Do I Know You?(6)

The hostess—Rosie—doesn’t seem to notice Graham’s tone. With unchanged cheer, she types our name into the computer. “Will you be celebrating anything during your stay?” she asks.

Graham darts me a glance.

I feel my eyebrows flit up. Close to confrontational.

“Our five-year wedding anniversary,” my husband grinds out.

Now Rosie’s expression changes. Hearts practically pop into her eyes. Her pleasant smile melts into one reserved for the mushiest of romance. In fact, for someone who probably encounters plenty of celebrating couples in her line of work, her enthusiasm seems remarkably genuine.

“We have a number of experiences programmed this week,” she says excitedly, simultaneously tapping keystrokes into the computer. The printer next to her whirs, producing a new sheet of crisp white paper. “Some are mixers designed for those here for our dating workshop,” she continues, “while others are more intimate and designed for couples. I recommend those. You’re too late for dinner, but our bar will be serving food for the next two hours.”

I take the paper, trying to look grateful. Glancing down, I catch sight of cliffside picnic, stargazing, basking pools, yoga. I read it as strained silence during cliffside picnic, strained silence during stargazing, strained silence in the basking pools, strained silence during yoga. Rosie beams while I fold the list, which I shove into my bag.

She returns to her hidden screen. “I have you all set for—” Confusion swipes the smile from her face.

My heart lifts. Did Helen mess up the reservation? Or was there a computer error, leaving us roomless with no other rooms available in the hotel? Will we just have to drive back home tonight?

“—two rooms,” Rosie finishes.

I look to Graham. He shifts next to me, leaning forward like he wants to see for himself. “That can’t be right,” he says.

Rosie keeps clicking, eyebrows furrowed, until understanding flits into her expression. “This was our mistake. When your reservation was made online originally, it was for one of our standard mountain-view rooms. But then a Mrs. Helen Cutler called to reserve the honeymoon cliff suite instead. Looks like the computer made a new reservation rather than an upgrade.” Evidently relieved to have uncovered the problem, Rosie smiles with renewed warmth. “It’s no problem. We won’t charge you for the duplicate booking, of course. I imagine you’d prefer the honeymoon suite?”

Graham nods like someone’s offered him the choice between hearing bad news or bad news. “Yeah, we’ll—”

“Hold on.”

The words leap out of my mouth.

Four confused eyes find me. I don’t blame them. I’m not sure what I’m going to say next either, but the start of some vague idea is catching in me. Graham’s features show plain weariness, and when he speaks, his voice holds unhidden exasperation. “Eliza, we should take the suite.”

“Of course,” I say. “But—”

What’s made me hesitate is the vision forming in my head of what this vacation will really look like. If we check into this honeymoon suite together, it’s going to be the car ride, but worse. The images of the rooms I saw online carousel through my head—soaking tubs big enough for two, California king–sized beds covered in rose petals, champagne in sweating buckets. Graham and me being hit over the head with romance won’t suddenly rekindle our spark. It’ll feel like pressure.

Maybe—maybe what we need is space.

“Let’s keep both rooms,” I say.

The next seconds fill with charged silence, empty except for the consistent warbling of the waterfall.

Graham gives Rosie a rigid smile. “Could we have a minute?” he asks Rosie. The gruffness is gone. I’ve honestly never seen him so effortfully polite, not even when we tiptoe past every conversation we’re not having in the confines of our house. There, forced politeness is the name of the game. This is Graham’s major leagues.

When he leads us several steps from the desk, our backs to the waterfall, he stops smiling. Defensiveness rises up in me. Shacking up in the honeymoon suite, recording my sample in the bathroom while Graham stews in the bedroom, is not the vacation either of us wants.

Graham, however, seems oblivious to this internal struggle of mine. He just looks exasperated. “What would we use the second room for, Eliza?”

“I’ll stay there,” I say firmly, summoning up every cool, collected character I’ve ever voiced. “Not the whole trip. Maybe just a night or two.”

His expression darkens. “You want to spend our anniversary apart,” he clarifies. “We might as well drive back home.”

I put a hand on his arm.

He stills, uncertainty and maybe something like yearning painting new streaks into his demeanor. It’s been days since I’ve touched him this way. His expression says he knows.

“No,” I say. “I want to be together. But this . . . This isn’t together.”

The hesitation flattens out of his expression. “And separate rooms is?” he asks archly.

I purse my lips, fighting not to snap. He’s not working with me here. I wonder if he even understands how much I’m not enjoying this conversation, how hard it is to voice the problems we’re facing instead of letting them ebb into silence like we did in the car. Or how hard it is to reckon with this physical impossibility of love—the way you can grow distant from someone while going to sleep next to them every night.