Do I Know You?(23)

“Good to know,” he says.

I hide the new current of confusion joining with everything else coursing through me. Which Graham is the one saying he’s a total stranger to me—the charming caricature in front of me, or the man whose bed I share? Or, normally share.

The question suddenly seems burningly important. I wet my lips, working out how to formulate it within our veils of pretend.

Before I can, David walks up, interrupting us.

“Eliza, hi. Sorry,” he says hurriedly. He leans closer to my husband. “Graham, I have an emergency. I need your help.”

Graham blinks, the moment between us disrupted. He shifts his focus to David, not quite keeping the bewilderment out of his expression. “Are you . . . okay?” His eyes rove over David, like he’s searching for visible wounds or other dire issues.

“Physically, yes. Existentially, no. I’m horrible,” David declares. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but this is serious. Graham, just get Eliza’s number so you can continue this conversation later.”

I fold my lips to hide my smile. Neither Graham nor I could explain to David the unintentional humor in his order, or how David is the most unnecessary wingman in dating history. I’ve had Graham’s number since I plugged it into an iPhone 6.

But my smile vanishes in earnest when Graham’s eyes return to me. Insecurity steals the fun out of the moment. What if Graham wants to keep his distance? In practical terms, it’s silly of me to worry. Graham can text me whenever he wants. Even so, if this Graham coolly says he’s sure he’ll run into me some other time, it would be a brush-off. I wouldn’t be sure if it was for real or for show.

When he grins instead, my relief is a little embarrassing.

“Sure, I’d like that,” my husband says. “Can I get your number?”

I reach for the pen I used to sign for my drink and scrawl my number on my napkin. My heart is beating hard, and I’m not even sure why. This isn’t a new step for us, but it feels like one. I have to fight to remind myself this already happened—the last time he got my number, it was on Hinge, before we’d ever met. But despite the repetition of the exchange, it’s somehow just as exciting the second time.

I hand him the napkin, the corners of my lips upturned slightly as our fingers brush.

Graham receives the soft paper carefully, his eyes remaining on me while he does. He folds and then slides the napkin into his pocket like he really needs the ten black numbers written on one side. Like I’m not already a favorite in his phone, the only contact with no last name, the number on the in-case-of-emergency form he filled out for his job.

“Talk later, then,” I say lightly.

Graham only nods. The moment passes, the connection between us going quiet when he straightens up. When the impatient David immediately starts for the door, Graham follows one step behind him.

I watch his receding back. While he leaves, it settles on me what just happened. Graham just played the game for real. He spent the entire night in character with flair, earnest effort, and, frankly, seductive confidence. Whatever self-consciousness my husband had is gone, replaced with the guy who just got his wife’s number like she’s the hot stranger he met on vacation.

Objectively, I know what we’re doing is ridiculous. I know it is. But—I feel it working. I proposed this idea because the personas take the pressure off us, letting us get to know each other again.

Tonight was something different, though, something hiding in the way my pulse pounded when I gave him my number despite having already done so years ago. Re-creating those feelings with Graham might be part of reigniting them for good.

I cap the pen and place it on the bar, wondering just how far we’ll take our game of pretend.





12


    Graham


I FOLLOW DAVID back to his room. The night is even deeper now. David is uncharacteristically withdrawn, leaving our walk silent except for the rustle of trees, the faint whir of insects, and our shoes on the gravel path.

Entering his room, I feel my eyebrows rise. The place is chaos. Housekeeping couldn’t have come more than a few hours ago, yet already David has managed to litter the floor with towels, clothes, and room service dishes. It reminds me of the houses on UCLA’s fraternity row, the hooked street curving down one side of campus, their windows lined with beer bottles and lawns boasting speckled mattresses. Honestly, it fits. I suspect if I asked, David could recite a sizable portion of the Greek alphabet.

Taking no notice of the mess, David gestures for me to sit on the couch, which I do. His room is a suite, not honeymoon-sized, but it’s expansive. Very seriously, he perches on the chair across from me.

“I found her,” he says, “and she’s my soul mate.”

I fight down my laugh, picking up that David is very much not joking. “Okay,” I say gently. “Who is she? Was she at the happy hour?”

“No, she just got back from a run. I saw her walk through the lobby when I went to the bathroom,” he replies, conveying this information with excitement verging on reverence. “I know the timing isn’t right, but I don’t think I can let this go. What if she’s the one?”

He looks harried, like he’s been struck by lightning. He drops his head into his hands, which is when the truth reveals itself to me fully. While David’s sport coat, groomed hair, and messy room suggest a certain level of bro-ishness, it’s not the entire story.