Do I Know You?(67)

For the first time on this trip, my hand doesn’t find only the cool sheets of my otherwise empty bed. Eliza is there. I shift onto my side, finding her breathing slowly, the morning light setting her soft skin to glowing. With my chest full of raw happiness, I pull her close.

She wakes just enough to settle herself more comfortably onto me before promptly dozing off. She smells like her—my favorite version of her scent, no shampoo, nothing of the day. The moment is everything.

I stroke her hair, remembering waking up on this day five years ago. We broke the rules and spent the night before our wedding together, neither of us wanting to be without the other. But when we woke up, Eliza made me promise not to open my eyes.

She kissed me with my eyes closed. She did more with my eyes closed. While she took her time, I pictured the woman who would, in only hours, become my wife—pictured and pictured.

I wasn’t nervous on the morning of our wedding. Despite our youth, I went into our marriage with nothing but confidence in our decision. While I never imagined we would reach a point where I wouldn’t even know how to talk to Eliza, the problems we’ve been facing don’t represent the crumbling of unsound foundations. Now, with Eliza curled on my chest, I know I was right not to be nervous.

Eliza sucks in a breath, the sound I’ve learned over five years means she’s awake. Her eyes open, focusing on me slowly.

“Happy anniversary,” I say.

She starts to smile. “Happy anniversary,” she replies, her voice adorably groggy.

When her eyelids flutter closed, I feel her drifting off once more. I stroke her hair, the way I know relaxes her. What if we just didn’t get up? one very inviting voice in my head whispers. What if we simply spent the entire day here, under the covers, wrapped in each other?

Snapping me out of this delicious speculation, Eliza’s phone vibrates on the nightstand. With a groan, she rolls over and checks the screen. I watch her read, then frown. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she mutters, before returning the phone facedown to the nightstand.

I sit up, propping the pillows behind me. I could give her space like I did yesterday. Instead, I decide I’ll let her know there’s an open door.

“Who was that?” I ask.

She meets my eyes, looking nervous, until resolve enters her expression. “It’s my mom calling,” she says, like she’s out on a ledge, uncertain if it’ll hold her. “On our literal anniversary, she’s pressuring me into RSVPing to Michelle’s wedding, which we weren’t even invited to. Ugh,” she sighs harshly, her nerves overcome by frustration. “I just want out of this mess.” She draws her knees up to her chest under the covers. The posture is defensive, hiding her vulnerability.

While her discomfort pains me, I’m relieved she told me. Incredibly relieved, in fact. Though nothing she explained was new information, what’s important is she was willing to share. Recognizing this progress, I keep going. “Do you want to go to the wedding?” I ask gently.

Eliza speaks to her knees, her voice small. “Of course I do, but Michelle doesn’t want me there. I think just showing up would ruin her day.”

I consider what she’s saying. I have to navigate this conversation carefully, the way I would in court. It’s obviously difficult for her to open up on the subject the way she is. I’m sympathetic—I want to help her figure out the question of Michelle’s wedding while simultaneously showing Eliza it’s okay to be candid with me. I keep my question even, directionless, nonconfrontational. “Have you asked her, though?”

Eliza doesn’t move. “She doesn’t want to talk to me. She made that clear. In her eyes, I’m just the full-of-myself actress who flaked when she needed me.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I say. “Anyone who knows you should know how caring and generous you are. I wish she saw that, too.”

Finally, Eliza looks at me. When I find gratitude in her eyes, my heart races with joy.

I go on, feeling like I can. Feeling like we’re really doing this. “Even so, maybe you should just tell her she has it wrong and ask her if you can go to her wedding.”

“I don’t have to ask her,” Eliza insists. She sounds frustrated, but not with me. “I never got an invite.”

“I know,” I say patiently. “But . . . maybe she doesn’t know you want to come. People . . .” I pause. Giving honesty might be the way to receive honesty, I decide. “People get insecure sometimes. They close off, even if inside, they feel differently.”

Eliza stares into my eyes. There’s nothing hidden in hers. “We’re not only talking about Michelle, are we?”

I smile softly. “I’m just suggesting you do with her what you’ve done with me this week. Show her she’s worth fighting for.”

“The situation with Michelle is nothing like ours,” she says hastily. Her gaze drifts from me. She stares into space. The pause stretches, the silence filling the room. My pulse pounds, no longer with joy—right now, I’m out on her ledge with her.

Even so, I see the moment it happens. The wall goes up. The gray in her eyes changes from fog into slate. From navigable to impassable. “Could I think about this later? I just want to . . . have fun right now,” she says.

Quietly, I’m a little crestfallen. Fun. I understand what’s really happening here. Eliza is reaching the limit of how open she’s willing to be with me, or how open she’s capable of being. Out onto the ledge is the farthest she’ll go. What she’s saying right now is—she refuses to leap over the chasm to the other side.