Do I Know You?(35)

I swallow, trying to get back on track. When did he get so good at this? Despite myself, it’s making me a little competitive. I fix my eyes on him, cocking my hip slightly. “Having a nice workout, then?” I ask.

“Yes, actually. It was great.”

I falter because of the light shift in his voice. While his reply is character-consistent, what’s showing through is honesty. He really is enjoying himself.

He straightens up, eyeing me with his hands resting on his knees. In his expression, I can practically feel his coming question. “Did you come here to work out or just to watch me?” He takes in my wet swimsuit, visible through my pool wrap, like he knows I couldn’t possibly be here to work out. Still, something in his eyes says that’s not the only reason he’s looking.

I won’t flub my lines just because he’s checking me out, though. “I came to . . . see what classes they have tomorrow.”

“Did you.” His eyes dance. “Well”—he gestures to the whiteboard behind the desk listing tomorrow’s classes.

Chewing my lip, I read. They all sound intense. Cardio and Core, HIIT, CrossFit. I’m not even 100 percent certain what some of the words mean. I scan them several times, my eyes glazing while I ask myself how he caught me in my bluff.

“Anything look good?”

I startle a little at hearing his voice closer, just over my shoulder. “So much,” I say. Facing him, I find he’s stood up and stepped toward me. “Boxing looks fun,” I lie. Actually, it looks painful, but I don’t say that.

He gazes past me, leaning forward ever so slightly. “It says for non-beginners,” he observes.

“Perfect.” I square my shoulders. “Because I’m not a beginner. I guess you are, though, which means I won’t be seeing you there.” This works out great, I realize. I don’t have to go boxing. I can bail on this plan without him knowing.

“Wrong again.” He grins. “See you at nine a.m., Eliza.”

Shock snaps into me, and I sort of love it. Whatever the holes and inconsistencies in my knowledge of my husband, of one reality I feel pretty certain. He’s no intermediate-to-advanced boxer.

I don’t know how or why he’s pretending to be one, but I know what the fib I’ve backed myself into means. If he’s pretending he knows his way around a punching bag—at nine a.m. tomorrow—then so am I, for one very good reason. The chance to see him.

Lifting my chin, I smile determinedly.

“See you then,” I say.

I walk out, frantically typing “differences between beginner and intermediate boxing” into Google.





20


    Graham


I CAN HARDLY move.

While this wasn’t my first time ever going to the gym, I’ll admit it’s been a while. Furthermore, though, when I used to do this, it did not leave me feeling like my arms were rubber bands made of pain. Maybe I went for more ambitious weights today, I reason with myself. Or maybe I’m just nearly thirty years old.

Either way, every physical activity is now transmuted into torture. This includes lifting forkfuls of chicken piccata from my room-service tray.

Present consequences notwithstanding, I enjoyed the workout. I really enjoyed Eliza’s surprise visit, but even the pleasantest surprises can have consequences. Before I knew it, I’d somehow roped myself into boxing tomorrow morning. Or, likelier, making a fool of myself while trying to box.

I’ve spent the hour since I left the gym searching boxing class videos on YouTube, studying the basics. Swallowing my last bite of chicken, I recognize I now have no excuse to keep my coursework to the couch. I stand up. My shoulders screaming, I try to imitate the motions the instructor makes look so easy. Quickly, however, I realize even the simplest combinations of coordination—walking while punching, for instance—surpass my capabilities.

As desperate as I am to quit, to drop onto the bed with one of the hotel movies playing, I don’t. While I have no real interest in boxing, I don’t want to embarrass myself, not with Eliza watching. Not when our connection is this, dare I say . . . good. Deliberately not facing the mirror in my room, I patiently copy the instructor’s stance, once, then twice, then twenty times. I have no idea if the practice is working. Despite the excruciating minutes, the motions definitely don’t feel more natural.

I keep going dismally until my phone buzzes. Wishing powerfully for it to be Eliza coming up with some excuse for why she has to cancel tomorrow’s class and forfeit this unspoken challenge, I fumble for my phone.

It’s not Eliza. David’s name displays on my screen.


Just got back from my seminar. What are you up to?



Disheartened, I fire off a reply.


Know anything about boxing?


I take a class every week. Why?



I pause, phone in hand. To put it mildly, this was not the response I was expecting. The stroke of fortune is honestly impossibly lucky, but I’m not going to protest.

Instead, I weigh my options. I could confine myself to YouTube and, more important, to the privacy my god-awful boxing form no doubt requires. Or . . .

I remind myself how handily Eliza’s risen to every complication of this game of ours. She’s going to manage this one somehow, while I’m going to look ridiculously incompetent. The furthest thing from the Graham whose presence she’s now enjoying.