Do I Know You?(71)

I keep swimming, pushing myself while the water douses the fires of exertion in my shoulders. With each lap I ignore the obvious metaphor in what I’m doing. I’m not outrunning my problems. I’m just swimming.

When I reach the end of a length, my lungs searing, I pop up to suck in air.

Instantly, I stop short. Graham is standing over me, not in pool-wear. He’s in leather loafers on the pool deck, dressed in slacks and a white short-sleeve button-down, and looking very much like he wasn’t on a run with David.

I blink water out of my eyes, reading his expression. His grimace. The tension in his features. He’s upset.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he says hurriedly. “Do you not check your phone?”

I’m immediately defensive, even indignant. “I was swimming, Graham. I can’t check my phone while swimming,” I say, not hiding the edge of sarcasm in my voice. “Besides, I thought you had plans.” I hope he hears my hint of judgment. Whatever my faults, I didn’t pick our anniversary to hang out with someone else.

“My parents are here,” Graham replies.

I just stare, fighting to make sense of his words. The pool deck is silent except for the lapping of the crystalline water while Graham meets my gaze impatiently.

“They’re expecting us at brunch,” he grinds out, “in thirty minutes.”

My mind unlocks. “Your parents are here?” I repeat, just to clarify that I’m understanding this unfortunate turn of events completely. “At this hotel?” The crispness of the day on my exposed shoulders feels suddenly chilly, the chlorine’s stench pungent, the pool water itself clammy on my submerged legs.

Graham nods grimly. “Yes. They’re staying in Carmel and decided they would drop by. I lied—I told them you were hiking on your own.” His gaze shifts out over the ironically placid water of the pool.

Panic starts to pick up my heart rate. “Crap.”

“Exactly,” he says.

We spring into motion simultaneously. I haul myself out of the pool, spraying the concrete with water, while Graham is already reaching to hand me my towel. Wordlessly I rub my shoulders, my hair, into some semblance of dryness, not failing to notice Graham in the corner of my vision checking his smartwatch. I wrap myself in the towel and collect my things from the chair, my phone and my book in one hand and my dress in the other.

Graham holds the gate open for me in what I recognize is efficiency, not chivalry. This, I know, is husband Graham, not Investment Banker Graham. He doesn’t need to point out the “emergency” in the present circumstances. Our pretense is gone, trampled under the arrival of in-laws.

It’s not just the surprise of their visit I’m resenting. Graham’s parents have a perfect marriage. Impossibly, irritatingly perfect. They’re fierce proponents, not to mention living examples, of the idea of true love. Which, while lovely, leads them to put pressure on Graham—on us—to live up to their lofty romantic ideals. Whether this vacation was gifted out of their love of love or their pressure for perfection remains to be seen.

Either way, it puts undoubted pressure on this brunch. I figured Helen intuited there were problems in our marriage when she made us this reservation. Still, if we show the slightest sense of them now, it’ll be the visible proof she needs to discount our marriage. To convince herself we’re not the real thing.

It’s something I refuse to entertain. Despite the problems we’ve had, I believe in us. In the vows we made, the love we’ve shared since, the laughter, the congratulations, the little kindnesses. The nights like our wedding night, the nights like last night. I’m holding on. I don’t want someone, especially not someone who’s known my husband his entire life, urging us to let go.

“I’ll meet you at the restaurant,” I say breathlessly. “Text me which one. I just need to shower and change first.”

Graham shakes his head sharply. “We can’t meet there. If we come separately, we’ll have to admit to the separate rooms.”

He’s right, of course. I chew my lip in frustration. The last thing I want is to come clean to my Stepford-manufactured motherin-law about the elaborate role-play I’ve been engaging in with her son. “Fine.” I sigh. “Then . . . I guess you should come with me.”

Our footsteps in rhythm provide the only reply. I start for the main hotel, Graham on my heels, both of us walking with haste. In the smothering silence, I think we’re realizing this is the first time I’ve ever invited Graham up to my room. It’s not the invitation either of us hoped for today.

We reach the sleek lobby. The temperature inside is refrigerator-like, worsened for me by my still-dripping swimsuit. I’m shivering when we get into the elevator. Graham moves to put his arm around me, but I pull away.

“Want to explain why half your shirt is wet?” I ask him.

He groans and drops his arm back to his side.

The bell dings, and I shuffle into the hallway, where I unlock my room. I’m already undressing as soon as the door shuts behind Graham. His eyes catch on my nakedness for a second, which, despite our hurry, causes pink to flash into my cheeks.

I ignore the reaction, and Graham sits down on the bed, doing nothing. It’s routine, mundane, the way a husband and wife change around each other after five years of marriage. I’m a little saddened at the casualness, at how the spark from hours ago is flickering out with the first hint of the real world returning.