Do I Know You?(8)

My stomach turns over. “Not to my knowledge.” When the bellhop only nods uncertainly, I hand over a tip. “Thanks so much,” I say.

I close the door, ending the line of questioning there. Instantly, I’m aware of the silence. The room is so quiet, my shoes sound sharply on the smooth concrete floor—heated, I would guess. Grudgingly, I explore my accommodations, grimacing at the champagne and rose petals on the bed. The bathroom boasts a sculpted tub with room for two. Outside, the balcony looks over what I’m certain in the morning will be breathtaking views of the cliffs and the water. It wraps around the whole length of the suite and ends in a private Jacuzzi.

In one of my very first cases, one of our big corporate clients was sued in state court in Nebraska. Product liability, hundreds of plaintiffs, the whole nine yards. For three weeks of pre-trial delays, I lived in a shabby hotel outside of downtown Omaha. Just me, my lumpy bed, my rattling mini fridge, and piles and piles of documents.

Right now, I would rather be there.

I stand in the middle of my spacious living room, not knowing what to do with myself for the next thirty minutes before I said I’d meet Eliza at the bar. The truth is, I don’t want to spend one unnecessary second in this perfect room. I don’t want to be here without my wife. I wish she were with me. I wish we were enjoying this together, not that we know how anymore. The pain of this longing isn’t a bruise—it’s a splinter. Specific, reminding me of its presence, impossible to ignore.

I unzip my suitcase and change the sneakers I’m wearing for my loafers. I’ll just go to the bar early. It beats sitting here, with the rose petals silently imposing. Slinging my favorite navy blazer over my shoulders, I head out the door.

With the chorus of crickets surrounding me, I walk in what I remember is the general direction of the hotel. I’m not looking forward to muscling through one more dinner of small talk with Eliza instead of sweet nothings. I’m just not looking forward to being without her, either. Every day, the same paradox.

I wander in the unhelpful dark for five minutes until I realize I’m on the wrong path. When I glance up from the gravel, I notice I’m not getting closer to the hotel. Disoriented, I turn back the way I came, continuing until I reach a fork in the road, then uncertainly choose the path on the right.

“The only thing back there is my room,” I hear in front of me. The source of the voice is a guy even taller than I am, with stocky shoulders and an enviable spring in his step. “So you’re either lost,” he continues cheerfully, “or you’re presumptuous.”

“Shit, sorry. Lost,” I say, pausing in the middle of the path. “I meant to head to the bar.”

“I’m heading there myself,” he says enthusiastically. “I’ll walk with you. This place is a maze at night.”

I follow him, grateful. Not just for the guidance in these labyrinthine woods, either. While we continue in companiable silence, I work out why. This guy doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know Eliza. It’s an odd relief to recognize. It leaves me craving easy conversation, the kind you can only have with someone you’ll never see again.

I seize on the opportunity. “Been here long?”

“This is my second night. I’m here for the dating workshop,” my traveling companion replies. His white-blond hair is slicked back, his chin pronounced. He’s maybe six foot five. He looks like he smiles a lot. “How about you?”

“I’m here for my anniversary,” I answer honestly, even though I know it’ll prompt the same conversation I had with the bellhop. But I just don’t have the creative energy to come up with some other story.

Sure enough, he looks behind me like he’s expecting my partner to materialize from the forest. “Where’s your—” he begins.

“Not here,” I cut him off, sullenly.

From the way his expression softens sympathetically, it’s clear he read details I did not intend into my response. Nevertheless, I . . . don’t correct him. It’s freeing in the same way the anonymity of this conversation is. He doesn’t need to know what’s really going on with me.

“Shit, man. I’m sorry,” he says. “That’s worse than the two hours of online dating photo sessions I sat for today. Let me buy you a drink,” he goes on, upbeat once more. “I’m David Berqvist.”

I’m on the verge of saying I have plans when I catch myself. For the next thirty minutes, my plans consist of scrolling on my work phone, rereading emails while I wait for Eliza. Who is currently recording herself reading a sex scene. In her room. Looking up, I find the lights of the main hotel coming into view.

“That sounds great,” I say. “I’m Graham.”





5


    Eliza


I DON’T THINK my producer is going to like this sample. My pacing was fine, my pronunciation clear without stumbling, my inflection sharp. The problem is the note of bitterness in my every word that I couldn’t iron out even on my third try. Out of time, I email off the voice memo, then toss my phone onto the crisp white comforter of my queen-size bed.

My room is simple, elegant, but small. My window looks out into the indiscernible black of night. I turn on the sink in the white bathroom and wash my face quickly, then pause, staring into the mirror. I’m not looking forward to dinner with Graham, who I know will be practically wooden. If I’m lucky, he’ll charitably try to make succinct conversation. Likelier, we’ll prod our food in silence.