The Unhoneymooners Read online

  He offers his arm to me again as we retreat down the aisle, and he’s even stiffer this time, like I’m covered in slime and he’s afraid it’s going to rub off on his suit. So I make a point of leaning into him and then giving him a mental bird-flip when we’re off the aisle, allowed to break contact to disperse in different directions.

  We have ten minutes until we need to meet for wedding party photos, and I’m going to use that time to go remove wilted petals from the dinner table flower arrangements. This Skittle is going to cross some things off her list. Who cares what Ethan is going to do?

  Apparently he’s going to follow me.

  “What was all that about?” he says.

  I look over my shoulder.

  “What was what about?” I ask.

  He nods toward the wedding aisle. “Back there. Just now.”

  “Ah.” Turning, I give him a comforting smile. “I’m glad that when you’re confused, you feel comfortable asking for help. So: that was a wedding—an important, if not required, ceremony in our culture. Your brother and my—”

  “Before the ceremony.” His dark brows are pulled down low, hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets. “When you said I find you off-putting? That I have a problem with Ami?”

  I gape up at him. “Seriously?”

  He looks around us, confused. “Yeah. Seriously.”

  For a beat, I am speechless. The last thing I expected was for Ethan to need some sort of clarifying follow-up on our constant wave of snarky comments.

  “You know.” I wave a vague hand. Under his focus, and away from the ceremony and the energy in the full room, I am suddenly less confident in my earlier theory. “I think you resent Ami for taking Dane away from you. But you can’t, like, take it out on her without him getting upset, so you’re a chronic dick to me.”

  When he simply blinks at me, I barrel on: “You’ve never liked me—and we both know it goes way past the cheese curds, I mean you wouldn’t even eat my arroz con pollo on the Fourth of July, which is fine, your loss—but just so you know, she’s great for him.” I lean in, going for broke. “Great.”

  Ethan lets out a single, incredulous laugh-breath and then smothers it with his hand.

  “It’s just a theory,” I hedge.

  “A theory.”

  “About why you clearly don’t like me.”

  His brow creases. “Why I don’t like you?”

  “Are you just going to repeat everything I say?” I produce my list from where I’d rolled it into my small bouquet and shake it at him. “Because if you’re done, I have things to do.”

  I get another few seconds of bewildered silence before he seems to surmise what I probably could have told him ages ago: “Olive. You sound legitimately insane.”

  • • •

  MOM PUTS A FLUTE OF champagne in Ami’s hand, and it appears to be on someone else’s to-do list to keep it filled to the brim because I see her drinking, but I never see it empty. It means that the reception goes from what was arguably a perfectly scheduled, slightly rigid affair, to a true party. Noise levels go from polite to frat house. People swarm the seafood buffet like they’ve never seen solid food before. The dancing hasn’t even started yet, and Dane has already thrown his bow tie into a fountain and taken his shoes off. It’s a testament to Ami’s inebriation that she doesn’t even seem to care.

  By the time the toasts roll around, getting even half of the room to quiet down seems like a monumental task. After gently tapping a fork against a glass a few times and accomplishing nothing by way of noise control, Ethan finally just launches into his toast, whether people are listening or not.

  “I’m sure most of you will have to pee soon,” he begins, speaking into a giant fuzzy microphone, “so I’ll keep this short.” Eventually, the crowd settles, and he continues. “I don’t actually think Dane wants me to speak today, but considering I’m not only his older brother but also his only friend, here we are.”

  Shocking myself, I let out a deafening cackle. Ethan pauses and glances over at me, wearing a surprised smile.

  “I’m Ethan,” he continues, and when he picks up a remote near his plate, a slideshow of photos of Ethan and Dane as kids begins a slow scroll on a screen behind us. “Best brother, best son. I am thrilled we can share this day with not only so many friends and family, but also with alcohol. Seriously, have you looked at that bar? Someone keep an eye on Ami’s sister because too many glasses of champagne, and there’s no way that dress is staying on.” He smirks at me. “You remember the engagement party, Olivia? Well, if you don’t, I do.”

