Do I Know You?(72)

Leaving Graham just sitting, where he’ll probably peruse his phone—like he would while waiting for client meetings or picking up his morning coffee, not in his wife’s hotel room—I rush into the shower. I wring chlorine out of my hair with frantic vigor. Without time to blow-dry, I settle for putting my hair up in a bun that will wreak havoc on my curl pattern when dry.

When I emerge from the bathroom in the hotel robe, Graham stands. “How can I help?” he asks.

“My yellow dress,” I direct him. “The one I wore to Lexi’s baby shower.”

He drops to his knees in front of my suitcase, where he quickly pulls out the exact one I mean while I put on underwear. Graham holds out the dress for me, wordless efficiency in our every movement. When I step in, he zips me up.

I force myself not to remember other dresses zipped—or unzipped—by Graham. The black number I wore to his law-school formal, my wedding dress. I banish from my thoughts the way Graham then moved the zipper slowly, languishing his time so he could keep one hand on the dimples in my back. Ostensibly holding the zipper in place, but truly holding me.

He doesn’t now. He finishes the job in one swift pull, then steps back so I can put on my shoes. Just one more way in which we’re well-oiled machines in each other’s presence.

The thought knots painful pressure in my stomach. I’m desperate to hold on longer, frightened of losing the progress we’ve made. The idea of the electricity we’ve found vanishing once more into flat, empty monotony makes me quietly frantic.

In Graham’s expressionless features when I pivot to face him, I find no hints of whether he’s similarly disconcerted. I’m not too proud or selfless to recognize I want him to be. I want him to hold on the way I’m desperate to. Charitably, I remind myself that maybe he’s just stressed or pissed his parents have shown up uninvited.

“Let’s go,” I say quickly.

Like I’ve given him the cue he needed, he walks swiftly to the door. While he holds it open, I pause, starting to imagine sitting down opposite Conrad Cutler, with his man-of-the-world grandeur, and Helen, with her fine-china smiles.

“When we get there . . .” I start with strain. “I don’t want them to know—”

“We’re on the same page,” Graham cuts me off with quick calm. I can’t decode if he’s being brusque or just prompt in his reassurance.

Either way, I swallow, relieved. Our marital issues will remain for us only.

Which means when we enter the restaurant, we’ll be playing new parts, although not the ones we’ve been perfecting.

We’ll be the happily married versions of ourselves.





44


    Graham


THE RESERVATION MY parents made is at the same restaurant where Eliza and I shared crema catalana and danced to Spanish guitar. Thankfully, they’re seated inside, where I don’t have to pollute my perfect memories of Eliza’s and my evening here with this tense parental brunch.

The restaurant is full, bustling for the midday meal. While the hostess leads us toward my parents’ table near the windows, Eliza walks next to me. “Ready?” I ask her out of the corner of my mouth. I guess the question is in part for myself.

In response, Eliza entwines her fingers with mine and looks up at me, smiling gently. Her features practically shine, and not just with freshly showered scrub. From the love radiating in her eyes, this could be the morning we first saw our wedding venue or hung up one of our engagement photos in our living room.

I love every second of it, even while it hurts. I want to be walking hand in hand into our anniversary brunch because we want to, not because we don’t want to embarrass ourselves in front of my parents. It makes the cracks in my real marriage feel wider, deeper. It makes them sting, like vinegar poured in delicately.

When my mom spots us, she stands up from the table to hug Eliza. “I’m sorry to surprise you like this,” she says magnanimously into my wife’s shoulder, then pulls back. “Graham said you were on a hike?” Her eyes search Eliza’s expression—hunting, I know, for inconsistent reactions or flickers of disingenuity.

Eliza smoothly rolls with the lie. “Just a short one. It’s perfectly alright.”

While we sit, I notice the motherly satisfaction in my mom’s eyes, like nothing is registering on her well-honed problem detector. Immediately, I reach for my ice water, feeling hot. My collar is scratchy, my belt buckle cold. I don’t know how I’m going to get through water, then coffee—my dad never forgoes his French press—then brunch with unflinching, calm charisma.

I’m grateful when Eliza takes initiative in the conversation. Her smile, polite and friendly, is one fit for the first time meeting one’s significant other’s parents, let alone the hundredth. “So you two are staying in Carmel? What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” my dad replies cheerfully. “We decided we’d drive up for the weekend, which is why we had to drop in on you today. You’re checking out tomorrow, right?”

“Right. As you know, since you made the reservation for us,” I say. Instantly, I wish I hadn’t. If I’m just going to lapse into sarcasm, I should stick to downing my water.

Eliza takes my hand on the table. “Which we’re so grateful for,” she adds. “We’ve had the best vacation.”