The Unhoneymooners Read online

  Well, mostly. I look up at Ethan, who gestures for me to lead us inside. Ahead of us is an absurdly spacious living room, with a couch, love seat, two chairs, and low glass coffee table on a fluffy white rug. The table is topped with a beautiful violet orchid in a woven basket, a complicated remote that looks like it probably operates a bionic housekeeper, and a bucket with a bottle of champagne and two flutes that have Mr. and Mrs. etched in the glass.

  I meet Ethan’s eyes only long enough for both of our instinctive sneers to take root.

  Just to the left of the living room is a small dining nook, with a table, two brass candlesticks, and a tiki-themed bar cart covered in all manner of ornate cocktail glasses. I mentally gulp down about four margaritas and get an anticipatory buzz from all the upcoming free booze I’m about to enjoy.

  But at the far end is the true beauty of the room: a wall of glass doors that open to a balcony overlooking the crashing Maui surf. I gasp, sliding them to the side and stepping out into the warm January breeze. The temperature—so balmy, so not Minnesota—shocks me into a surreal awareness: I’m in Maui, in a dream suite, on an all-inclusive trip. I’ve never been to Hawaii. I’ve never done anything dreamlike, period. I start to dance but only realize I’m doing it when Ethan steps out onto the balcony and dumps an enormous bucket of water on my joy by clearing his throat and squinting out across the waves.

  He looks like he’s thinking, Eh. I’ve seen better.

  “This view is amazing,” I say, almost confrontationally.

  Slowly blinking over to me, he says, “As is your propensity to overshare.”

  “I already told you I’m not a good liar. I got nervous when she was looking at Ami’s ID, okay?”

  He holds his hands up in sarcastic surrender. With a scowl, I escape Mr. Buzzkill and head back inside. Just to the immediate right of the entry, there is a small kitchen I completely bypassed on my way to the balcony. Past the kitchen is a hallway that leads to a small bathroom, and, just past it, the opulent master bedroom. I step inside and see there’s another huge bathroom here with a giant tub big enough for two. I turn to face the gigantic bed. I want to roll in it. I want to take off my clothes and slip into the silky—

  I feel the tires come to a screeching halt inside my brain.

  But . . . how? How have we come this far without discussing the logistics of sleeping arrangements? Did we both truly assume that the honeymoon suite would have two bedrooms? Without a doubt, we both would happily die on the Not Sharing a Bed with You hill, but how do we decide who gets the only bedroom? Obviously, I think I should—but knowing Ethan, he probably thinks he’ll take the bed and I’ll happily build my little troll fort under the dining table.

  I step out of the bedroom just as Ethan is closing the wide double doors, and then we are sealed into this awkward moment of unprepared cohabitation. We turn in unison to gaze at our suitcases.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he agrees.

  “It’s really nice.”

  Ethan coughs. A clock ticks somewhere in the room, too loud in the awkward silence.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  “It is.” He reaches up, scratching the back of his neck. Ocean waves crash in the background. “And, obviously you’re the woman. You should take the bedroom.”

  Some of those words are the ones I want to hear, and some of them are just terrible. I tilt my head, scowling. “I don’t get the bedroom because I’m a woman. I get the room because my sister won it.”

  He gives a douchey little wince-shrug and says, “I mean, if we’re going by those standards, then I should get the room, since Ami got it partly using Dane’s Hilton status.”

  “She still managed to organize it all,” I say. “If it was up to Dane, they’d be staying at the Doubletree in Mankato this week.”

  “You realize you’re just arguing with me for the sake of arguing, right? I already told you you could have the room.”

  I point at him. “What you’re doing right now isn’t arguing?”

  He sighs like I am the most irritating person alive. “Take the bedroom. I’ll sleep on the couch.” He gazes at it. It looks plush and nice, sure, but it is still a couch and we’re here for ten nights. “I’ll be fine,” he adds with a hefty spoonful of martyrdom thrown in.

  “Okay, if you’re going to act like I’m beholden to you, then I don’t want it.”

  He exhales slowly, and then walks over to his suitcase, lifting it and carrying it to the bedroom.

  “Wait!” I call. “I take that back. I do want the bedroom.”

  Ethan stops without turning to look at me. “I’m just going to put some things in the drawers so I’m not living out of my suitcase in the living room for ten days.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “I presume that’s okay?”

  He is so carefully balancing being generous with being passive-aggressive that I am all mixed up about how big an asshole he really is. It makes it impossible to measure out the correct dose of snark.

  “It’s fine,” I say, and add magnanimously, “take all the dresser space you want.”

  I hear his bemused snort as he disappears from view.

  The bottom line is that we don’t get along. But the other bottom line is that we don’t really need to! Hope fills me like helium. Ethan and I can move around each other without having to interact, and do whatever we like to make this our individual dream vacations.

  For me, this slice of heaven will include the spa, zip-­lining, snorkeling, and every manner of adventure I can find—including adventures of the alcoholic variety. If Ethan’s idea of a perfect vacation is brooding, complaining, and sighing exasperatedly, he can surely do that anywhere he wants, but I don’t have to endure it.

  I quickly check my email and see a new one from Hamilton. The offer is . . . well, suffice it to say I don’t need to look through anything else to know I’ll take it. They could tell me my desk was perched on the lip of a volcano, and I would accept in a heartbeat for this kind of money.

  Pulling out my iPad, I digitally sign everything and send it off.

  Practically vibrating, I thumb through the list of hotel activities and decide that the first order of business is a celebratory facial and body scrub down at the spa. Solo. I don’t think Ethan is much of a pampering type, but the worst thing would be to have him lift a cooling cucumber slice off my eyelid and glare down at me while I’m lounging in a robe.

