Do I Know You?(63)

“Hey, what are you two doing here?”

I recognize David’s voice immediately. Turning, I find our friend, looking jubilant like usual.

“We’re here for the wine tasting,” I reply.

David’s brow furrows. “You know it’s not just wine tasting, right?” His eyes flit briefly to Eliza, then back to me. “It’s wine tasting,” he says, “while speed dating.”

I round on Eliza. She must have known. She had the schedule.

Unbothered, she shrugs. “It’s not like we have to participate. We’re just here for the wine tasting.”

I hide my satisfaction, knowing the prospect of speed dating wouldn’t ruffle Investment Banker Graham in the least. Inquisitive, I face David. “Wait, what are you doing here? Where’s your soul mate?”

David claps one reassuring hand on my shoulder. “This isn’t supposed to be real setups,” he says encouragingly, like he’s explaining you get green when you mix blue and yellow paint together. “It’s one of the workshop’s exercises. Everyone here is returning home to different cities in the next couple days. It’s just for practice, and I need all the practice I can get before my first solo date with Lindsey tomorrow.”

I straighten, genuinely excited for him. “You asked her out?”

Impossibly, David’s grin widens. “I did. Dinner tomorrow, my last night here.”

Our conversation is halted when an older woman walks into the center of the terrace, ringing a handheld bell. “We’re going to begin now,” she says. “Half of you, please sit on the left side of these tables. The rest of you will float from table to table when I ring this bell.”

“I’ll go tell her we’re just here for the wine tasting,” I say to Eliza under my breath.

When she looks up, the glow in her gray eyes is intoxicating. I could lose myself in their fog, drifting on their oceans forever. “Or . . .” she begins, the syllable heavy with suggestion.

“Or what, Eliza?” I prompt skeptically.

“Or you could trust me.”

I know I’m done for. I prod her playfully, nevertheless. “We made very clear rules on the subject of dating other people.”

She squeezes my hand. “I know. It’ll be fun,” she promises. “We won’t talk to anyone else.”

I eye her, pretty sure this is the exact opposite of the premise of speed dating. “How, exactly?” I ask.

But I get no clarification. The woman rings her bell, sending the crowd into motion. David steps right past us with more smiles.

With Eliza’s hand still clutched in mine, I don’t move. I’m fighting the doubts I couldn’t help but indulge for most of the day. Vague reassurances notwithstanding, it’s hard not to imagine this is Eliza once more skittering to distance, to performance, to the pretend comfort of casual, no-strings-attached acquaintance.

But when I look in her eyes, I see she’s not. I hold her gaze, seeing in her imploring expression the same thing I did during yoga. She’s not hiding—she’s asking me a question.

“Okay,” I say.

Her shoulders relax in relief. The corners of her mouth start to lift.

“But if this gets weird,” I go on, “we’re leaving. I have no interest in dating anyone else. Nor does Investment Banker Graham.”

Eliza smiles. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Releasing her hand, I walk toward the tables. I feel like I’m entering some sort of gladiatorial scenario, though I doubt Rome’s fighters had the pleasures of rooftop views or twinkle-lighted trees. Joining my compatriots, men and women, on the left side of the tables, I hover over the open chairs. The choice of table feels simultaneously critical and completely unimportant. While I hesitate, Eliza’s words replay on a loop in my head. Trust me.

Done hesitating, I sit, watching her from across the room.





37


    Eliza


WHEN THE MODERATOR rings the bell, I sit down opposite Graham, obviously.

“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m Heather.”

His eyebrow rises. It is delightful. Honestly, the entire thing is delightful, this spectacular view, the perfect chill of the evening, how good he looks in this unlikely turtleneck-topcoat situation. The waiter comes over, serving us the first wine. It’s white, deliciously sharp on my tongue when I take my first sip.

“What are you doing?” Graham asks.

Knowing I owe him an explanation, I swallow. I remember everything in our real lives waiting for us in just a couple precious days. “I just . . . don’t want to put pressure on ourselves yet,” I reply, dropping “Heather’s” voice.

Graham’s eyes cloud. Not with resistance, though. He’s trying to work with me. “You know we can’t do this forever,” he says.

“I don’t want to do it forever,” I reply immediately, starting to hear the strain in my voice. I’m not pleading, not exactly—not yet. “Just a little longer.”

Graham pauses, pensive. I wait, wildly hopeful, wondering if he’s hearing in his head what I told him earlier. Trust me.

He tastes his wine, then looks up, his eyes sparkling. “Hi, Heather. I’m Liam. What do you do for a living?”