The Unhoneymooners Page 4

  “I like the idea of good luck better when it isn’t at someone else’s expense,” I tell her.

  “Unfortunately,” Ami says, “you don’t get to choose the circumstances. That’s the point of luck: it happens when and where it happens.”

  I fetch her a new cup of water and a fresh washcloth and then crouch down beside her. “I’ll think about it,” I say.

  But in truth, when I look at her like this—green, clammy, helpless—I know that not only am I not taking her dream vacation, I’m not leaving her side.

  • • •

  I STEP OUT INTO THE hall before remembering that my dress has an enormous tear all down the back. My ass is literally hanging out. On the plus side, it’s suddenly loose enough that I can cover my boobs. Turning back to the suite, I swipe the key card against the door, but the lock flashes red.

  I go to try again and the voice of Satan rings out from behind me. “You have to—” An impatient huff. “No, let me show you.”

  There is nothing in the world I wanted less in this moment than for Ethan to show up, ready to mansplain how to swipe a hotel key.

  He takes the card from me and holds it against the black circle on the door. I stare at him in disbelief, hear the lock disengage, and begin to sarcastically thank him, but he’s already preoccupied with the view of my tan Spanx.

  “Your dress ripped,” he says helpfully.

  “You have spinach in your teeth.”

  He doesn’t, but at least it distracts him enough that I can escape back into the room and close the door in his face.

  Unfortunately, he knocks.

  “Just a second, I need to get some clothes on.”

  His reply is a lazy drawl through the door: “Why start now?”

  Aware that no one else in the suite is remotely interested in watching me change, I toss my dress and Spanx onto the couch and reach for my underwear and a pair of jeans in my bag, hopping into them. Tugging on a T-shirt, I move to the door and open it only a crack so he can’t see Ami inside, curled into a ball in her lacy wedding underwear.

  “What do you want?”

  He frowns. “I need to talk to Ami real quick.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “Well, I’m going to have to do, because my sister is barely conscious.”

  “Then why are you leaving her?”

  “For your information, I was headed downstairs to look for Gatorade,” I say. “Why aren’t you with Dane?”

  “Because he hasn’t left the toilet in two hours.”

  Gross. “What do you want?”

  “I need the info for the honeymoon. Dane told me to call and see if they can get it moved.”

  “They can’t,” I tell him. “I already called.”

  “Okay.” He exhales long and slow, clawing a hand through hair that is thick and luscious for no good reason. “In that case, I told him I’d go.”

  I actually bark out a laugh. “Wow, that is so generous of you.”

  “What? He offered it to me.”

  I straighten to my full height. “Unfortunately, you’re not her designated guest.”

  “She only had to give his last name. Incidentally, it’s the same as mine.”

  Damn it. “Well . . . Ami offered it to me, too.” I’m not planning on taking the trip, but I’ll be damned if Ethan is getting it.

  He blinks to the side and then back to me. I’ve seen Ethan Thomas blink those lashes and use that dangerously uneven smile to sweet-talk Tía María into bringing him freshly made tamales. I know he can charm when he wants. Clearly he doesn’t want right now, because his tone comes out flat: “Olive, I have vacation time I need to take.”

  And now the fire is rising in me. Why does he think he deserves this? Did he have a seventy-four-item wedding to-do list on fancy stationery? No, he did not. And come to think of it, that speech of his was lukewarm. Bet he wrote it in the groom suite while he was chugging back a plastic pitcher of warm Budweiser.

  “Well,” I say, “I’m unemployed against my will, so I think I probably need the vacation more than you do.”

  The frown deepens. “That makes no sense.” He pauses. “Wait. You were laid off from Bukkake?”

  I scowl at him. “It’s Butake, dumb-ass, and yes. I was laid off two months ago. I’m sure that gives you immeasurable thrill.”

  “A little.”

  “You are Voldemort.”

  Ethan shrugs and then reaches up, scratching his jaw. “I suppose we could both go.”

