Do I Know You?(25)

I can’t believe I’m honestly obsessing over whether my own husband will text me tonight.

It’s not that late, I reassure myself. I saw no point in staying at the happy hour after Graham left. I figured I’d make it an early night. Instead, I’ve lain here, expectant, sweating into my tank top, wondering. Thus far it’s been a lose-lose. I haven’t slept, and Graham hasn’t texted.

I turn over once more, frustratedly trying to put my phone from my mind. This is ridiculous. I know I could just text him. His number is in my phone, attached to hundreds of thousands of texts. And yet, here I am, waiting for him like I have to.

While I’m tired of waiting for Graham to make every move on this, the rules of our game demand I do. If I were to text him, to pull up the thread where we’ve discussed drive times and errands and what we’re having for dinner, I would be breaking character. Once in the name of rescuing my heels is permissible, but twice is pretty much throwing out the whole premise. I’d never know if Graham the investment banker is interested in Eliza the vacation planner. I wouldn’t know how far the rules of this game extend.

As the minutes drag on, I remind myself he showed up tonight. He came to the happy hour when he wasn’t planning to, just because I mentioned I was going. He flirted with me.

Remembering his posture, his smile—his familiar yet unrecognizable eyes lingering on my dress’s open neck—I become more and more sure. It has to mean something. It has to mean this is working.

The thought comforts me enough that I start to feel the heaviness of sleep settle onto me. My eyes droop, my breath evens out. My thoughts turn light, cloudlike, on the verge of dreams.

Then my phone buzzes loudly on the nightstand. The effect is immediate, like downing a triple-shot of espresso before going into the studio too early in the morning. I turn over, and in the darkness, Graham’s name is illuminated on my screen. My breath catches, my head filling with possibilities.


Hey. This is Graham. The guy from the bar.



I laugh. We’re still playing. The realization is comforting in a way I didn’t expect. I feel safe, confident. I’ve been nestled in layers of down pillows and high-thread-count sheets for more than an hour, and only now do I feel truly comfortable.

I see he’s typing something else, so I settle deeper into my mattress, chewing my lip as I wait. Finally, his next message comes. I don’t keep my eyes from racing over the text, consuming his words hungrily.


David and I are going on the hotel’s hike to the beach tomorrow morning. Do you have plans?



The flame in me flickers, then quietly goes out. I read over his message once, twice, making sure I’m not missing something. Because this question . . . is an invitation, but it’s not a date. It couldn’t be more friendly, more intentionally buffered. Come hang out with me and David?

I type back, noticing how the sheets have started to feel smothering once more.


I think I can make that tomorrow. Thanks.



I lock my phone screen, not wanting to see the conversation. I feel foolish, and more disappointed than when I was waiting for him to reach out. Here I was thinking we were getting somewhere, reconnecting. Now I feel like Graham is back to restraint, to the least venturesome version of doing strictly what we said we would.

When my phone buzzes in my hand, the screen lighting up my ceiling in icy blue, I consider not checking it. Irritatingly, though, I know the question will keep me up. I relent, lifting the screen.


This is not a date, by the way.



I frown. Quite a way with words, he’s got. A regular iMessage Cyrano. I’m moments from flipping my phone over when it vibrates with Graham’s follow-up.


When—not if—I ask you out, it will be an activity without David.



I pause. Then, decisively, I take the opening he’s offered me.


Without David? Interesting. What could we get up to without David around?



Pleased Graham is finally pointing this exchange in the right direction, I jab the blue Send button with my thumb without letting myself hesitate. Off my message goes, leaving me huddled in the dark with my phone illuminating my face.


I can think of a few things.


Feel free to describe them.


Actions speak louder than words.


Certain words speak pretty loudly.


You don’t know me very well yet, Eliza, so I understand your wanting some proof of concept. Let me assure you, however, what I have in mind will be very enjoyable.



I smile into my phone. We haven’t texted like this in years. It reminds me of the Graham I matched with on our dating app, when we were just getting to know each other through flirtatious messages.


Give me three guesses.


I’ll give you one guess.


You’re not very generous, Graham.


I can be plenty generous in other ways.



I shift under the covers. My legs feel hot under the hotel sheets.


You’ll just do whatever date I guess, won’t you? Pretend it was your idea the whole time.


Come on, how boring would I be if I did? Of course not. You can’t blame me for wanting to know what’s first on your mind, though. Where does Eliza from Boston like to be spoiled?