  Natalia grips my wrist before I can reach for a knife.

  Dane shouts out a drunk, “Dude!” and then laughs at this an obnoxious amount. Now I wish that the Killing Curse were a thing. (I didn’t actually take my dress off at the engagement party, by the way. I just used the hem to wipe my brow once or twice. It was a hot night, and tequila makes me sweaty.)

  “If you look at some of these family photos,” Ethan says, gesturing behind him to where teenage Ethan and Dane are skiing, surfing, and generally looking like genetically gifted assholes, “you’ll see that I was the quintessential big brother. I went to camp first, drove first, lost my virginity first. Sorry, no photos of that.” He winks charmingly at the crowd and a flutter of giggles passes in a wave around the room. “But Dane found love first.” There is a roar of collective awwws from the guests. “I hope I’ll be lucky enough to find someone half as spectacular as Ami someday. Don’t let her go, Dane, because none of us has any idea what she’s thinking.” He reaches for his scotch, and nearly two hundred other arms join his in raising their glasses in a toast. “Congrats, you two. Let’s drink.”

  He sits back down and glances at me. “Was that sufficiently on the cuff for you?”

  “It was quasi-charming.” I glance over his shoulder. “It’s still light out. Your inner troll must be sleeping.”

  “Come on,” he says, “you laughed.”

  “Surprising both of us.”

  “Well it’s your turn to show me up,” he says, motioning that I should stand. “It’s asking a lot, but try not to embarrass yourself.”

  I reach for my phone, where my speech is saved, and try to hide the defensiveness in my voice when I say, “Shut up, Ethan,” before standing.

  Good one, Olive.

  He laughs as he leans in to take a bite of his chicken.

  A smattering of applause carries across the banquet hall as I stand and face the guests.

  “Hello, everyone,” I say, and the entire room startles when the microphone squawks shrilly. Pulling the mic farther away from my mouth, and with a shaky smile, I motion to my sister and new brother-in-law. “They did it!”

  Everyone cheers as Dane and Ami come together for a sweet kiss. I watched them dance earlier to Ami’s favorite song, Peter Cetera’s “Glory of Love,” and managed to ignore the pressure of Diego’s intense efforts to catch my eye and nonverbally commiserate about Ami’s famously terrible taste in music. I was genuinely lost in the perfection of the scene before me: my twin in her beautiful wedding dress, her hair softened by the hours and movement, her sweet, happy smile.

  Tears prick at my eyes as I tap through to my Notes app and open my speech.

  “For those of you who don’t know me, let me reassure you: no, you aren’t that drunk yet, I am the bride’s twin sister. My name is Olive, not Olivia,” I say, glancing pointedly down at Ethan. “Favorite sibling, favorite in-law. When Ami met Dane—” I pause when a message from Natalia pops up on my screen, obscuring my speech.

  FYI your boobs look amazing up there.

  From the audience, she gives me a thumbs-up, and I swipe her message away.

  “—she spoke about him in a way I had never—”

  What size bra are you wearing now?

  Also from Natalia.

  I d
ismiss it and quickly try to find my place again. Honestly, whose family texts them during a speech they are obviously reading from a phone? My family, that’s who.

  I clear my throat. “—I had never heard before. There was something in her voice—”

  Do you know if Dane’s cousin is single? Or could be . . . ;)

  I give Diego a warning look and aggressively swipe back to my screen.

  “—something in her voice that told me she knew this was different, that she felt different. And I—”

  Stop making that face. You look constipated.

  My mother. Of course.

  I swipe it away and continue. Beside me, Ethan smugly laces his hands together behind his head, and I can feel his satisfied grin without even having to look at him. I push on—because he can’t win this round—but I’m only two words deeper into my speech when I’m interrupted by the sound of a startled, pained groan.

