Do I Know You?(26)

I know he means “where” like restaurants or nightclubs. Right now, though, the flutter in my stomach is making me think of different sorts of places where I like to be spoiled. I reposition my legs again under the covers.


No way, Graham from Santa Fe. Now, I’m going to make YOU guess.


There are so many options. So many possibilities.



My fingers hesitate over my phone. What’s sprung to my head to reply to Graham is—well, it’s even more unlike how Graham and I have texted recently. It’s not how we messaged when we first met, either. Much too bold for us when we were really strangers. But right now, we’re strangers and more.

I go for it.


Hard, isn’t it?



While my heart pounds, Graham doesn’t reply.

It’s head-spinning how quickly the racing of my pulse switches from feeling like excitement to feeling like mortification. This conversation couldn’t possibly be so casual that he got distracted by what’s on TV, could it? The other possibility, which is worse, is I’ve suddenly scared him off, like my audiobook reading in the car.

When my phone vibrates, I snatch it up hungrily.


Extremely hard, Eliza. I think I need a hand.



My muscles clench deliciously at his words. I linger over my response, the way Graham did.


But I thought investment bankers loved hard work.


Fair point. We do. All night, sometimes.


I’ll put it on the list of what I know about you. Generous (sometimes), loves hard work (all the time). With enough intel, maybe I’ll figure your date out in one guess.


Doubt it. Here’s something else for your list: Unexpected.



I smile. He’s not wrong there.


Consider me eagerly awaiting, then.


I will.



Figuring our exchange is over for the night, I’m starting to put my phone down on the nightstand when it buzzes insistently. I lift the glowing screen, where Graham’s new message displays.


You looked beautiful tonight.



I soften, glad he’s chosen to shift from flying sparks to this deeper, sweeter level. I don’t know in whose voice he’s sent this text, but I don’t really care. Seeing those words on my phone from my own husband thrills me. It’s not that Graham hasn’t told me I’m beautiful. He does, often. Our problems don’t come from him not appreciating me, or me him. But you can admire the northern lights without understanding them.

No, what’s thrilling isn’t him telling me I’m beautiful. It’s him texting it, which never happens because we live together. When we’re talking, we’re usually physically in each other’s company, in the same room. The newness of his message—the intentionality of typing every letter into his phone—heightens the compliment.

It emboldens me enough to send what I do next.


I’m glad you used my number. Part of me wondered if you only asked for it to be polite.



There’s a long pause, one in which I recognize my anticipation mounting. I know it’s because, for the first time in years, we’re not on opposite sides of the same bed. I can’t predict what Graham will do or say, can’t read his body language or try to decode every flicker of his expression.

I can only wait.

Wait and wonder. Wonder whether he’ll be coy or brash, wonder how long he’ll leave me hoping. Wonder if this exchange will feel vain, like fishing for compliments. I grip my phone until, finally, Graham replies.


I asked because I wanted it.





14


    Graham


I WAIT WITH David where the hike is going to begin, right in front of the hotel. Outside, in the crisp morning, I have the opportunity to take in the scenery. We’re high up on the cliffs, with the ocean sparkling past the hotel. It’s not just us here—groups of twos and threes hang out together, talking.

There’s no sign of Eliza, though.

I’m jittery, flexing my feet in my shoes, distractedly tugging on my windbreaker. I wonder if my wife knows how long I worked over in my mind the question of when, exactly, to text her last night. There were factors to consider, ones I found myself weighing with the sensitivity of only the tensest of settlement negotiations. There was the realism of what her flirtatious, new acquaintance Graham would do, the eternal struggle of wanting to flatter her while not seeming desperate, the question of how strong to come on.

“What the workshop emphasizes is active curiosity,” David says next to me. He’s been strategizing for this walk for the past ten minutes, eager to put his workshop knowledge to use. “Which basically just means asking questions. So that’s what I’ll do. I think you should, too.”

I frown, skeptical. “What kind of questions?”

“Anything!” David replies enthusiastically. “From small stuff like What did you have for breakfast? to the bigger things. The important things. Like, you know. What makes you happy? What do you want out of life?”

“David, she’s my wife,” I say, half patient and half discouraged. “I already know her answers.” Well, I guess I don’t know what she had for breakfast. But I know the bigger stuff. We’re not that disconnected—just out of touch.