Do I Know You?(73)

Once more, I’m impressed by how flawlessly Eliza pulls on the clean costume of her role. She’s hit exactly the right conversational emphasis, steering us on to uplifting subjects.

Sure enough, my mom lights up. “Well, what have you been up to? I want to hear everything.” She shifts in her seat, like she’s literally physically preparing herself for details of our marital bliss.

Eliza and I hesitate. We share a glance containing our wordless negotiation over who will lead our response. While we must look like fawning lovers, the moment for me hits closer to notepad exchanges with co-counsel on the courtroom table. We have to get our story straight.

Before either of us can speak, though, the waiter comes by to take everyone’s orders. I opt for oatmeal, the most flavorless, unchallenging dish on the menu. When the waiter leaves, it’s Eliza who speaks up, plunging forward.

“Where should we start? The room’s been fantastic,” she enthuses. Obviously, she’s speaking about my room. Not hers. “We’ve really enjoyed the Jacuzzi in particular,” she goes on, shooting me a look I don’t fail to catch. It’s genuine, wrapped in the warmth of real memories, cutting sweetly through our charade.

This unexpected gift steadies me enough to pick up the thread of our story. “Let’s see,” I say with vigor I hardly recognize. “We’ve done just about everything. There was the beach hike, jam tasting, couples’ yoga, dinner with live music. Oh, and stargazing.” I lock my gaze with Eliza’s. “I think that was my favorite.”

Her smile is real now, unmistakably. In her eyes I find reflections of the night we’re each remembering, the soaring streak of the galaxy’s curve. It occurs to me with quiet wonder—maybe this won’t be difficult. My parents don’t have to know we were pretending to be perfect strangers while enjoying the things I mentioned.

We laugh together, playing off each other. Describing our new friend David and his efforts to court a potential soul mate. Sharing how we spontaneously signed up for intermediate boxing, only to wind up with shoulders so sore we could barely move. It’s easy. It’s the us I want to be.

Until we’re halfway done with our meals. Innocently, while reaching for his oil-black coffee, my dad eyes us. “Well, what are your plans tonight?” he asks. “After you’ve gotten rid of your intrusive parents, of course. How are you celebrating five years of perfect happiness?”

Right on cue, my stomach emits a loud, unexpected groan. Instantly I’m reminded why I resented my parents showing up, why their presence stressed me out. My dad’s question wasn’t probing or judgmental like my mom sometimes is, but the implicit expectation is no different. Just because Eliza’s and my marriage hasn’t been five years of perfect happiness doesn’t mean it’s not worth celebrating.

But I don’t know how to bring us back to our real selves. Not with how deep into this game we’ve gotten. While I’ve been practicing asking questions, evidently, I haven’t asked the right one. Or more accurately, I haven’t had the courage to ask the right one. Who does Eliza want to spend her anniversary with? The real me, or the better me?

Chewing on these thoughts, I find myself unable to reply.

Eliza steps in gracefully. “I think Graham’s planning a surprise.”

I pull myself out of my rumination to glance up. Four eyes focus on me in expectation. “Yes,” I say, forcing the words. “It’s all worked out.”

My parents exchange exuberant smiles, which feel like weights dropped onto my shoulders. It’s been this way since my high school relationships, even. When I fell in love with Eliza, I hesitated to introduce her to my family for exactly this reason. My parents just want me to be happy and in love so intensely, I feel like I can’t escape the smothering pressure. Honestly, it’s probably part of why I’ve handled Eliza’s and my growing distance so inexpertly. Whenever I’m not the picture of ideal companionship, I . . . don’t know how to handle it. Why would I? In the house where I grew up, there’s no room for discord.

The conversation moves on, my parents mollified by my vague anniversary plans. I don’t follow. Somehow, my dad’s innocuous question has shaken the very foundation of everything Eliza and I have spent the past week doing. What if it was all wrong? Just the perilously skewed design of our worst escapist impulses? Maybe nothing can fix us because the problem isn’t with us. It’s with me.

I’m not good enough for her. I can’t pretend forever to be someone who is.

David was wrong, I decide in the moment. It does matter which me is the real me. Being my real self is different from shaping myself constantly, in incessant increments, into the me she wants. Even imagining it is exhausting. Waking up, pulling on the smile of someone cool, confident, concerned about nothing except the gorgeous woman with whom he’s performing. Checking myself in mental mirrors hundreds of times every day. Even if I managed, what kind of marriage would I even be living? Certainly not the perfect one my parents imagine or expect. I’d be nothing but the cardboard cutout of a husband.

Eliza must notice something is off with me, though I doubt she intuits how deeply I’ve spiraled. I feel her hand squeeze my thigh comfortingly under the table. Her gaze is questioning, but I only shake my head subtly. I need to get ahold of myself and get through this brunch.

So I do.

I pull on my armor, my suit of charisma and sharp smiles. I charge back into the conversation, deploying anecdotes, jokes, questions. While it’s not easy, the effort distracts me from darker worries for the time being. I’m losing the war but, damnit, I’m winning the battle. When the waiter comes by to collect our dishes, I’m relieved to find I did it. I made it through.