  The attention of the entire room swings to where Dane is huddled over, clutching his stomach. Ami has just enough time to place a comforting hand on his shoulder and turn to him in concern before he claps a hand over his mouth, and then proceeds to projectile-vomit through his fingers, all over my sister and her beautiful (free) dress.

  chapter three

  Dane’s sudden illness can’t be from his alcohol intake because one of the bridesmaids’ daughters is only seven, and after Ami retaliates and throws up all over Dane, little Catalina loses her dinner, too. From there, the sickness starts to spread like wildfire through the banquet hall.

  Ethan stands and drifts away to hover near one of the walls. I do the same, thinking it’s probably best to watch the chaos from higher ground. If this were happening in a movie, it would be comically gross. Here in front of us, happening to people we know and who we’ve clinked glasses with and embraced and maybe even kissed? It’s terrifying.

  It goes from seven-year-old Catalina, to Ami’s hospital administrator and her wife, to Jules and Cami, some people in the back at table forty-eight, then Mom, Dane’s grandmother, the flower girl, Dad, Diego . . .

  After that, I am unable to track the outbreak, because it snowballs. A crash of china tears through the room when a guest loses it all over an unlucky waiter. A few people attempt to flee, clutching their stomachs and moaning for a toilet. Whatever this is, it appears to want to exit the body through any route available; I’m not sure whether to laugh or scream. Even those who aren’t throwing up or sprinting for the restrooms yet are looking green.

  “Your speech wasn’t that bad,” Ethan says, and if I weren’t worried he might vomit on me in the process, I’d shove him out of our little safe zone.

  With the sound of retching all around us, a heavy awareness settles into our quiet space, and we slowly turn to each other, eyes wide. He carefully scans my face, so I carefully scan his, too. He is notably normal-colored, not even a little green.

  “Are you nauseated?” he asks me quietly.

  “Beyond at the sight of this? Or you? No.”

  “Impending diarrhea?”

  I stare at him. “How are you single? Frankly, it’s a mystery.”

  And instead of being relieved he’s not sick, he relaxes his expression into the cockiest grin I’ve ever seen. “So I was right about buffets and bacteria.”

  “It’s too fast to be food poisoning.”

  “Not necessarily.” He points to the ice trays where the shrimp, clams, mackerel, grouper, and about ten other fancy varieties of fish used to be. “I bet you . . .” He holds up a finger as if he’s testing the air. “I bet you this is ciguatera toxin.”

  “I have no idea what that is.”

  He takes a deep breath, like he’s soaking in the splendor of the moment and cannot smell how ripe the bathroom has grown just down the hall. “I have never in my life been more smug to be the eternal buffet buzzkill.”

  “I think you mean, ‘Thank you for procuring my plate of roasted chicken, Olive.’ ”

  “Thank you for procuring my plate of roasted chicken, Olive.”

  As relieved as I am to not be barfing, I am also horrified. This was Ami’s dream day. She spent the better part of the last six months planning this, and this is the wedding day equivalent of a road full of advancing, flaming zombies.

  So I do the only thing I can think to do: I march over to her, reach down to loop one of her arms over my shoulders, and help her up. No one needs to see the bride in a state like this: covered in vomit—hers and Dane’s—and clutching her stomach like she might lose it out the other end, too.

  We’re lurching more than walking—really, I’m half dragging her—so we’re only halfway to the exit when I feel the back of my dress rip wide open.

  • • •

  AS MUCH AS IT PAINS me to admit it, Ethan was right: the wedding party has been demolished by something known as ciguatera, which happens when one eats fish contaminated with certain toxins. Apparently the caterer is off the hook because it isn’t a food preparation issue—even if you cook the living daylights out of a contaminated piece of fish, it is still toxic. I close out Google when I read that the symptoms normally last anywhere from weeks to months. This is a catastrophe.