  I narrow my eyes and hope I don’t look like I am mentally diagramming his sentence, even though I am. It sounded like he suggested we go . . .

  “On their honeymoon?” I ask incredulously.

  He nods.

  “Together?”

  He nods again.

  “Are you high?”

  “Not presently.”

  “Ethan, we can barely stand to sit next to each other at an hourlong meal.”

  “From what I gather,” he says, “they won a suite. It’ll be huge. We won’t even really have to see each other. This vacation is packed: zip-lining, snorkeling, hikes, surfing. Come on. We can orbit around each other for ten days without committing a violent felony.”

  From inside the bridal suite, Ami groans out a low, gravelly “Gooooo, Olive.”

  I turn to her. “But—it’s Ethan.”

  “Shit,” Diego mumbles, “if I can take this garbage can with me, I’ll go.”

  In my peripheral vision, Ami lifts a sallow arm, waving it. “Ethan’s not that bad.”

  Isn’t he, though? I look back at him, sizing him up. Too tall, too fit, too classically pretty. Never friendly, never trustworthy, never any fun. He puts on an innocent smile—innocent on the surface: a flash of teeth, a dimple, but in his eyes, it’s all black-souled.

  But then I think of Maui: crashing surf, pineapple, cocktails, and sunshine. Oh, sunshine. A glance out the window shows only blackness, but I know the cold that lies out there. I know the car-grime-yellowed snow lining the streets. I know the days that are so cold my wet hair would freeze if I didn’t completely dry it before leaving the apartment. I know that by the time April comes and it still isn’t consistently warm, I will be hunched over and resigned, Skeksis-like.

  “Whether you’re coming or not,” he says, cutting into my rapid spiral down the mental drainpipe, “I’m going to Maui.” He leans in. “And I’m going to have the best fucking time of my life.”

  I look back over my shoulder at Ami, who nods encouragingly—albeit slowly—and a fire ignites in my chest at the thought of being here, surrounded by snow, and the smell of vomit, and the bleak landscape of unemployment while Ethan is lying poolside with a cocktail in his hand.

  “Fine,” I tell him, and then lean forward to press a finger into his chest. “I’m taking Ami’s spot. But you keep to your space, and I’ll keep to mine.”

  He salutes me. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  chapter four

  Turns out I’m willing to take my sick-sister’s dream honey­moon, but I have to draw a line at airline fraud. Because I am essentially broke, finding a last-minute flight from the freezing tundra to Maui in January—at least one that I can afford—requires some creativity. Ethan is no help at all, probably because he’s one of those highly evolved thirty­something guys who has an actual savings account and never has to dig in his car’s ashtray for change at the drive-through. Must be nice.

  But we do agree that we need to travel together. As much as I’d like to ditch him as soon as possible, the travel company did make it abundantly clear that if there is any fraud afoot, we will be charged the full balance of the vacation package. It’s either the proximity of probable vomit or the proximity of me that sends him halfway down the hall toward his own room with a muttered “Just let m
e know what I owe you,” before I can warn him exactly how little that might be.

  Fortunately, my sister taught me well, and in the end I have two (so cheap they’re practically free) tickets to Hawaii. I’m not sure why they’re so cheap, but I try not to think too much about it. A plane is a plane, and getting to Maui is all that really matters, right?

  It’ll be fine.

  • • •

  SO MAYBE THRIFTY JET ISN’T the flashiest airline, but it’s not that bad and certainly doesn’t warrant the constant fidgeting and barrage of heavy sighs from the man sitting next to me.

  “You know I can hear you, right?”

  Ethan is quiet for a moment before he turns another page in his magazine. He slides his eyes to me in a silent I can’t believe I put you in charge of this.

  I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone aggressively flip through a copy of Knitting World before now. It’s a nice touch to keep magazines in the terminal like we’re at the gynecologist’s office, but it’s a little disconcerting that this one is from 2007.

