Do I Know You?(82)

David sips his drink morosely. “The date started out fantastic,” he says, staring vacantly forward. I note his word choice. Even down in the dumps, he’s effusive. “We shared a hummus platter, and she told me about her hiking plans,” he goes on. “We talked about the seminar. I made her laugh a couple times, too.”

I nod encouragingly, knowing there’s more to the story.

“I was feeling so good that it seemed like the time to tell her.” He winces from the pain of this confession. “So I did. I told her the truth—that my hobbies back home look less like climbing mountains in my free time and more like hunting for glue stick deals and memorizing the new Pokémon—but I said I really was enjoying learning about all the things she’s interested in.”

He’s emphatic on his final words, presenting them with passion. He’s talking to me the way I imagine he did to Lindsey. I’ve heard partners do this on the phone with clients, orating case points to them with the same intonation, the same conviction they did for the jury.

“It was the right thing to do,” I tell him gently. “I’m sorry she didn’t take it well.”

Frowning, David swirls his drink. “She did, though. She took it great. She wasn’t mad. She didn’t think I was lying or being weird. She admired that I was taking an interest in what interested her.”

I furrow my brow. Often when partners overemphasize case points to clients, it’s because we lost. “Okay, then . . .” I say. “What went wrong?”

When David sighs, I don’t just hear resignation in the sound. He’s hurt. “She didn’t want to know what interested me. I guess I can’t blame her. She went on this date expecting me to be someone who perfectly aligns with her passions. Still, though, I realized while sitting there that I wanted to tell her about my students and the field trips I have planned. And she just . . . didn’t want to know. She didn’t like me for me.”

Unexpectedly, his face crumples. The open display of emotion sort of moves me—not only out of sympathy, either. There’s impressive honesty in the expression, even courage. I reach over to pat him on the back.

“It’s okay if you need to cry, man,” I say.

David sniffles a little, then straightens. “No. I . . . didn’t really know her that well.” He forces a smile that doesn’t fully reach his eyes. “Next time I fall in love, I’m going to be true to myself.”

I smile. “You’re a catch,” I say honestly. “It won’t be long.”

Now he glances up intently, with comedic bewilderment. “I am, right?”

My laughter echoes in the dark bar. “Dude,” I reassure my friend. “You’re like seven feet tall. Built for boxing. Great with kids. Of course you’re a catch.”

David looks like he’s grinning despite himself when I finish my litany of compliments. “You just wrote my dating profile bio for me. Better than the workshop’s.” He finishes his drink. “Hey, San Diego and SLO aren’t that close, but LA is in the middle-ish. You think we can hang out after this week?”

I feel some of the day’s heartache leave me. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I’d really like that.” In this week of pretend, my friendship with David is something undeniably real, something I can take home with me.

Neither of us speaks now. The silence isn’t sad like when we first sat down, though. I can savor the end of my final hour here in quiet companionship. While it’s not how I wanted to celebrate my anniversary, I’m grateful that I’m not alone.





51


    Eliza


“ARE YOU SERIOUS?”

I’m at reception, interrogating Rosie, who is wholly undeserving of my frustration. It’s just, I can’t believe him. I was only in the car having a life-changing epiphany for ten minutes, and this is what my husband does?

Rosie nervously checks the computer again, her fingers racing over the keys. “I’m so sorry,” she says sounding genuine, her concerned eyes scouring the screen. “He’s already checked out of the room. His bags are waiting at the bellhop. His key won’t even work anymore.”

I sigh. In my head, I fight to regroup. My plan was perfect. On the short walk from the car up to the reception desk, I guess I . . . got my hopes up. I imagined. I was proud of the idea I feel collapsing under the weight of logistics.

“He didn’t check out of your room, though, if you’d like to make your arrangements there,” she says.

In the one foot between my queen bed and the wall? I appreciate Rosie’s effort, I do. I just know with certainty my little, lonely room won’t accommodate what I have in mind. Not like—

A wild impulse grips me. I place my card on the counter.

“Can I rebook his suite for tonight?”



* * *



? ? ?

ON MY WAY to the bar, I’m on the edge of frenzied. I rehearse my mental checklist, hoping I got everything set despite Graham’s unknowing efforts to thwart me.

In inexplicable ways, every detail of this hotel feels incredibly significant to me. The earthy geometry of the lobby, the slate in the hallway to the bar, the echo of my heels on the floor. This place was only supposed to be our vacation spot. Right now, it feels like it could be much, much more.