Do I Know You?(33)

It’s hard enough to think, much less to say. I’ve had enough. “You know what, we’ll have to talk about this later,” I say. “Graham and I are—walking into a couple’s massage,” I invent wildly, “and we’re running late. Love you.”

“Eliza—” my dad starts.

I cut him off. “Bye now.”

I hang up, my heart pounding. Clenching my phone in my hand, I sit there, fighting to collect myself. I know I can’t put off this conversation or the question of Michelle’s wedding forever. But some self-destructive little part of my mind whispers . . . what if I could? Couldn’t I just let the days pass, let my dad’s focus return to Michelle while I slip out of familial sight, where Michelle wants me? If I’m selfish, mean Eliza, wouldn’t it be better if she just forgot me?

At the very least I can give myself one week of vacation to ignore this. The questions will keep until I get home. It’s the only fortifying thought I find, and I hold on to it. I have room to relax in the carefree coming days here, not to mention things to look forward to. The sunlight starts to feel warmer and more welcoming, the gentle poolside breeze more calming.

But when I face the pool, my heart sinks. Graham is gone.





18


    Graham


I’VE GONE TO the pool, walked the entire hotel grounds, gotten coffee twice, read the magazines in my room, soaked in my private Jacuzzi, watched TV, and tried to nap.

And it’s only four p.m.

I couldn’t keep swimming luxurious laps in front of Eliza, no matter how much I wanted to. I’d gone to the pool knowing she would be there—Eliza loves the water—riding on confidence I hardly recognized. The eyeful of me I’d fully intended to give her was nothing other than shameless flirting. However, I’m playing by the rules of our game. We’ve only just met, and texting her so soon after we hung out would be coming on too strong. Hence, gliding through the water in front of her instead.

I’m presently lying flat on my bed, having utterly failed to sleep. I’m bored, bordering on edgy. Staring at the ceiling, I’m coming to terms with the fact that I don’t really understand vacation. Even in this modern masterpiece of a room, with cliffside sunlight and the sounds of the waves surrounding me, I have no finesse for doing nothing.

Of course, this trip wasn’t supposed to be me doing nothing. It was supposed to be us celebrating our anniversary. I couldn’t have known I would be carefully planning my texts to Eliza like I did when we first matched online.

I wish I’d packed my work computer, which I instead deliberately left on its charger in our living room, not wanting to give myself the excuse to bury these days in briefs. Without work or Eliza, however, I have no idea what to do with my time. Reflecting on my life—the way one does when lying on one’s back on the bed of one’s empty hotel room—I realize this makes some sense. Inspired by my parents’ high-flying careers and lifestyle, I went to college planning to go to law school. I got good grades. I went to law school to go into corporate litigation, which I did. Every step of the way I’ve packed hours with studying, with writing papers, with networking events, with the late nights needed to go from promising first-year lawyer to partner track.

Only one significant change ever really entered this plan—a beautiful woman who is right now pretending she’s a vacation planner from Boston.

I could text her. Shit, I want to text her. Only in the interest of adhering to the rules of first dates—not calling too soon or too late—have I committed to holding off texting her until 5 p.m. I should be able to distract myself until 5 p.m., shouldn’t I? I’m an adult man, not one of David’s kindergartners.

Unlocking my phone, I pull up my new friend’s number. I text him, wondering what he’s up to.

David replies immediately, which I’m coming to realize is a character trait of his.


Creating Intimacy workshop. You want to come crash it?



The title makes me cringe, not out of judgment for the workshop—out of judgment for myself. I’m pretty sure one thing not being taught in Creating Intimacy is constructing an elaborate role-playing game where you pretend not to know your spouse.

I reply to David.


I’m good man. Catch up with you later.



I stare up, counting the light fixtures on the ceiling. I’m completely out of ideas.

Dismally, I reach for the hotel schedule on my bedside table. The staff slides one under my door every morning, freshly printed with new events for each day. I start to scan the short list with flickers of hope. Maybe I could . . . go bird-watching. I would imagine the California coastline has birds interesting enough for the bored and lonely.

But there’s nothing except Creating Intimacy until tonight, when a couples’ cooking class is happening. Nothing.

Devoid of my own inclinations, I open up a grudging new line of questioning. What would Investment Banker Graham do? When he’s not working or having wild nights with random women from the internet, how does he occupy his hours?

I push myself to call on my creativity, to cultivate my character the way I imagine Eliza would. First, I need inspiration. I draw from memories of my corporate clients, especially the finance people we’ve counseled on lending gone wrong, broken bank financings, insolvency situations. Like I’m pulling something heavy out of storage, I reconstruct conversations, render details, replay chitchat . . .