Do I Know You?(51)

David’s brow furrows. “Graham,” he says, “my six-year-olds can read more subtext than you sometimes. Who do you want to be? This isn’t only about Eliza.”

I plant my foot slightly wrong on the path, sending the gravel skittering under me, then balance myself. David’s comment leaves me with no reply. He’s exactly right—everything I’m putting into Investment Banker Graham comes from me. Only me.

Which means . . . maybe pieces of the person I’ve drawn up don’t have to end when we get home. What is a self except the choices we make of who to present, how to respond to the people in our lives? Sure, Eliza and I have decided to work certain sudden changes into those presentations, then tacked on some made-up backstories. But is the process really that different from life itself? I’d gotten used to connecting this self, this performance, to this vacation.

Maybe I should learn to start connecting it to me instead.





29


    Eliza


THE PATIO LOOKS fit for a movie, ready for a montage wrapped in warm lighting. The trees hold fairy lights delicately decorating their flowering limbs, while the white flames of candles flicker on each of the burgundy-clothed tables. It’s tapas night, the hand-chalked wooden sign on the hostess’s podium tells me. The trio of musicians with their guitars plays on a small stage past the tables, which have been organized to leave space clearly meant for dancing. Two older couples sway under the lights.

This is one of the resort’s events programmed for couples, part of why the hotel is rated one of the best romantic getaways in the country. Every table, I notice while the hostess leads me through the patio, is set up only for two.

Crossing the space to our table, I spot Graham already seated, watching the band to his right. He doesn’t notice me, not yet. He’s dressed for the patio heaters, in a white button-down with the top two buttons undone, the sleeves cuffed casually to the elbows. He looks good, understatedly confident.

Part of me doubts he labored over the outfit in front of his mirror, questioning whether to opt for his coat or polos or this. It’s this harsh, rational voice in my head reminding me how infrequently we dress up for each other. How far our relationship is now from nervously preening in the mirror, hoping we impress each other.

But tonight, I refuse to listen. I shut the familiar voice down. I let the endearing idea wash over me, reveling in the thought that he nervously, excitedly prepared for our date the way I did.

Because tonight isn’t for painful reminders. It’s for possibilities.

I let myself savor the sight of him, his forearms resting on the tablecloth, hands clasped lightly. It’s been a long time since I met someone for a date. These days, when dates happen—only for special occasions now—they involve getting ready in the same bedroom, reaching past each other with our shoulders bumping in the closet, having him untangle one of my necklaces he’s seen fifty times, then driving over together. This change, this charged little prelude, is nice. Graham hasn’t seen me yet. He doesn’t know what I’m wearing.

When he turns in my direction, his gaze landing on me, I get to watch his eyes light up just for me.

Good thing, too. I really pinned my hopes on this dress.

It’s black, with a wide V-neck, thin straps, and an asymmetrical hem on the high slit that hugs my hips. What Graham can’t see is the lingerie I put on in a burst of confidence. The dress required something delicate underneath, and without wearing shapewear, only the lingerie would work.

What’s more, I couldn’t stand the thought it would sit unworn in my bag the whole trip. Graham doesn’t even have to see it. It’s for me. Wearing it makes me feel like a new person.

I walk over and sit down across from him, not fighting the flush rising on my neck from how he can’t stop drinking me in.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hello. You look incredible,” he replies a little breathlessly.

I smile, feeling practically ready to burst with quiet pleasure. “Thank you.”

Our waiter comes over immediately and pours our sparkling water, then explains the specials. I process none of it, partly because of the happy haze descending over me and partly because, right now, everything sounds delicious while the waiter’s explaining it.

When the waiter finishes with the specials, Graham looks to me. “If you want, I was thinking we could do the prix fixe.”

I feel my eyes widen. This is not something we do at home. “I’d love that,” I reply. The waiter nods, then departs. Graham and I return to taking each other in. “It’s been a while since I’ve done this,” I say.

“What? Gone out to dinner?”

This smartass reply is one hundred percent Investment Banker Graham. I sip my water. “No. Gone on a first date. You have a high bar to meet,” I inform him. “My last first date was exceptional.” I give him a sly smile.

His eyes sparkle. “That so? Well, tell me what I’m up against.”

I settle into my seat, letting the memories sweep over me. When I’ve recalled them recently, they felt like cloying reminders of what we’ve somehow lost. Right now, though, they’re just sweet. This night has some sort of wonderful Midas touch, turning everything into its loveliest version. “It was certainly nothing like this,” I say, gesturing to the fairy-tale decorations of the restaurant. “We just met for coffee, but we talked for two hours.”