Do I Know You?(30)

Honestly, I guess I don’t really check him out much myself, either. It’s not because he isn’t desirable. I know he is. It’s just not top of my mind every minute of every day of our marriage. I couldn’t get anything done if it was.

“No,” I say. “I definitely don’t want to hold out on him.”





16


    Graham


I TAKE THE hint.

Eliza doesn’t want to talk right now. She needs room to collect herself, which I don’t begrudge her, though I haven’t wavered in feeling right to say what I did. The Eliza I’ve known for our whole relationship doesn’t dwell on the negative. I love her for how well she puts problems into perspective if I’m viewing them out of proportion, or even pushes past them entirely.

The issue is, on occasion, she ends up stifling feelings of hurt or conflict so deeply they end up spilling out of her in painful ways. The poisonous by-products of the fuel of hope on which she runs. While she is a great actress, she’s also human, and I wish she could be real with me—even while we’re playing this game.

I walk the length of the secluded beach with David, who has kept up nearly incessant conversation describing the interaction he had with his “soul mate” before she joined Eliza. He’s learned her name—Lindsey—how often she travels, and where she’s from. I have to hand it to him, his inquisitiveness is impressive.

Eventually, though, even David runs out of rapport. He retreats to grab more water from the guide—understandable, with all the talking he’s been doing—leaving me with nothing to do except ruminate. The more the minutes stretch, swept off by the breeze buffeting us from the ocean, the more demoralized this sudden new distance between me and Eliza makes me feel. I walk to the edge of the blue water, where I linger, taking in the vastness of everything.

It feels unexpectedly profound, painfully metaphorical. My marriage feels full of infinite space, endless distance. Every day I reach for Eliza over lengths I can’t cross, or I quietly give in to their intractable hugeness. I don’t enjoy doing either, but for too long, those distances have felt like the ocean in front of me. Too vast to build bridges over. Too eternal to close up.

I’m so deeply in these thoughts that I didn’t notice the other hikers have started up toward the trail. I no longer hear the sounds of their conversations, and David has certainly abandoned me to chase after Lindsey. Eliza, I figure, is heading into the hotel with her new friend, planning for an hours-long brunch on the patio, or poolside drinks, or side-by-side pedicures.

I don’t move. I just feel the wind rustling over me, the sunlight on my skin.

But when it’s silent, when I feel like the last person out here, someone comes up next to me. I don’t have to look—I can sense it’s her. I don’t know how. I just do.

For a moment, Eliza and I say nothing, listening to the crashing waves. They’re a restless contradiction, the violence of water striking stone carrying up into the gentle, whispering echoes surrounding us. I feel on the edge of something myself, unsure yet whether the jump is safe or not.

When Eliza finally speaks, her words couldn’t be further from what I expected. “Lindsey thinks you’re hot.”

It’s so unexpected, the verdict so dryly delivered, I can’t help laughing. I look over, finding for the second time today a smile pulling Eliza’s mouth. It’s like a second sunrise, somehow. Like despite the cloudless sky we’ve hiked under this entire morning, only now is real, brilliant light finally spilling into the world.

I shake my head humorously. “I won’t tell David,” I say. “Is that what you two were discussing? How hot I am?”

Eliza raises an eyebrow, clearly wanting to say something. I start to grin, a little daring. Whatever was on her tongue, I watch her bend it like a cherry stem into something new.

“Would Graham the investment banker be interested in someone like Lindsey?” she asks. “Maybe she’s exactly his type.”

I make sure now to look her directly in the eyes. They’re like the water in front of us, the dark depths of the ocean glittering in the sunlight. They make it hard to concentrate, but I do, putting everything into what I reply. “He’s too hung up on someone else to know.”

We’re quiet once more. I search her expression, wishing, wondering. If I hope hard enough, I can halfway convince myself she’s starting to build bridges over the ocean.

I contemplate returning to my room, to the day I’m facing. It’s not difficult to envision—spending another afternoon alone with my Jacuzzi and my room service and my spectacular, solitary view. My perfect isolation. The prospect is not a happy one, not today.

“Is this ever lonely for you?” I ask. I mean this trip, this pretense. I just need some indication it’s not pure fun for her. Some indication it’s hard for her like it is for me.

Eliza looks out over the water. “In some ways, this year has been the loneliest of my life,” she says, her voice stripped bare.

It’s not the answer to the question I asked. Nevertheless, I know her response is real. Whether it’s part of the role-play doesn’t even matter. While we stand in silence for a few more minutes, I realize I was wrong. David was right. I did learn something new about my wife—something it only took asking to uncover.