Do I Know You?(68)

Which . . . maybe isn’t her fault. It occurs to me with the suffocating weight of obviousness—maybe it’s me. Were I more confident, more fun, more insightful, more everything all the time, I would be worth investing her worries in. Worth coming to for support.

But I’m not.

If my wife can’t confide in me, I might as well be a guy she’s met on vacation.

I pull on the persona I’ve worn for the past week, despite it not fitting quite right. It’s difficult, after the night we had last night. I feel like I’m smiling with sore muscles, putting on cockiness with pained posture. If it’s the fun Graham she wants, I’ll give her the version who offers plenty.

“Of course,” I drawl. “I was thinking of meeting up with David for a run, but maybe we can get together later?”

Everything in me wishes she would push back, would even question what I’m doing. Would offer me the faintest sign lighting up the fog that it’s not just this Graham she wants.

She doesn’t.

“Sounds good,” she says in her character’s voice. “I’ll text you later.”





41


    Eliza


I RETURN TO my room, walking with fast, frustrated steps. I wish I hadn’t opened the Michelle issue today. Of course I’ll have to talk to her eventually—but Graham was wrong when he said it was no different from my relationship with him. I didn’t want to fight with him, though. I just wanted to spend today with him.

Except now I’m not with him.

I don’t really understand why. Why I’m here, in my generic hallway, keying open the door to my solitary room. I can’t help grumbling in my doorway, comparing my space with Graham’s lavish suite. Of course, what I’m missing most isn’t the Jacuzzi, the gorgeous living room, or the bed I wish I could have spent hours in this morning. It’s the occupant.

The riddle frays the edges of my mind. Why did Graham retreat immediately into role-play? Caught off guard, I’d followed his lead. Vacation Planner Eliza put on last night’s clothes, then left with a forced smile. It leaves me wondering how much of today we’re even going to celebrate. Clearly, we need to discuss this pretense, but we can’t right now. Because my husband has plans with David on our five-year wedding anniversary.

I drop into the chair near my bed, grabbing the book I’m reading for work from the narrow desk. Unenthusiastically, I crack the pages to practice voices and delivery. It’s not particularly easy work—I’m trying to use pitch changes to signal the book’s flashbacks. But I only get two pages in before I find myself losing the line I’m reading.

My voice catches. I flip the cover closed, groaning in frustration like one only does when no one else can hear.

Nothing is working. I haven’t sunk into the role yet, haven’t even found the character. My head is overstuffed with other performances. Performances with Graham, with my family. Sometimes even performances for myself. How often have I gotten through the day pretending siblings fight, it’s normal, it’ll blow over or oh, what do I care, it’s not like Michelle and I were that close? Easy resolutions to problems I didn’t want to face.

Of course I want to be at Michelle’s wedding. I just knew confronting the problem would make me miserable.

But here, in my hotel room, I’ll be miserable regardless. I’m not celebrating my anniversary right now. I can’t even focus on work. Instead of just moping, the least I can do is get an answer to one part of the Michelle question.

I reach for my phone and quickly find Michelle’s contact information, not letting myself overthink my way out of it like I’ve done countless times before. I’ll just ask if I’m invited to the wedding. If I am, great. If I’m not, then I can tell my family the decision isn’t up to me. Either way, I’ll be okay.

With the energy of my new decisiveness, my fingernail clicks sharply when I hit the phone icon. I listen while it rings. The tone is weirdly peaceful, anticlimactically slow. I start preparing my message, expecting to be sent to voice mail. The waiting starts to stress me out, each new ring sounding like years onto this sentence of sisterly discontent I’m serving.

On what must be the final ring, though, Michelle picks up.

“Are you dying?” she asks humorlessly.

I reach for words, still shaking off my surprise. “No, I’m not dying,” I finally manage, throwing out the voice mail I was preparing in my head.

“Then why are you calling after—how many months has it been?”

Defensive instincts rear up in me, probably one of those inescapable legacies of sisterhood. “You could have called, too, you know,” I reply.

“Yeah. I chose not to.” She’s relinquished some of her sarcasm. Yet her quiet finality cuts deeper.

My cheeks flush. I remember the stupid fights we had when we were kids. Copied hairstyles, sharing the family computer, who finished the last piece of birthday cake in the fridge. Nothing that mattered like this.

“Right. Well,” I say, performing once more. Pretending I’m not stung. “Mom and Dad keep calling, wanting to know if I’m RSVPing to your wedding.”

There’s only silence on the line.

I clench my jaw. This is the type of improv I don’t enjoy. I desperately wish there was some sort of script for conversations like this one. Even if it was clumsily written, or I could only remember half of my lines, I just wish there was something. Instead, Michelle is determined to not make this easy.