Do I Know You?(58)

“Oh, right.” Mom suddenly sounds interested, performing magnanimity. Like we’re catching up in the produce aisle. “What is it, three years?”

My heart hammers. “Five.”

She pauses. Enough for respectfulness. “Well, you really need to call your sister. I’m trying here, but I don’t understand why you couldn’t spare five minutes for her.” In my silence—which is sprung of stunned incomprehension, not to mention hurt, of how she just outright ignored me—she goes on. “We have to—”

I find my voice enough to cut in. “Mom—”

“We have to tell the caterer the final head count next week—”

“Mom,” I repeat, fraying. “We’ll talk some other time.”

My sharp tone quiets her, but it’s a petulant quiet. “Okay. Talk to your sister,” she says in parting.

I hang up, clenching my lips together. Part of me feels guilty for snapping, honestly. I can’t do this with her. Can’t keep doing this. Every conversation escalates into a nuclear-weapons stockpile of snide remarks, priorities questioned, misspoken phrases interrogated. So I panic. I shut down. I do what I just did.

Quietly, I set my phone on the marble counter. I’m pretty sure my mom knows Graham and I are on our anniversary trip and chose to disregard this inconvenient fact. Or, I don’t know, it’s possible she didn’t. Either way sucks.

I just want to have my one week of vacation.

Walking out of the bathroom, I find Graham sitting up in bed, scrolling on his phone. His eyes dip to my bare legs for the briefest moment before finding my face. “Everything all right?” he asks. He searches my expression, his voice somewhere in the middle of concerned and casual, like he can tell I’m a little off.

I consider confiding in him, I really do. I feel close to him in ways I haven’t in months. It’s just . . . I would rather not dwell on this family drama right now. I don’t want this feud to distract us. Even more, I don’t want our real lives, our real selves, encroaching on this new, still-fragile thing between us. This is working. Why burst our bubble early when we have two days of vacation left? It can wait.

So I school my features into pretense. I put on overworked agitation, the face of someone who’s had to get on a call with her office while on vacation. “Just a double-booking client hotel crisis. All fine now,” I joke, walking over to him.

Graham’s expression flickers, but he doesn’t push me to drop my performance. Instead, he reaches for my hand, pulling me into his lap to kiss me. He lays me down, letting the kiss drag on, his fingers lightly stroking my hair spread out on the pillowcase.

“What do you want to do today?” he murmurs into the side of my face.

I want to stay in this moment forever. Right here, in this gorgeous hotel room, with the man I love whispering sweet questions into my ear. At the same time, though, I’m sort of scared to. In every perfect second, I feel the pull of normalcy, the instinct to return to our regular married life. To lapse into familiar patterns, which might just return us to familiar doldrums.

Jumping out of bed, I spring lightly into the hallway, where today’s schedule has been slid under the door. What I need to do is keep the day moving. I scan the cream-white paper, looking over the itemized list of the hotel’s offerings. It’s exactly what I’d hoped. The day is packed with a mix of dating workshop programming and dedicated couples’ activities. Nearly every hour is accounted for.

Graham crawls to the edge of the bed, peering around the corner. “Anything you like the look of?” he asks.

I face him, feeling myself glow.

“Everything,” I say. “Let’s do everything.”





34


    Graham


WHILE ELIZA GETS dressed, the morning takes on the kind of excited haze I remember from times like this early in our relationship, minus the sculpted modernity of our hotel room. Zipping her up with quick, wordless smiles, bright glances whenever we catch each other’s eyes, the breathlessness under our goodbyes in the doorway.

We part for thirty minutes to change before beginning the day’s hotel marathon. Eliza didn’t offer to bring her luggage over to the suite, nor did I inquire. I think both of us want to draw out this feeling that we’re dating again.

I head out to wait for Eliza where we agreed, the outdoor couches on the patio overlooking the gorgeous scenery. I don’t know if I’m still high from the previous night or if the morning is exceptionally beautiful, the hills drenched in dazzling emerald like some divine Photoshopper cranked up the saturation. I’m excited for the day—first jam making, then couples’ yoga, wine tasting, and finally stargazing.

But I’m trying not to be nervous, too.

What we’re building is both real and not real, I remind myself. I shared real pieces of myself last night. I’m pretty sure Eliza did, too. Though I’m not certain how I’ll continue to meld myself and this other me. When we got here, I couldn’t imagine having even one night like the one we just did. I’ll figure this out, too.

Because I have to.

I’m working the question over when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Pulling it out, I expect to find Eliza saying she’s running late. Instead, I see my mother-in-law’s name. My brow furrows. I have a cordial, if distant, relationship with Laura consisting mostly of coordinating dinner plans when Eliza’s unreachable in the studio.