Do I Know You?(65)

We grab premade sandwiches from the hotel café, our interactions still passing only in quick smiles exchanged and gentle touches. Once we’ve finished this short, practical dinner, we get onto one of the hotel golf carts circulating for the night’s event. When Eliza puts her hand in my lap, the patio beginning to recede behind us, the gesture feels quietly meaningful. I place my hand over hers.

We’re driven up one of the ridges, leaving the lights of the hotel far behind us. In the dark, the grasses on the hillside sway, hard to make out except for the sense of motion and the cast of the moonlight on them. It’s quiet out here like the hotel isn’t, the hum of the golf cart practically disappearing into the vacuum of rustling plants and the night wind. Our cart climbs higher, winding up the path.

When Eliza shivers, I put my arm around her. In my head, I keep seeing the way her face lit up the more I asked what she loved about her job. It was—magical. Like spinning thread from the fabric of our lives into gold. I should have asked her those questions every day just to see her react the way she did, the gleam in her eyes.

Deep down, I’m ashamed for having ever stopped. I know why I did. I felt like I knew what she would say, like there was nothing new to discover. But what does that matter? Absolutely nothing, I’ve realized. I’m not marshaling evidence for one of my cases, not hunting for clues like some dauntless private investigator. I’m doing it because her answers are a joy to hear over and over.

After fifteen minutes of following the mountain road with only the small headlights guiding us, the cart parks next to several others from the hotel. Eliza and I get off. My arm doesn’t leave her waist for even a moment. Near the edge of the cliff, one of the hotel guides stands, gesturing to the sky. Eliza and I join the group.

Immediately, we look up. The expanse stretching over us is . . . stunning. Dizzying, even. The night is perfectly clear, stars splayed out in every direction. The darkness itself is rippled with color in ways you don’t see in the city, streaked with deep purples and blues like running watercolors.

But it’s the band of light directly overhead to which the guide points us. This, the guide explains, isn’t just the endless scattershot of stars. It’s the Milky Way. Our own galaxy, our cosmic neighborhood. It is otherworldly—one dark slash down the starlit sky, spitting out stars in its wake in an opal kaleidoscope of color.

Holding Eliza, we stare up together. The feeling is profound, of seeing our galaxy from one of the vast spreads of planets in its swirl. It’s the rarest of gifts—the opportunity to view something from within it. This kind of perspective isn’t something you see every day, but sometimes, you find yourself on a hilltop, immeasurably grateful for the chance.

While the guide points out constellations, Eliza and I don’t speak. We don’t have to. Holding my wife close, our connection feels undeniable, invisible yet present, like gravity.

Underneath the constellations, I feel the hugeness of the universe. Hundreds of billions of stars form the Milky Way, and while I can’t make them out individually, what they create together lights up the sky. It’s wondrous. I could look into this sky every single night and still find new views, new unexplored worlds overhead. Eliza’s vibrant expression dances through my head, her eyes illuminated like the reach of the galaxy—how much more of her is there left to uncover?

I want to know. I want to spend the rest of my life finding out. I want to see her in every light, to study her under clear skies like this one, to see the sunshine of her joys, to wipe her tears in thunderstorms.

Eliza turns to face me like she’s thinking the same thing—or maybe she isn’t, I don’t know. Not yet. In the quiet of the starry night, I kiss her like we’re starting over.





39


    Eliza


WE RETURN TO Graham’s room. Except now, while he holds the door for me, I notice it’s begun to feel more like our room. Like I’m meant to be here instead of just choosing to be. I like both feelings, but in the moment, I nurture this one.

When the door closes behind us, we don’t turn on the lights, leaving the room shadowed in starlight from the wide windows. We didn’t discuss coming back here when stargazing ended. The conclusion was foregone. But for whatever reason, I’m nervous in ways I wasn’t expecting, my pulse beginning to pick up while I follow Graham down the entry hallway. I don’t know why—we had sex here last night, wild, fantastic sex. Not to mention what went on in the hot tub. Today was perfect in different ways, counter to the game we’ve been playing but, unpredictably, exactly what I needed.

Still, reaching the darkened living room, I shiver. Graham slings his jacket onto the nearby chair, then slowly walks up to me.

He stops close enough to kiss me, to put his hands on my body. But he does neither. He only looks—no, stares—holding my gaze. He’s half in shadow, the lines of the windows cutting his features into pieces of him.

I feel my heart pounding. It’s intoxicating, so I let myself lean into the rush, lifting one hand to his chest. On the cliffside, the guide noted we were just one system on one spindle of the Milky Way. Right now, I feel like the center of the galaxy.

Graham’s eyes follow my movement, then return to my face. It’s impossible to miss the quiet explosion of heat in his gaze, like my first touch, even over the fabric of his sweater, suddenly ignited unconcealable hunger for more. It makes my breathing go uneven, goose bumps rising on my skin.