  For obvious reasons, we cancelled the tornaboda—the enormous wedding after party that was going to be held at Tia Sylvia’s house late into the night. I already see myself spending tomorrow wrapping and freezing the ungodly amount of food we spent the last three days cooking; no way will anyone want to eat for a long time after this. A few guests were taken to the hospital, but most have just retreated home or to their hotel rooms to suffer in isolation. Dane is in the groom’s suite; Mom is next door curled over the toilet in the mother-in-law suite, and she banished Dad to one of the bathrooms in the lobby. She texted me to remind him to tip the bathroom attendant.

  The bridal suite has become a triage unit of sorts. Diego is on the floor in the living room, clutching a garbage can to his chest. Natalia and Jules each have a bucket—compliments of the hotel—and are both in the fetal position on opposite ends of the living room couch. Ami whimpers in agony and tries to wiggle her way out of her completely saturated dress. I help her and immediately decide she’s fine in her underwear, for a while anyway. At least she’s out of the bathroom; I’ll be honest, the noises coming from inside had no place in a wedding night.

  Careful to watch my step as I move around the suite, I wet washcloths for foreheads and attempt to rub backs, emptying buckets as needed and thanking the universe for my constitutionally solid stomach.

  As I step out of the bathroom with rubber gloves pulled up to my elbows, my sister zombie-moans into an ice bucket. “You have to take my trip.”

  “What trip?”

  “The honeymoon.”

  The suggestion is so exceedingly random that I ignore her and grab a pillow to put under her head instead. It is at least two minutes before she speaks again.

  “Take it, Olive.”

  “Ami, no way.” Her honeymoon is an all-inclusive ten-day trip to Maui that she won by filling out over a thousand entry forms. I know because I helped her put the stamps on at least half of them.

  “It’s nonrefundable. We’re supposed to leave tomorrow and . . .” She has to take a break to dry-heave. “There’s no way.”

  “I’ll call them. I’m sure they’ll work around this situation, come on.”

  She shakes her head and then hurls up the water I made her sip. When she speaks, she sounds froggy, like she’s the victim of a demon possession. “They won’t.”

  My poor sister has turned into a swamp creature; I’ve never seen anyone this shade of gray before.

  “They don’t care about illness or injury, it’s in the contract.” She falls back onto the floor and stares up at the ceiling.

  “Why are you even worried about this right now?” I ask, though in reality I know the answer. I adore my sister, but even viol
ent illness won’t get between her and redeeming a prize fairly won.

  “You can use my ID to check in,” she says. “Just pretend you’re me.”

  “Ami Torres, that’s illegal!”

  Rolling her head so she can see me, she gives me a look so comically blank, I have to stifle a laugh.

  “Okay, I realize it isn’t your priority right now,” I say.

  “It is, though.” She struggles to sit up. “I will be so stressed out about this if you don’t take it.”

  I stare at her, and conflict makes my words come out tangled and thick. “I don’t want to leave you. And I also don’t want to be arrested for fraud.” I can tell she isn’t going to let this go. Finally, I give in. “Okay. Just let me call them and see what I can do.”

  Twenty minutes later, and I know she’s right: the customer service representative for Aline Voyage Vacations gives zero damns about my sister’s bowels or esophagus. According to Google and a physician the hotel called in who is slowly making the rounds to each guest room, Ami is unlikely to recover by next week, let alone tomorrow.

  If she or her designated guest doesn’t take the trip, it’s gone.

  “I’m sorry, Ami. This feels monumentally unfair,” I say.

  “Look,” she begins, and then dry-heaves a few times, “consider this the moment your luck changes.”

  “Two hundred people threw up during Olive’s speech,” Diego reminds us all from the floor.

  Ami manages to push herself up, supporting herself against the couch. “I’m serious. You should go, Ollie. You didn’t get sick. You need to celebrate that.”

  Something inside me, a tiny kernel of sunshine, peeks out from behind a cloud, and then disappears again.