Do I Know You?(37)

“I think the beach hike was huge progress. I haven’t gotten her number yet or anything, but I learned she works in conservation, with a focus on marine life. She likes this hotel because the developers didn’t cut down any trees when they built the place. I’m trying to learn about nature and environmentalism to impress her before I get back into the ring.” He grins at the cheesy boxing idiom, and I roll my eyes. “You know, I don’t think dating is all that different from the role-playing you two are doing,” he goes on. “We’re all trying to impress each other, trying to play smarter, cooler versions of ourselves.”

I drop my hands, struck by David’s words. They’re . . . enormously reassuring. I’ve felt like this game of pretend we’re playing is evidence Eliza and I are broken. What if it’s not? I mean, obviously it’s out of the ordinary, unconventional to say the least. But what if, fundamentally, it’s nothing but one week’s much-needed refresher course on dating? Even once you’ve passed the bar, you’re required to earn credits of continuing legal education every few years. How is this much different?

It’s suddenly invigorating, this conclusion. Continuing romantic education.

Full of renewed energy, I put my hands back up. This time, I attempt to throw a hook. Instead of recharging my newfound confidence further, I instantly feel how awkward my movement is.

David frowns, not improving matters. “Okay, maybe this will take more work than I thought.” He claps his hands together. “But all in the service of love, right?”

I square up.

“Love,” I say. “Right.”





21


    Eliza


I WALK INTO the boxing class, fighting the nervous twist in my stomach. It’ll be fine, I reassure myself. Okay, I don’t know if it’ll be fine. But I’ll probably be better at this than Graham. In college, I took some dance and stage combat classes and did pretty well. I’ve always been coordinated, even if I haven’t been putting miles onto the treadmill lately. It’ll be . . . well, in the vicinity of fine.

The class is being held in the open multiuse room off the main gym, with rubbery black floors and mirrors on two walls. Punching bags have been strung up on chains from the ceiling, ready for their beatings. I hold my head high, hoping to look like this is just one of the boxing gyms I’ve had the pleasure of frequenting in my pugilistic life. It’s almost funny how I’m doing more acting on this “vacation” than I do in some workweeks.

I take a spot at the back of the class. No way am I letting Graham stand behind me, able to watch me fail while I can’t see him.

Everyone else here, I’m delighted to find, looks completely comfortable. In large part, they are the classmates I expected. Guys in black sleeveless hoodies, wiry women who look exported straight off the magical island in Wonder Woman. It is possible each one of them is a nervous imposter like me, playing their roles with fragile confidence, but I doubt it.

I mimic their stances. When the instructor comes by, offering to wrap anyone’s hands, I quickly and gratefully accept, glad I won’t have to contrive some explanation to Graham for why Vacation Planner Eliza, the intermediate boxer, does not know how to do this herself.

When Graham walks in, I’m not surprised to find David with him. What does surprise me is the pair of very legitimate-looking boxing gloves David’s holding.

My stomach sinks. Of course David, frat-boy kindergarten teacher and gentle giant, is a fucking boxing aficionado. Which means, if I know Graham, they’ve been up until two in the morning practicing.

They both have their wrists wrapped.

I grit my teeth, feeling grateful for my spot in the back of the room. When Graham sees me, he flashes me a smile. I send one right back.

David’s eyes flit between us. Then, clapping Graham on the shoulder, he moves to the front of the room. Either he doesn’t want to cockblock his friend or he’s picked up on some simmering energy between Graham and me with which he does not want to engage. I honestly don’t know which.

Graham struts over to me, gym bag on his shoulder. It’s new, the white strap still spotless. I have to hand it to him, I’m momentarily impressed by the prop. With unexpected and complete conviction, I know if I questioned him on its newness, Investment Banker Graham would produce details of how he’d just worn out the old one he’d had since his college basketball days or whatever.

“Hello,” Graham says, two playful roller-coaster syllables. “Glad you decided to come.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

He drops his bag and bends down to take out— Oh my god, he bought boxing gloves? Where did he even get those? I guess this gym might sell them. Or maybe he got the car from the valet first thing this morning and drove to the nearest sporting goods store. He grins, looking relaxed, while I immediately start searching for some way I can match him.

The nervous pickup of my heartbeat isn’t unpleasant, though. I’d be lying if I said this petty war wasn’t fun. The game of pretend we’re playing this week isn’t a competition—it’s a dance—but this boxing class has lit the first fire of friendly rivalry.

Right now, Graham’s got me off guard. In my head, I note his little victory. Nicely done, husband. In my heart, though, I’m pushing myself to figure out my next move.