  I tamp down the ever-present urge to reach over and flick his ear. We’re supposed to pass as newlyweds on this trip; might as well start trying to fake it now. “So, just to close the loop on this stupid squabble,” I say, “if you were going to have such a strong opinion about our flights, you shouldn’t have told me to take care of it.”

  “If I knew you were going to book us on a Greyhound with wings, I wouldn’t have.” He looks up, and glances around in horrified wonder. “I didn’t even know this part of the airport existed.”

  I roll my eyes and then meet the gaze of the woman sitting across from us, who is clearly eavesdropping. Lowering my voice, I lean in with a saccharine smile. “If I knew you were going to be such a nitpicker, I would have happily told you to shove it and get your own damn ticket.”

  “Nitpick?” Ethan points to where the plane is parked outside what I think is a plexiglass window. “Have you seen our aircraft? I’ll be amazed if they don’t ask us to pitch in for fuel.”

  I take the magazine from his hand and scan an article on Summer Sherbet Tops and Cool Cotton Cable Pullovers! “Nobody is forcing you to take a free dream trip to Maui,” I say. “And for the record, not all of us can buy expensive same-day airplane tickets. I told you I was on a budget.”

  He snorts. “If I’d known what kind of budget you meant, I would have loaned you the cost.”

  “And take money from your sexual companion fund?” I press a horrified hand to my chest. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  Ethan takes the magazine back. “Look, Olivia. I’m just sitting here reading. If you want to bicker, go up there and ask the gate agents to move us to first class.”

  I move in to ask how it’s possible that he’s headed to Maui and yet somehow even more unpleasant than usual when my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s most likely one of the following: A) Ami with a vomit update, B) Ami calling to remind me about something I’ve forgotten and don’t have time to get now anyway, C) one of my cousins with gossip, or D) Mom wanting me to ask Dad something, or tell Dad something, or call Dad something. As unpleasant as all of these possibilities sound, I’d still rather listen to any of them than have a conversation with Ethan Thomas.

  Holding up my phone, I stand with a “Let me know if we board,” and get nothing but a noncommittal grunt in return.

  The phone rings again but it’s not my sister on the screen, it’s an unfamiliar number with a St. Paul area code. “Hello?”

  “I’m calling for Olive Torres?”

  “This is Olive.”

  “This is Kasey Hugh, human resources at Hamilton Biosciences. How are you?”

  My heart bursts into a gallop as I mentally flip through the dozens of interviews I’ve had in the past two months. They were all for medical-science liaison positions (a fancy term for the scientists who meet with physicians to speak more technically than sales folk can about various drugs on the market), but the one at Hamilton was at the top of my list because of the company’s flu vaccine focus. My background is virology, and not having to learn an entirely new biological system in a matter of weeks is always a bonus.

  But to be frank, at this point I was ready to apply to Hooters if that’s what it would take to cover rent.

  With the phone pressed to my ear, I cross to a quieter side of the terminal and try not to sound as desperate as I’m feeling. After the bridesmaid dress fiasco, I am far more realistic about my ability to pull off the orange Hooters shorts and shimmery panty hose.

  “I’m doing well,” I say. “Thanks for asking.”

  “I’m calling because after considering all the applicants for the position, Mr. Hamilton would like to offer you the medical scientist liaison position. Are you still interested?”

  I turn on my heel, looking back toward Ethan as if the sheer awesomeness of these words is enough to set off a flare gun of joy over my head. He’s still frowning down at his knitting magazine.

  “Oh my God,” I say, free hand flapping in front of my face. “Yes! Absolutely!”

  A paycheck! Steady income! Being able to sleep at night without fear of impending homelessness!

  “Do you know when you can start?” she asks. “I have a memo here from Mr. Hamilton that reads, ‘The sooner, the better.’ ”

  “Start?” I wince, looking around me at all the cheapo travelers wearing plastic leis and Hawaiian print shirts. “Soon! Now. Except not now now. Not for a week. Ten days, actually. I can start in ten days. I have . . .” An announcement plays overhead, and I look to see Ethan stand. With a frown, he gestures to where people are starting to line up. My brain goes into excitement-chaos overdrive. “We just had a family thing and—also, I need to see a sick relative, and—”

  “That’s fine, Olive,” she says calmly, mercifully cutting me off. I squeeze my forehead, wincing at my stupid lying babble. “It’s just after the holidays and everyone is still crazy. I’ll put you down for a tentative start date of Monday, January twenty-first? Does that work for you?”

