Do I Know You?(77)

I force myself to focus on David. It’s him we’re talking about, his relationship. If I can’t be enough for Eliza, I can at least be a good friend to David.

“You’re worried about how Lindsey will react,” I say, reading the concern furrowing his brow.

“She’s going to think I’m a creep or . . . or, best-case scenario, I’ll be a letdown. A disappointment,” he replies morosely.

“Hey, would your soul mate see you in any of those ways?” I ask, letting light humor into my voice.

It cracks a slight smile on David’s face. “I see what you did there,” he says. “So either she’s my soul mate and she gets it, or she doesn’t and . . .” His smile slips.

I hurry to catch his spirits before they sink completely. “No need to go there yet. I think it’s great you’re going to be honest. Tonight could be the start of something really incredible for you.”

David looks earnestly encouraged. “Thanks, man,” he says. “Okay, your turn. What’s going on with you and Eliza? You had a fight?”

On cue, the sun seems to slide behind the day’s sparse clouds. The grassy patch where we’re resting darkens in cooler light.

I shift my gaze, staring up the trail, the who-knows-how-many-more miles we have left to run. “I don’t know. Yeah. I mean, I guess. Not exactly,” I start, hearing how confused I sound, which is fitting given how confused I feel. Focusing, I find coherence. “I love Eliza, I really do. Still, I don’t know if I can be the man she wants.”

David considers, watching me. While I continue to stare out into the forest, he starts to speak slowly. “When you two are . . . role-playing—”

“It’s not like that,” I interject, hearing the connotations he has in mind. “Okay,” I correct myself. “It’s mostly not like that.”

Waving his hand passively, David goes on. “Whatever it is,” he says. “When she’s pretending, do you really see her as a different person? Even with the voice, the stories you come up with, the everything? Or do you just see your wife underneath it all?”

Finally, I pull my eyes from the path leading into the forest. I consider David’s question—really, honestly consider—even while realizing I don’t need to. Of course I only see Eliza. In every detail she creates of Vacation Planner Eliza, I only see my wife’s gorgeous smile, her ingenuity, her vibrance. I’m not interested in someone else, don’t want to date some random woman I meet on vacation. I see only Eliza. I want only Eliza.

David smiles, the asshole. He knows exactly how I’ve answered his question in my mind. The conclusions it’s led me right into.

“So maybe,” he says—and I have to applaud him, I don’t know if I’ve ever led a jury with his deftness—“Eliza just wants you.”

The sun emerges from the cover of the clouds.

Closing my eyes, I say nothing. I want to believe what he’s saying, want to feel his faith. I’ve caught my breath from our run, but the fire ripping through my chest now is hope.

Even if David is right, I start to reason while the sun warms my shoulders, I still feel questions holding me back. While Investment Banker Graham’s charm, quick intelligence, and, even on occasion, charged confidence come from me—will I be enough for Eliza if I can’t be those things every day? Will I be enough even if I can? Not just to have fun with for a weeklong getaway. Will I be enough when days stretch into the monotony of life?

Or will I always be striving for her to let me in—feeling her holding me from the same distance she did this morning?

With sweat sliding down my face, I decide I don’t know.





47


    Eliza


I’M IN MY room, packing in a huff. When I came up here, I felt full of new resolve, determined to face my problems with Graham.

Graham, whose suite is on the opposite end of the resort. Graham, who won’t pick up his phone. More than ever, I regret my decision not to share a room with him. I’m his wife, not his girlfriend. I shouldn’t have trouble trying to reach him. Helpless here in my mountain-view room, I have nothing to do except get progressively more brisk as I grab toiletries and unzip zippers, like a little hurricane of nervous resentment.

The trip is over. We need to go home, to return to our real lives, where Graham can’t avoid me. Where we can put to use everything we’ve learned about each other. I’ll recognize his creativity, his confidence. He’ll ask me questions, real questions, instead of leaving me lonely. He’ll see the ways in which this week has helped us, the ways it hasn’t been just pretend.

I’m folding my lingerie into my suitcase, slightly sad about the happier memories I have of it and hoping it won’t stay in the dresser like it did before this trip, when I hear a knock on the door.

It’s embarrassing how fast I move from my suitcase into my room’s short hallway. Innately, I know it’s Graham. My heart pounds with static-shock hope. It physically hurts how much I want things to be okay.

But when I open the door, I see things are very much not okay. In seconds, I catalogue every stinging way this is not the Graham I wanted to see. He’s dressed in exercise clothes stained with sweat, but his features aren’t beleaguered from exertion. He’s crestfallen. His green eyes have the dull emptiness of sea glass, a flat-tire frown hanging on his face.