Do I Know You?(5)

“What’s wrong with that scene?” Crossing her legs, Eliza studies me.

I resist the urge to look at her, keeping my eyes on the road. “Come on, Eliza. You know what’s wrong with it.” I feel myself frown. I’ve had easier settlement negotiations with plaintiffs over millions of dollars.

Eliza is silent for a moment. When she replies, there’s hurt in her voice I didn’t intend to cause. “Yeah,” she says, “I guess I do.”

I wish I knew what to say. I push to wake up the parts of my brain experienced in this, in finding the perfect resolution of rejoinder. The way forward. I want to explain—I need to explain how I’m not rejecting her. I’m rejecting . . . myself, sort of. If I can just explain, she won’t be thrilled, but she’ll understand.

When the first words I want to say find their way to the tip of my tongue, though, Eliza’s phone vibrates.

She looks down to read her screen, her brow furrowing. When she gives the shortest laugh under her breath, then sets off typing with white-nailed fingers flying over the keyboard, I know what she’s doing is nothing career oriented. She’s replying to Nikki, with whom her texting conversation never ends, it only pauses for several-hour stretches.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice pink painting the base of Eliza’s neck. I know Nicole Edleson well enough to guess she’s asked something invasive about Eliza’s and my sex life. In fact, I’ve known Nikki longer than I’ve known Eliza. She was my friend first. One of my freshman-year hallmates in college, Nikki was there for coffee runs while I was studying for the LSAT, and I was there for moral support while she was interviewing for engineering jobs.

Even so, when I introduced her to Eliza, Nikki didn’t need long to pick her new favorite. It was not me. I couldn’t even blame her—I, too, was smitten with the girl I’d been chatting with online for weeks.

One day, Eliza herself will go the way of Nikki. She’ll realize there’s someone better out there. She’ll leave me behind.

While Eliza texts, I feel discomfort constricting my chest. I don’t know how to fix this. Not just this conversation—this. This quiet expanse we’re wading through, together but separate.

I don’t break the silence. Instead, I let the sparkling ocean mock me the rest of the drive.





3


    Eliza


WHEN I STEP out of the car, I can finally breathe—though this place is breathtaking. We’re on a cliffside with forest surrounding the inn, dark green trees soaring high into the sky. The scent on the wind is the resinous sweetness of wood meeting with the bitter salt of seawater.

It’s nearly enough to lift my spirits. But not quite. If the drive up was any indication of how this anniversary getaway will go, I’m not heartened. Graham knows I’m trying. Trying to be fun, trying to be flirty, trying to find the spark. I don’t understand why he won’t let the light in. Why he’s suddenly so self-conscious.

He walks stiffly ahead of me, his frame one of sharp corners like he’s made of matchsticks, though these never catch fire. He’s heading for the wooden doors of the hotel’s understated, geometric entrance.

I can hear the ocean past the inn. I suspect the water would be visible over the edge of the cliff, but in the nighttime, everything is black. I know the hotel boasts gorgeous sightseeing trails—I couldn’t help clicking through every photo on the website. In a hopeful flicker, I imagine going on an early morning walk with Graham.

Then the memory of the smothering quiet in the car descends over me. On instinct, I start strategizing how I’ll find my way down to the picturesque pathways on my own. Maybe I could schedule a morning massage, then take my time returning to the room.

Immediately, I feel guilty. I shouldn’t be fantasizing about spending time away from my husband, especially not on the very first day of our anniversary retreat.

Once more, I breathe in the night breeze. Fortified, I follow Graham inside.

The Treeline Resort, our home for the next week, is maddeningly perfect, like enjoyment of its every lovely detail waits just out of my reach. It’s modern in an earthy way, sculpted with wood and stone in uneven lines meant to evoke nature. I walk into the large lobby, unable to help drinking in the pristine design and inviting low light. Behind the reception desk, a waterfall bubbles quietly.

“Checking in?”

The hostess smiles welcomingly from the desk. Her name is Rosie, I read on her name tag. She fits here, her sleek black hair and impeccable slate-gray dress matching the cool, clean simplicity of the place.

“Cutler,” Graham replies gruffly.

I frown. Unless he’s in court, Graham doesn’t have an edge to him. He’s not one of those guys. The Graham I know is congenial, even boyishly charming. I’ve been to his firm’s parties with him. I know his colleagues like him for this—for how when he’s not shredding the plaintiff’s case, he’s ready with a genuine smile, a firm handshake, and a clever compliment.

I’m a little surprised to see his sharpness come out now. I embarrassed him in the car, I realize, which he’s metabolized into frustration via the commonest of male equations. I didn’t mean to. I was trying to have fun. Now I don’t know how to fix it. I do know he’ll be irritated when we get to our room and I tell him I still have to finish recording my sample. Grimly, I play the conversation out in my head. No. I said I’d send it in tonight. Probably thirty more minutes? Yes, Graham, it includes the words “heaving breasts.”