Do I Know You?(31)

“I hate outdoorsy stuff,” she goes on suddenly. I look over, a little startled by the subject change. “You were right. I hate it. Especially Joshua Tree.”

Despite the bite in her tone, I laugh. “I figured.” It’s what Investment Banker Graham would say, with no nod to our own very real camping trip.

The shadow of humor plays over Eliza’s lips. “You don’t know everything about me, though,” she replies.

I smile. “I’m looking forward to finding out more,” I promise her.





17


    Eliza


I TAKE THE script I need to read for work out to the pool. I was right—my producer was, politely, uninterested in the sample I recorded of the romantic scene I was working on while Graham and I drove up. She gave me literally dozens of notes I’ll have to incorporate when I record in the studio for real. In the meantime, I wound up with this video game’s intergalactic military officer role after I emailed my agent yesterday morning requesting something completely different.

Now I have Brigadier General Jett Hathaway to keep me company while I stretch out on the lounge chair in my swimsuit cover-up and, underneath, my white bikini. The day remains crystal clear, so uninterruptedly blue it looks like someone colored it in with the paint bucket on Photoshop. Unlike on the hike, it’s gotten warmer thanks to the sun rising higher in the sky. I’ll go in the water when I reach that perfect level of slightly too hot.

I read for half an hour. It’s the ideal environment for my work— early enough in the day that the pool is scarcely occupied, no one shouting or splashing in the water. The deck is serene, sunny, and mine.

The jangle of the gate distracts me from Hathaway’s explanation of battle strategy.

I look over and falter, finding Graham entering the pool yard. Frankly, I’m surprised to see him out. We haven’t made our next plan yet. I didn’t mention I was coming here, so him showing up seems like coincidence. Happy coincidence, I can’t help feeling.

I gaze through my sunglasses, vaguely and entirely preoccupied with the question of whether he’ll come over here. I feel like there’s a good chance. Our stranger-selves have hit it off—there’s no other way to say it. It would be entirely normal for Investment Banker Graham to swing over and say a casual hello to Vacation Planner Eliza.

But he doesn’t. His stride unhesitating, he kicks off his sandals on the other side of the pool. Then he takes off his shirt and jumps into the water.

I try to return to reading. I really do. I have missions to elucidate to the young cadets under my command.

Instead, I’m too distracted. By my own husband, shirtless in front of me.

By his water-slicked hair, wet gold in the sun. His broad shoulders with their spattering of freckles. The flat line of his stomach. None of these details are new to me. I’ve traced my fingers down his chest, put my mouth on those freckles, tangled my fingers in his hair. Obviously, I’m attracted to Graham.

I guess I forgot just how attracted I am to him. Lindsey was right. My husband is hot.

As I’m watching him swim laps, my phone rings. I check the screen and see it’s my dad. Distractedly, I pick up, nearly fumbling my phone onto the flagstones of the pool deck. “Hey, Dad.”

“How’s your trip?” he asks.

“Really . . .” The pause draws out while I watch Graham. “Good,” I finish, hearing how disjointed my reply is. It’s just, Graham has great freestyle form. It’s a very shoulders-focused stroke.

“What have you and Graham been up to?” There’s trademark enthusiasm in his voice. Not enthusiasm for everything—in fact, my father is the opposite of enthusiastic when it comes to his work, software engineering in Oklahoma. My dad is, however, enthusiastic when it comes to family. He only calls, never texts, and treats every conversation like we’re old friends sitting down to dinner for the first time in years in the fanciest restaurant in town.

I blink, tearing my eyes from Graham, aware I need to be coherent for this. “We went on a beach hike this morning, and now we’re at the pool. How’re things with you?” It’s not a lie, but it’s not a very accurate portrayal of the trip, either. I realize that pretending things are fine is how Graham and I ended up in this mess. But—I’m not about to tell my father that my husband and I are role-playing as perfect strangers. He’d take it the wrong way.

Not that it’s totally the wrong way, I have to concede. My eyes have, unfortunately, strayed back to Graham, who’s lifting himself out of the pool, water running down his shoulder blades and back.

I turn to face the opposite direction. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Dad regales me with his thoughts on the new restaurant in town he and my mom tried last night. While I enjoy my dad’s phone calls—I really do—I nevertheless have to force myself to focus this time, consciously concentrating on the details of the tastefully understated menu, the swift service, the lovely patio garden.

“I was thinking it could be a good place for the rehearsal dinner,” my dad says offhandedly.

This yanks my concentration to the phone. I stiffen, instantly uncomfortable. “Oh, that’s nice,” I say. This turn in the conversation has somehow changed the entire tenor of the perfect day. The sunlight is suddenly prickling, the frame of the lounge chair hard where I’m sitting. I dread conversations about my sister’s wedding because I know exactly where they’ll lead.