Do I Know You?(39)

I throw out my next punch, quickly realizing Vacation Planner Eliza’s flagging confidence will be a constant battle. Something’s wrong with the way I’m holding my elbows, I just know it. From the barely perceptible narrowing of his gaze, I get the feeling Graham does, too.

Maybe I’m not going to be as good at this as he is. But that doesn’t mean my turn at the bag has to be a complete waste. “From the way you’re staring,” I say, “you’re either ridiculously into me, or I’m doing something wrong.”

Graham says nothing. Which is fine. Perfect, even.

“Isn’t this the part where you use ‘helping me with my form’ as an excuse to stand close behind me?” I ask.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely it is.”

While Graham walks over, I square up my stance, anticipating—I’ve seen every movie where this happens. Nothing prepares me for the warm chill I feel when Graham lines his body up with mine. His hands slide up my forearms, positioning and caressing at once. His chin is close to the shell of my ear.

“There,” he murmurs, his breath warm on my neck.

Yes, I want to say. Right there.

“Mhm,” I manage instead.

“Okay. You’re looking perfect,” he says.

Graham crafts eloquent casework every day—he knows words well enough to intend the double meaning in what he’s saying. The one that refers not to the position of my hips but to how they look in my leggings. I can’t handle the new heat spreading through me. My head is short-circuiting, my body a live wire, leaving me ready to send every flicker of the electricity filling me squarely into my next swing.

Graham steps back, nodding in satisfaction before returning to the other side of the bag. “Great. Now, when you punch, just picture your ex-boyfriend’s face.”

I smile. Then I unleash.

Wham.

Graham, on the other side of the bag, widens his eyes, impressed. “What did the poor man do to you?”

The instructor calls for us to switch. “Now jab, cross, then hook,” he continues. I drop my gloved fists to my thighs, my arms searing in pain. Squaring up to the bag, Graham starts in. Wham. I frown. He’s practiced hooks, too? How long did they do this last night? Maybe David should be leading this class.

“It’s more what he didn’t do,” I answer Graham’s question. “I don’t think he saw me. Or . . . I don’t think he saw the changes in me.”

Graham misses a punch. His eyes find mine.

I hold his gaze. I didn’t expect to be this truthful today. Granted, I was pretty preoccupied with being this class’s clumsiest intermediate boxer. But Graham’s question was the first time he’s ever asked me what was wrong in our relationship. I wasn’t going to waste it.

I keep going, finding bravery in the remove of this charade to speak the fear I try to hide from even myself. “I sometimes wondered if we got together too young,” I say, my voice not my own. It’s not the sort of thing I would usually let myself acknowledge. But I’m remembering our conversation at the beach. We have to be real about the hard stuff.

Graham grabs the punching bag, stilling it. The whole room feels still. Sweat drips down my chin while I wait.

“No.” He looks me in the eye. “No, I don’t believe that.”

He resumes punching, his punches now looking a little more like mine. Better, honestly. But rougher. Harder. Like he’s not just punching, but punching something.

His unequivocal answer, succinct as it was, fills my heart. Now I feel like I could run dozens more laps around the gym. “What about you?” I ask. “You look like you’re working something out yourself. Let me guess.” I purse my lips in pretend speculation, kneading one glove into my leg. “Big deal closing?”

Graham throws one more hook before the instructor calls for us to switch again. My smugness disappears when I realize, Shit, I have to figure out hooks in the next five seconds. I gamely, semi-successfully copy Graham’s form, grateful I haven’t popped my shoulder out of its socket. Yet, when I glance to Graham, expecting to find him looking delightedly dubious, I notice he instead seems lost in thought.

“Yes, exactly,” he says softly. I switch to my cross with a little more confidence, waiting for him to continue, which he does. “Just like last month’s. Just like next month’s will be.”

I don’t know what to say to the fragile note in his voice. It’s left me wondering if this is Graham following what he told me on the beach. Being real, even while he’s speaking in the voice of his character.

Reflecting on his response, I swing my next punch. Whack. I don’t know where this reservation is coming from. Graham enjoys his work. He’s genuinely interested in what he does. I remember how he would light up describing to me his Moot Court competitions in law school, or the first cases he was put on when he joined his firm.

I find my path up to the line in the sand we’ve drawn separating our new selves from our real ones. “You seem like someone who would enjoy his job.” I punctuate the suggestion with my next swing, which feels more natural.

Graham nods slowly. “I do,” he replies with earnestness I know is coming from the real him. “I love my job. It’s just—well, it’s the same thing, every day, every month. Which I don’t mind. Never too much of a good thing,” he continues. “I just wonder if doing the same thing for my entire professional career will . . . do something to me. Monotonize me. If I’ll wake up one day unable to recognize the world past the work routines I’ve put so much care into. Won’t recognize I’ve happily painted my entire self in the same shade of gray.”