Do I Know You?(53)

“While it’s thoughtful of you to offer,” he replies instantly, “you’re the main problem here. I’m pretty sure you’d only make things worse.”

“Mm,” I muse, seeing his point. “Sorry.”

His hand slides lower down my back. “Don’t be,” he murmurs into my ear. “Not for a second.”

I wonder if this restaurant has wet floor signs on hand, because I’m presently melting into one expanding puddle of flattered joy and, frankly, lust. Does he know what he’s doing to me? He must. He must know.

“For whatever it’s worth,” I say, “I like it.”

Graham groans, pressing his face into my neck. “Eliza. You’re making this harder.”

I have to laugh—I’m pretty sure the word choice was intentional. Either way, it’s certainly correct.

We continue to sway, losing track of time. Of ourselves. The music is dreamlike, pining, perfect.

And for the first time, I consider breaking character, because I really, really regret not sharing a room with Graham tonight.





30


    Graham


DINNER IS UNBELIEVABLE. Every dish is perfection, though we have different favorites. I find myself hanging on to every word of Eliza’s description of why the paella is at the very top of her list. It’s funny how infatuation turns every conversation into one you want to remember for the rest of your life, no matter how insignificant the details.

When we finish our entrées, I feel certain I don’t have room for dessert. Then the waiter brings out the crema catalana. We share the decadent creamy dish in the middle of the table, leaning on our elbows to spoon mouthfuls. Eliza’s dress gapes a little with the movement, and I catch a glimpse of something lacy. I have to tear my eyes away.

I feel pulled in opposite delicious directions. On the one hand, I want to make this meal last as long as possible. On the other, I’m very ready to find out where the night might lead us.

From the heated smile Eliza gives me, I get the sense she’s eager for the same.

The whole dinner, I’ve focused on asking Eliza questions. Sometimes her answers are all fabrications. Her work-perk trips for research to Prague or Vienna, or how she enjoys living on the East Coast. Now, though, I’ve learned not to mind the fact that none of this is fact. I don’t want to waste the pressure-free opportunity to rebuild my instincts for curiosity, for fascination, for intuitive follow-ups in conversation with the woman I married.

I give as well, describing my fictional life in Santa Fe. In detailing workdays I’ve never lived in downtowns I’ve never visited, I realize I’m practicing something else. I’m practicing feeling interesting. Going into conversations with her expecting warmth, expecting enthusiasm. Feeling the confidence she says I should.

On our last bite of crema, I decide to ask the question I’ve been skirting all evening. “I want to hear more about your sister. What’s your relationship like?”

This topic isn’t just for practice. I know Michelle well. Eliza’s younger sister who works in tech. They haven’t spoken since Michelle’s engagement party, which Eliza was upset to have missed. Now, not only do Eliza’s features shadow whenever I mention her sister—I think some of our own distance started when Eliza returned from the disastrous party. My question is real, and I’m hoping this might be the chance to discuss it with her.

Eliza straightens. “My sisters, you mean,” she says sharply. The message is clear. On this, there will be no truth discussed.

I say nothing.

“They’re great,” she goes on. “We have a . . . great relationship. We’re really close.”

It’s striking how badly she’s lying about this. How forced her diction, how uncreative her response. Eliza, who intimidated me with her elegant, nuanced character construction, just said “great” twice.

It makes me sad. Something in this question is such a hot stove she can’t help flinching from it. While I want to press, I remember how she shied away from the real conversation earlier before diverting with dancing. One piece at a time. I let her change the subject.

“So, Graham,” she says, “we’re both on vacation. When we go home, it’ll be to . . . different lives. What do you want out of this?”

The veiled question is one I’ve wondered myself this week. When we get into our car to drive home, what will happen to the personas we’ve constructed this week?

Considering silently, I don’t let my eyes leave Eliza. She holds my gaze, worlds forming and collapsing and re-forming in the slate swirl of her irises, the calm lines of her lips, the flush of her cheeks. While this might not be everything we need, I decide, it is a chance. I can correct some of what I’ve done wrong.

“I want to get to know you,” I reply.

Her smile softens. I don’t know how I know it’s not part of her performance. “What do you want to know?”

“What makes you happiest right now?”

Eliza sets her spoon down carefully. I know we both know it’s time to be real. Still, I’m grateful for this charade. Back home, I felt like I should know what makes her happy. Shouldn’t her husband never have to ask that question? But on a first date, it’s easy. Expected.

“Adventures like this, and long conversations,” she says. “What about you?”