my marriage, I want to scoff. But I did feel something in my first conversation with Eliza. I remember the singe of heat lightning when she first walked into the coffee shop where I would eventually intend to propose to her.

Deciding to give David the benefit of the doubt, I swallow the first sip of my drink. “Are you going to look for her?”