Do I Know You?(21)

“I shouldn’t,” he says contemplatively. “I’m still on the rebound. I should work on myself right now. That’s why I’m here, doing the workshop. I’m not sure if I’m emotionally ready for love right now, you know?” He leans back, with both elbows on the bar, facing the room. Romeo in a sport coat. “But on the other hand—it’s love.”

Mirroring his posture, I turn to look out into the crowd. I find my eyes drawn to Eliza again, unconsciously, unwaveringly.

“But of course, you get it,” David goes on.

It takes me a second to realize this statement doesn’t fit with the divorced version of me David knows. “What do you mean?” I ask.

“You’re already in love with Eliza.” He grins knowingly.

In law school cold calls, professors interrogate you in class on the details of cases and statutory codes until you stumble or, less likely, remember everything correctly. While I was one of sharpest students in my class, even I would sometimes hit the wall on sections of the SCC regulations or nineteenth-century evidentiary rulings. It’s how I feel now. I have to give David credit for his perceptiveness, even though what he said was jarringly confusing.

“No, I’m—not,” I fumble to say. “I’ve barely even spoken to her.”

“Like I said. It’s all it takes,” David replies smugly. He cuts me a look, like don’t even try to deny it. “Besides, you two had mad sparks last night at the bar. I should have been wearing sunscreen for the heat you were throwing off. Then this morning—it’s all over your face when you look at her,” he says. “Don’t be embarrassed of your heart, man. You should have gotten her number yesterday. Or this morning. This morning would have worked, too. It could be true love,” he finishes with utter sincerity.

“I don’t even know her,” I manage. But my mind is stuck on his words. Our energy last night was intense, but not for the reasons David thinks.

David shrugs. “So ask for her number tonight. Get to know her.” His large, friendly hand descending on my shoulder once more, he pushes me in the direction of the crowd, the direction of my costumed wife. Downing his drink, he places his bottle on the bar. “I’m going to search for the woman from the hike.”

Fortifying my resolve, I force myself to step into the crowd. While I want to go back to my room, I also don’t want to admit this defeat. I’m not close to Eliza, which gives me time to consider while I slide past shoulders and elbows and the echo of small talk. Even David knew I blew two chances with Eliza. Tonight, I counsel myself, only feet from her now, I cannot go zero for three.

I stride up to her table, stepping into the open space across from her, summoning swagger. It’s us and four others. They’re swapping stories of what led them to the workshop. The woman speaking now is recounting with humor the three times in the past year she was stood up.

I say nothing, sipping my drink.

Then Eliza speaks. “I’d argue there are worse dates than a no-show. Haven’t you ever wished your date stood you up? I know I have.”

I nearly spill my drink when I hear her voice. Because it’s not her voice.

It’s the one she was using to record on the road, her normal pitch and cadence shifted ever so slightly. The words I last heard her speak in this voice ricochet in my head, and I nearly involuntarily kick the table.

It’s sort of genius, I grudgingly concede. Eliza’s here in subtle costume. Why wouldn’t my voice-actor wife put the final flourish on the reinvention in the way only someone with her skills can?

The guy next to me speaks up. “Okay, you sound like you have a good story,” he says to her. “Spill.” His honeyed cheer makes me wince.

For the first time, Eliza’s eyes flit to me. It’s a loaded look, the place where a promise meets a warning. Then she smiles winningly at the crowd, her audience. “Well,” she says, pausing to revel in every syllable and second of the performance. “The date itself was a dud. No chemistry. It’s always a risk when meeting people online. I was in such a rush to get home I pretended my sister was having an emergency.”

I watch her, fascination winning over frustration. Nothing she’s saying is true. Eliza and Michelle haven’t lived in the same city since high school, and Eliza certainly wasn’t online dating as a minor. I recognize what she’s doing here—early in our relationship, when Eliza would land new roles, I would sometimes listen or “help” her while she developed her understanding of her character. She would flesh out family relationships, childhood traumas, friendships, and fussy habits. Stuff she would use to evoke her character’s complete personality. It’s similar to what she’s doing now. Creating this new Eliza.

She goes on with gusto. “So I finally make it out to the parking lot where I get into my car. Except I live in Boston. The pavement was frozen. I was in such a rush to leave that I backed up too fast and couldn’t brake on the ice. I ran right into the car behind me. Guess who it belonged to?”

While everyone groans with sympathy, I fix my stare on her, ignoring the fact it’s—okay, a pretty funny story to have concocted on the spot. However, I’ve watched enough depositions to know most fabricated stories crumble under scrutiny. “What happened next?” I ask.

“We got in a screaming match in the parking lot,” Eliza replies. She smiles, coy and self-deprecating and loving this. “Then I went home with him.”