Do I Know You?(27)

David gives me a dry look. “Aren’t you pretending not to know her? Ask the questions you would if you really were meeting her for the first time.” The logic of this suggestion earns him nothing except a scowl. Satisfied, he goes on. “Here, we’ll do it together. It’ll be fun. We’ll each ask ten questions, then report back to each other. Buddy system.”

“You sound like a kindergarten teacher,” I grumble.

“I am a kindergarten teacher,” David says.

Surprised out of my sourness, I pause, mapping this new information onto David. “Really? How do you like it?”

David grins excitedly. “That was great,” he says, like I just flushed the potty on my own for the first time. “See how you asked me questions? Do that with Eliza.”

I have to fight down my smile. Honestly, while I first guessed finance for David, his real career is starting to make more and more sense. His kindergarteners probably love him.

Right then, Eliza walks out, looking like the sunlight should be glad to shine on her. It’s the way she holds herself, something I noticed in just our first few weeks of dating—her chin tilted up, posture somehow straight yet loose, poise in her lips and her sharp gaze. I can’t help the thrill I feel the instant I see her.

David nudges me. “Remember,” he says softly. When I look over, he holds up ten fingers. “Buddy system,” he whispers.

I roll my eyes. Next he’ll be having us make hand turkeys.

My gaze returns to my wife, and I find she’s noticed us. She walks over, smiling. Watching her, I’m struck with the strangest sensation. I’ve seen her lightweight workout wear dozens of times—deep purple leggings, jacket slung over her gray sports bra—when I’m stuffing them unceremoniously into the washing machine, or when she walks past me while I’m working in the kitchen on weekend mornings. Yet somehow, right now, they look like they belong to someone else. It’s hard to explain, even to myself. This game is definitely getting into my head.

“Hey,” she says, reaching us.

David’s ten fingers flash in my head. “How”—I start, sounding forced and formal, like I just landed on this planet yesterday—“was your breakfast?”

Eliza blinks, taken aback by my awkward delivery. “Um. Good. How was yours?”

“Also good,” I reply, once more with unevenness I know comes out weird. Why couldn’t we be texting this conversation?

Eliza smiles politely, obviously knowing I’m not throwing strikes here. I glance at David, who sends me a subtle thumbs-up. While well intentioned, it only manages to stress me out more. Banter is one thing, but there has to be more than banter in a romance. It’s great for the beginning of a relationship, but getting to more substance is where connections so often stumble. Not that I’m beginning my relationship with Eliza—but in this game, I very much am.

I must look like I’m floundering, because what pulls me from my spiral is David. “Eliza! Fancy meeting you here,” he practically cheers. “So wait, I feel like you haven’t said. What do you do?” David goes on—no doubt trying to lead by example.

Eliza spins answers about her fake career, sliding easily into character, recounting details of her fictional workplace, fictional clients, and fictional day-to-day with ease and specificity.

I listen carefully, searching her words for ways of understanding the Eliza who is my wife. Instead, I start to feel like I’m studying astrophysics by memorizing the constellations—none of the celestial creatures I can imagine will help me understand how the sky really works. While Eliza’s fabricated New England life is fun, I can’t find real insight into her or us.

Eliza eventually returns David’s questions, not pretending her surprise when he reveals the details of his own employment and shares some admittedly adorable details about lesson planning. The conversation is cut short when the group leader joins us. “Hello, everyone. Here for the guided nature walk?” she calls out welcomingly. “My name is Zoey, and I’m the hotel’s naturalist. Unless anyone has to run to the bathroom, I think we’ll get going.”

When I notice David’s gaze roaming the group worriedly, I know who he’s looking for. “She didn’t come?” I ask him.

“What if she checked out?” David speculates with plain panic. “What if I never see her again?”

“See who again?” Eliza cuts in.

“No one important. Just my soul mate,” David practically whines. While Eliza is left in bewildered silence, the group starts to move forward, down the winding dry-brush trail leading to the ocean. David reluctantly moves with us, visibly fighting his flagging enthusiasm.

Until we’re just stepping onto the trailhead. With incredible timing, one last woman dashes from the hotel entrance over to our group, clad in activewear perfect for hiking, clearly relieved she didn’t miss the excursion.

David turns. His eyes latch on to our new guest. Relief crashes over him like a wave.

I can’t help grinning when he straightens up, invigorated. “I’m going in,” he declares, then promptly falls to the back of the group to join her.

Zoey walks backward, leading the group down the trail right outside the hotel. Behind me, I hear David waste no time in cheerfully inquiring where our latecomer is from.

While I’m honestly rooting for him, his predictable departure leaves me alone with Eliza—and with the pressure of this conversation. We follow the group, unspeaking. Even having spent the past couple of days surrounded by the glorious scenery, it’s striking to me how quickly the chic campus of the resort cedes to outright wilderness.