  I exhale for what feels like the first time since I answered the phone. “That would be perfect.”

  “Great,” Kasey says. “Expect an email soon with an offer letter, along with some paperwork we’ll need you to sign ASAP if you choose to officially accept. A digital or scanned signature is fine. Welcome to Hamilton Biosciences. Congratulations, Olive.”

  I walk back to Ethan in a daze.

  “Finally,” he says, with his carry-on slung over one shoulder and mine over the other. “We’re the last group to board. I thought I was going to—” He stops, eyes narrowing as they make a circuit of my face. “Are you okay? You look . . . smiling.”

  My phone call is still playing on a loop in my ears. I want to check my call history and hit redial just to make sure Kasey had the right Olive Torres. I was saved from terrible food poisoning, managed to snag a free vacation, and was offered a job in a single twenty-four-hour span? This sort of string of luck doesn’t happen to me. What is going on?

  Ethan snaps his fingers and I startle to find him leaning in, looking like he wishes he had a stick to poke me with. “Everything okay there? Change of plans, or—?”

  “I got a job.”

  It seems to take a moment for my words to sink in. “Just now?”

  “I interviewed a couple weeks ago. I start after Hawaii.”

  I expect him to look visibly disappointed that I’m not backing out of this trip. Instead he lifts his brows and offers a quiet “That’s great, Olive. Congratulations,” before herding me toward the line of people boarding.

  I’m surprised he didn’t ask me whether I would be joining their janitorial team, or at least say he hopes my new job selling heroin to at-risk children treats me well. I did not expect sincere. I’m never on the receiving end of his charm, even if the charm just now was diluted; I know how to handle Sincere Ethan about as
well as I would know how to handle a hungry bear.

  “Uh, thanks.”

  I quickly text Diego, Ami, and my parents—separately, of course—to let them know the good news, and then we’re standing at the threshold to the Jetway, handing over our boarding passes. Reality sinks in and blends with joy: With the job stress alleviated, I can really leave the Twin Cities for ten days. I can treat this trip like an actual vacation on a tropical island.

  Yes, it’s with my nemesis, but still, I’ll take it.

  • • •

  THE JETWAY IS LITTLE MORE than a rickety bridge that leads from our dinky terminal to the even dinkier plane. The line moves slowly as the people ahead of us try to shove their oversize bags into the miniature overhead compartments. With Ami, I would turn and ask why people don’t simply check their bags so we can get in and out on time, but Ethan has managed to go a full five minutes without finding something to complain about. I’m not going to give him any bait.

  We climb into our seats; the plane is so narrow that, in each row, there are only two seats on each side of the aisle. They’re so close together, though, they’re essentially one bench with a flimsy armrest between them. Ethan is plastered against my side. I have to ask him to lean up onto one butt cheek so I can locate the other half of my seat belt. After the disconcertingly gravelly click of metal into metal, he straightens and we register in unison that we’re touching from shoulder to thigh, separated only by a hard, immobile armrest midway down.

  He looks over the heads of the people in front of us. “I don’t trust this plane.” He looks back down the aisle. “Or the crew. Was the pilot wearing a parachute?”

  Ethan is always—annoyingly—the epitome of cool, calm, and collected, but now that I’m paying attention I see that his shoulders are tense, and his face has gone pale. I think he’s sweating. He’s scared, I realize, and suddenly his mood at the airport makes a lot more sense.

  As I watch, he pulls a penny from his pocket and smooths a thumb over it.

  “What’s that?”

  “A penny.”

  My goodness, this is delightful. “You mean like a good luck penny?”