Do I Know You?(62)

I pause. Graham stops with me, his hand not leaving mine. He nods. My heart is pounding, but my breathing comes evenly, my face cool in the morning breeze. Sometimes, I think to myself, spontaneity doesn’t look like prix fixe menus or feigned boxing experience. Sometimes it looks like this, true honesty toward the person you trust most in the world.

Graham is waiting for me to go on, letting me decide what to say. So I do. “I don’t want to discuss it right now, not while I’m on vacation, but . . . I wanted you to know that it’s on my mind,” I say.

There’s nothing prying or uncertain in Graham’s expression. “Thank you for telling me,” he says. “We don’t have to talk about it until you want to.”

I nod, feeling inexpressibly light. I say nothing more, not because I’m hiding or because I don’t know how, but simply because there’s nothing more I need to say. With Graham’s response, I’m starting to feel like there’s a way to let him into my problems without letting them consume everything—proof I didn’t know I desperately needed.

Together, we walk up the hill into the sunlight.





36


    Graham


I STAND UNDER the spa’s unfairly good shower, letting the water soothe me. Yoga was intense. It’s hard for me to describe or entirely understand what happened, but something did. I felt something shift while we looked into each other’s eyes. I felt her realize I was there for her, both in and outside this game.

It was real, not just the pretense we’ve performed for the last few days. It was only me and Eliza.

She’ll tell me more when she’s ready. If she doesn’t, I have to do my part, too—I have to ask. I just have to show her I’m there for her, for everything she’s going through. It’s what I hope I communicated today. It was a step in the right direction. A step back to us.

We both brought fresh clothes to change into, knowing there wouldn’t be much time between showering and wine tasting. In the elegant, wood-paneled bathroom, I shave and permit myself to enjoy the range of bougie skincare products. I throw on my jacket—the charcoal topcoat Eliza got me—over my turtleneck.

When I exit into the lounge, I find Eliza waiting. She’s tucked her black sweater into a high-waisted dusty pink skirt over black tights. Small gold earrings dangle on her ears. With her hair up in a sleek ponytail, she looks fantastic.

Fantastic, and impatient.

“Did you try every product in there?” she jokes. “How could I have possibly gotten ready before you?”

I smile. “Hi. You look beautiful.” She rolls her eyes, looking pleased. “And yes,” I go on. “I did. You’ll be thanking me later when you feel how smooth my face is.”

Eliza folds her lips to hide her grin. “Oh yeah? Why is that, exactly?”

I sweep in, kissing her smoothly on the lips. “You know why,” I say close to her ear. I feel her shiver, no doubt remembering where my face was last night.

Playing it cool, I withdraw my hand, then walk without hesitation out of the spa and head toward the wine tasting. I’m not a huge wine guy, but Eliza was adamant we do everything on the hotel’s agenda. I don’t mind, of course. Still, what I’m really looking forward to is the stargazing later tonight.

In the crisp early evening, I’m glad for my coat. The sun is starting to set, the daylight fading into the purple-orange umber of dusk. We cross the patio to the main hotel, where we ride the elevator up to the rooftop. The space is normally closed for private events, but Eliza explained the wine tasting was being put on by the dating workshop as a celebration for its final night.

In the cramped elevator, my hand finds the small of Eliza’s back with possessiveness I don’t restrain. Saying nothing, Eliza leans into my touch nearly imperceptibly. Just enough for me to know she likes the gesture.

The doors open. The view is stunning, momentarily stopping me in the elevator. The sprawl of the hills looks like it’s pulled from landscape paintings, everything colored in warm olive or swathed in deep forest green. In the dusk, every contour of the cascading mountains and slope of the countryside is in focus. High walls of glass enclose the terrace itself, where small decorative trees stand, decked with lights like the restaurant downstairs.

Only Eliza walking forward—out of my grip—helps me remember to follow her.

We walk to the hostess’s podium, where we join the line of people waiting, then charge the wine tasting to our rooms. While I’m signing the bill, the hostess hands us name tags and pens to write our names, no doubt some formality of the workshop.

Glancing over, I’m caught short for a moment. I notice Eliza’s drawn a small circle instead of the dot on the i in her name. From years of grocery lists and birthday cards, I know my wife’s steep, professorial handwriting well enough to be certain Eliza does not colorfully dot her i’s.

The next moment, I realize what she’s doing. I remember how jarring her modulated Vacation Planner Eliza voice was. She’s matching the effect in handwriting.

Smiling, I make sure to add a sharp right angle to the usual curl of my capital G.

I stick on my name tag and follow Eliza toward the tasting. Reaching the terrace, though, I falter. This does not resemble the other wine tastings in my limited experience. Two-person tables run in one perfectly straight row down the length of the terrace. No one is seated yet. In confusion, I glance to Eliza.