Do I Know You?(75)

So why couldn’t he see that’s what I was doing?

Either I miscommunicated horribly, which is my fault, or Graham couldn’t understand what I was showing him because he’s so deeply convinced he’s not enough.

When I’ve wound over and over these thoughts a couple times, I return to myself in the restaurant, gradually conscious of my in-laws gaping. They’re watching Graham, Helen looking the loveliest shade of porcelain and Conrad’s eyes huge.

Then, though, their gazes swivel to me. I swallow painfully. Their flabbergasted scrutiny is nearly impossible to withstand. Oh, I see you’ve remembered me, the harpy who broke your son’s heart.

New warring urges rear up in me now. Part of me wants to rush out of the restaurant, to escape their stares, to find Graham and demand he explain himself. But part of me doesn’t want to have that conversation with him. Because I’m terrified. I can imagine vividly the way the exchange would go—Graham telling me there’s nothing I can do. It’s over.

I notice my hand shaking on the table. Quickly I shove it into my lap. I drop my gaze from the shocked expression of Graham’s parents while a third option forms in my mind. I’ll calmly leave, I won’t confront Graham, and I’ll watch everything crumble from the comfort of my small, solitary hotel room. Perfect. Poetic, even.

“Are you alright?”

I look up. The unguarded sympathy in Helen’s question is, frankly, surprising. Meeting her eyes, fresh shame scalds over me.

I start forcing words out. “Do you want me to go? I mean, do you want us to check out? Maybe you can get some of the money back for the night.”

My mother-in-law has the good grace to look horrified. Or maybe she really is horrified. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. “Goodness, no,” she says gently. “Why would you think that?”

Despite her kindness, I honestly don’t understand her question. How could I possibly think otherwise? I gesture miserably in the direction of the now-gone Graham. “You gave us this stay to celebrate our anniversary. Not . . .” Come on, voice. I hear you wavering. Don’t crack now. “Not this,” I finish effortfully.

Graham’s parents exchange glances. They’re probably relieved I brought this up. Well, now that you mention it, you hasty interloper into our perfect family . . .

“A gift is a gift, hon,” Conrad says with quiet compassion I’ve never heard in his ordinarily stentorian tones.

“Don’t worry about us,” Helen adds, clasping her husband’s hand on the table the way I did Graham’s.

In the middle of this perfect, polished restaurant, I surprise myself. I burst into tears. Not trickling, stinging tears either. The sob kicks into me hard, forcing me to suck in one loud, rattling breath. Instantly self-conscious, I lift shaking hands to my face, hoping to hide my face-warping anguish and my ragged breathing. It doesn’t work. I feel myself losing control, feel the seconds stretch while I cry and cry.

I just wasn’t expecting such compassion. I—and Graham, I know—feel ever-present pressure from his parents to have the flawless relationship they do. Even from the distance of Los Angeles to La Jolla, the weight of expectation hovers over us. I knew what they thought when we got engaged. The same thing my parents did, though my in-laws expressed their misgivings with subtle concern instead of my mom’s unmistakable judgment. I wasn’t na?ve. I heard Helen’s skepticism in her inquisitiveness about how we met and whether dating online was a solid enough foundation, her proud pronouncements of how long she and her husband had known each other before marrying. Scalpel cuts where my mother used steak knives.

Right now, Graham’s mother is silent. The fact she’s not interrogating me, not trying to “fix” us, is an impossible relief. It keeps my tears flowing. I draw in a particularly noisy, wet breath, earning uncomfortable glances from the rest of the restaurant.

“Oh,” I hardly hear Helen say over my carrying on. Past the tears in my vision, I see her pat Conrad on the hand. “Why don’t you go get our car from the valet? Give us a moment,” she mutters to him.

He stands up and squeezes my shoulder comfortingly on his way out.

I cry harder. Honestly, with my own family messed up right now, I know part of the reason I’m reacting this way is because I’m overwhelmingly grateful for parental affection. The fact it’s no secret to me where this outpouring of emotion is coming from, though, does nothing to distance me from the feelings.

Helen scoots her chair closer to me and hands me a clean napkin, which I gratefully receive.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, wiping my dripping nose. “I—” My breath hitches with perfect timing. “I’m making a scene.”

“It’s okay,” she reassures me. Her voice is pillow-soft. Not the kind of pillows on fancy couches you’re not supposed to touch, either, laced with starched sequins. Really wonderfully comfortable ones. “Graham will be back. He’s wild about you, you know that?” she goes on.

I inhale deeply, steadying the lump in my throat. I’d been trying to avoid my unhappiness for so long, and now it’s like a dam has burst. Every insecurity, every inadequacy, every failed effort is cascading over me while I’m exhausted, unable to fight my way to the surface. Tears keep streaming down my face, though I’m quieter now. “I’m just so scared I’ve messed things up with him,” I confess, hearing the defeat in my gravelly voice. “He’s . . . everything to me.”