Do I Know You?(28)

I like the outdoors, though I don’t often have the time or the opportunity to get off the grid. Despite my inexperience with the “active curiosity” approach, I let myself relish the scent of the ocean drifting up the hillside, the swish of the pine trees, and the dirt under my shoes. The coastal cliffs where we’re walking really do steal my breath, with the turquoise mouth of the Pacific opening up suddenly past the lichen-laced rocks clad in rolling green foliage.

The scenery—the openness, the extraordinary natural wonder—makes me feel freer, enough that I decide I’ll keep going with the questions David recommended. While we head under low brush and Zoey begins giving the ecological history of Big Sur, I psych myself up, remembering who I’m pretending to be. Investment Banker Graham would have questions ready for the beautiful woman he met on vacation.

“So, you . . . like nature?” The moment the question passes my lips, I wince. I consider flinging myself off the nearest cliff. I wouldn’t die, but I might break my leg and need to be airlifted to the nearest hospital. “I mean, uh. Do you like the outdoors?” I continue hastily. “Hiking? Camping? That stuff?”

Of course, I know what the real Eliza would say. She enjoys the occasional hike—it’s hard to live in San Diego and not want to hike sometimes—but once, early in our relationship, I suggested we camp for the weekend in Joshua Tree.

From the chore of cooking on the portable stove to the bone-deep chill seeping into our tent past sundown, not to mention the unyieldingly hard surface on which we unrolled our sleeping bags or the unfortunate reality of peeing outside, Eliza was miserable. In six months of dating, I’d never seen her so displeased. Waking up to her forced smiles and dark-ringed eyes on our second morning, I proposed we end the trip early and go to a hotel. This went over much better.

Eliza strides forward on the trail, her running shoes snapping twigs on the ground. “I love the outdoors,” she says, full of enthusiasm. “Have you ever been to Joshua Tree? I went camping there last year. I can’t wait to return.”

I can’t help myself—I frown. Somehow her chipper reply turns the morning cold, the sunlight brittle. Coming up with new careers or texting flirtatiously is one thing. Rewriting the details of our real relationship seems like something else.

“Yeah. I have,” I say haltingly, not sure I like or understand the direction she’s leading us. Unlike her, I’m not faking this conversation well. I know because she reacts to the tone in my voice the way one would to sipping day-old coffee. The silence between us turns stony. We step over rocks on the path while Zoey in front leads us down the trail, the sand where we’re headed coming into view below the verdant cliffs.

It’s several minutes before I snap the silence.

“I took my wife to Joshua Tree,” I say. “She hated it.”

I feel Eliza’s breathing hitch. “I’m sure she didn’t,” she replies lightly, making sure her words don’t strictly step out of the bounds of character. There’s something different in her tone, though, something not even her modulated voice hides. She’s speaking like she doesn’t want to wake something up.

It’s one step too far onto this uncertain ground she’s charted for us. “You know”—I start, knowing intuitively that Eliza will understand it’s the real me speaking—“I like this game. But please don’t use it to hide from hard or unpleasant things, or pretend they never happened. You need to be open with me.”

Whatever hope I harbored that Eliza would understand dissipates quickly. Storm clouds gather over her mood, her eyes flashing like lightning.

“What’s the emergency, Graham,” she says icily.

“What?”

“You broke character. It’s against the rules of our agreement,” she declares. Then, unhesitating, she walks off into the group of hikers.

I don’t follow her, sticking to the back of the crowd while the trail slopes toward the shore in the cool shade of the mountains. Remorse wrestles with righteousness in me. Watching the wind gust over the ocean, I wonder if I said the wrong thing.

I don’t think I did. Having fun for a week pretending we’re getting to know each other is fine, but what happens when vacation ends? When we have to return to our real lives without having solved any of our issues? While I’m enjoying what pretending is doing for us, we can’t just pretend. Five years into our marriage, problems can’t be solved by packing up a tent and checking into a hotel. If this is going to work—really work—we can’t conceal issues under rose-colored paint. We have to surprise each other and be real.

I’m just not sure how to strike the balance yet.





15


    Eliza


IF I COULD, I would turn around and head back to the hotel.

Unfortunately, though, I’m not the experienced outdoorswoman I was pretending to be with Graham. Graham, whose break from our conversation frustrated me in ways I can’t fully explain. I settle for moving forward into the group of hikers, feeling confined by the cliffs. I’m certain if I were to venture back to the resort, I would end up getting promptly devoured by the local bear population our hike leader just described.

Focusing on the scenery, I pointedly ignore the feeling of Graham’s stare on the back of my head. But it’s not easy. Honestly, I wish I’d stayed in my room instead of taking Graham up on his invitation. I only got myself out of bed for a beach hike because I thought we would be like we were last night. I don’t know how we went from having so much fun to this—to him out of nowhere accusing me of hiding from our issues.