Do I Know You?(7)

I think the only reason I’m doing it now is because this is our anniversary. I’m seized with a determined sort of sentimentality—maybe recognizing our commitment to our marriage doesn’t need to look like gifts or champagne. Maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe it should look like doing something to make our relationship better.

I press on. “I just wonder if we should, I don’t know, take it slow. Give ourselves space to want this.”

Graham looks away from me, his eyes clouding. “I do want this,” he replies.

I’m glad he said it, but saying it isn’t enough. I have to fight down the stubborn indignation this sparks in me. Does he want everyone who thought we were too young, too impulsive, too quick in our marriage to be right? “Come on,” I say with forced patience. “It’s time we acknowledge something is missing here. Let’s give ourselves a chance to find it again. I want to find it again.”

I seek out his eyes, hoping he sees in mine how much I believe in what I’m saying. My husband must know I wouldn’t even venture onto this subject if I didn’t. I don’t do this—dig into conversations with fearless vigor. It’s the worst sort of uncomfortable for me. Right now, the lobby’s perfect temperature feels like punishing heat, my favorite white sweater like coarse wool. Graham must know I’m only insisting on this for him, for us.

Which I am. Fuck the distance. I’ve never loved anyone like I’ve loved Graham. We’re worth fighting for.

I just need him to fight with me instead of fighting me.

Graham steps back from me. “I would certainly never make you stay with me when you don’t want to,” he states flatly. With flippant resignation, he gestures to the reception desk. “Do whatever you want.”

His dismissal lodges painfully in my chest. This is why I don’t expose my sore spots. People I love never seem to resist striking them.

I wilt, but I don’t weaken. I know I’m right. Something needs to change.

“We can meet at the bar for dinner in thirty minutes,” I say, hiding my hurt under impersonal logistics. “Just enough time to unwind. Apart.”

“Fine,” Graham says instantly. It’s a nothing word. Operational.

Undeterred, I hold my head high and return to the reception desk. “Hi,” I say to Rosie. “We want to keep both rooms.” I hold up my credit card. “Put the standard room on my card, under my name.”

Rosie doesn’t blink, even though I’m sure my request is unprecedented. Nevertheless, I feel the need to offer some explanation.

“I have work to finish tonight, and he’s had a long drive.” While this is, in fact, technically correct, I’m guessing Rosie intuits it’s only the tip of the iceberg. Doing me no favors, Graham stays silent behind me.

“Of course,” the hostess says smoothly. “The suite can be reached down the path outside the doors to your left, the standard room from the elevators to your right.” She hands us each key cards. Mine features a picture of pine trees. Graham’s has the ocean.

“This will be a good thing,” I promise Graham.

I’m expecting no reply, ready for him to leave silently into the night.

Instead, in what I know is the only concession he’s capable of offering, he quietly surprises me by nodding only once. He doesn’t meet my eyes. Then, sliding his card into his pocket, he walks off toward the honeymoon suite on his own.





4


    Graham


SPACE? SEPARATE ROOMS? On our anniversary?

Eliza’s words clang in my head like a five a.m. alarm I’ve dourly set for myself. Part of me doesn’t want to dwell on how frustrated I am with her. Part of me doesn’t want to concede she . . . has a point, even if her solution makes no sense.

But she does. We love each other, but we don’t behave like people in love. We don’t in our house. We don’t in the car. We probably wouldn’t in the honeymoon suite. Something is missing, like she said. Something she’s decided demands exiling us to separate corners of the hotel.

Outside the lobby, I let the eager bellhop escort me to my room. I can tell the guy is baffled to be showing the honeymoon suite to someone undeniably on his own, but I offer no explanations. It takes nearly ten minutes walking the dark path, the hushed rustling of the unseen trees providing the only hints of our surroundings, until finally, out of the forest, we reach the modern private bungalow on the cliff’s edge.

I won’t lie—it’s stunning. Outdoor lighting illuminates the walls of maple wood inset with sweeping curved windows. This place is the essence of private, no faint whispers of nearby guests, no distant flickers of light in the trees. While I wait in front of the sleek entrance, the bellhop unlocks and swings open the door. Every LED inside smoothly comes on, carpeting the pristine room in dim, romantic lighting.

My personal honeymoon suite.

The bellhop clears his throat. “Do you want me to give you a tour?”

I peer down the hallway. “Suite” is too small a word for this place. In front of me is a full living room, complete with built-in furniture in earth tones. Fireplace, curved sofa, the works. “No,” I say. “I’m good.”

The young man pauses in the doorway, looking like a summer intern who doesn’t understand the assignment I’ve given him and is too nervous to clarify. “Will you be expecting anyone else tonight?” he finally asks.