  “Ethan,” I call, “what are you up to this afternoon?”

  In the answering silence, I sense his panic that I might be requesting his company.

  “I’m not asking because I want to hang,” I add quickly.

  He hesitates again, and when he finally answers, his voice comes out tinny, like he’s actually climbed into the closet. “Thank God.”

  Well. “I’m probably going to head down to the spa.”

  “Do whatever you want. Just don’t use all the massage credits,” he tacks on.

  I scowl, even though he can’t see me. “How many times do you think I’m going to get rubbed down in a single afternoon?”

  “I’d rather not contemplate.”

  I flip the bird in his general direction, consult the directory to confirm that the spa has showers I can use, grab my key card, and leave Ethan to his surly unpacking.

  • • •

  GUILT EDGES IN A TINY bit when I am being pampered and indulged for nearly three hours using Ami’s name. My face is exfoliated, massaged, and moisturized. My body is covered in clay, scrubbed until I’m red and tingly all over, and then covered with warm eucalyptus towels.

  I make a silent promise to put aside money from each paycheck for a while so that I can send my sister to a lavish spa back home when she no longer feels “like a freshly reanimated corpse.” It may not be Maui, but any little bit I can pay her back for th
is, I’m committed to do. All I have to do this entire week is tip the staff; it seems so preposterous. This type of blissful, transcendent spa experience isn’t for me. I’m the one who gets a fungal infection from a pedicure in the Cities and a bikini wax burn at a spa in Duluth.

  Limp as a jellyfish all over and drunk on endorphins, I look up at my therapist. “That was . . . amazing. If I ever win the lottery, I’m going to move here and pay you to do that every day.”

  She probably hears that daily, but she laughs like I am exceedingly clever. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”

  Enjoyed myself is an understatement. Not only was it dreamy, but it was a full three hours away from Ethan.

  I’m led back to the lounge, where I’m told to take as much time as I want. Diving into the plush couch, I pull my phone from the pocket of my robe. I’m unsurprised to see messages from my mom (Tell your dad to bring us some toilet paper and Gatorade), my sister (Tell mom to go hooooome), Diego (Is this punishment for making fun of Natalia’s terrible bleach job? I’d say I’m sorry but I’ve seen mops with fewer split ends), and Jules (Do you care if I stay at your place while you’re gone? This thing is like the plague and I might have to burn down my apartment).

  Too tired and blissed out to deal with any of it now, I pick up a well-loved copy of Us Weekly. But not even celebrity gossip or the latest Bachelor drama can keep me awake, and I feel my eyelids closing under the weight of happy exhaustion.

  “Ms. Torres?”

  “Hmm?” I hum, groggy.

  “Ms. Torres, is that you?” Eyes bolting open, I nearly overturn the cucumber water I’ve got precariously perched on my chest. When I sit, I look up and nearly all I see is an enormous white mustache.

  And oh. I know this mustache; I first met this mustache at a highly important interview. I remember at the time thinking, Wow, a Sam Elliott doppelgänger is the CEO here at Hamilton Biosciences! Who knew?

  My eyes move up. Yes, the Sam Elliott doppelgänger—Charles Hamilton, my new boss’s boss—is right in front of me at the Spa Grande in Maui.

  Wait . . . what?

  “Mr. Hamilton! Hi!”

  “I thought that was you.” He looks tanner than when I saw him a few weeks ago, his white hair a touch longer, and he definitely wasn’t wearing a fluffy white robe and slippers.

  He crosses the room, arms outstretched for a hug.

  Oh. Okay, we’re going to do this. I stand, and he catches my expression of discomfort—because I don’t usually hug my bosses, especially not when naked under a robe—and then I see when he registers that his brain is on vacation and he doesn’t hug his employees, either, but we’re committed now and come together in an awkward side hug that ensures our robes don’t gape anywhere.

  “If this isn’t a small world,” he says once he’s pulled away. “Recharging the batteries before starting your new adventure at Hamilton? That’s exactly what I like to see. Can’t take care of others if you don’t take care of yourself first.”

  “Exactly.” My nerves have dumped buckets of adrenaline into my veins; going from Zen to New Boss Alert is jarring. I pull the tie on my robe a little tighter. “And I want to thank you again for the opportunity. I am beyond excited to be joining the team.”

  Mr. Hamilton waves me off. “The minute we spoke I knew you’d be a great fit. Your dedication to Butake was commendable. I always say that Hamilton is nothing without the good people working there. Honesty, integrity, loyalty—those are our hallmarks.”

  I nod; I like Mr. Hamilton—he has an impeccable reputation in the biosciences field and is known for being an incredibly involved and hands-on CEO—but I can’t help but note that this line is an almost exact replica of the one he gave me as we shook hands at the end of the interview. Now that I’ve lied to about twenty people on the hotel’s staff, hearing it here feels more ominous than inspiring.

  The sound of quickened footsteps can be heard on the other side of the door before a panicked Kelly bursts through. “Mrs. Thomas.”

  My stomach drops.

  “Oh, thank God you’re still here. You left your wedding ring in the treatment room.” She offers an outstretched hand and places the simple band in my palm.

  I let out a deranged silent scream inside my cranium while I manage to give her a muted thanks.

  “ ‘Mrs. Thomas?’ ” Hamilton prompts.

  The therapist looks between us, obviously confused.

  “You mean Torres,” he says.

  “No . . .” She blinks down to a clipboard and then back to us. “This is Mrs. Thomas. Unless there’s been some mistake . . . ? ”

  I realize there are two things I can do here:

  1.I could admit that I had to take my sister’s honeymoon because she got sick and am pretending to be married to a guy named Ethan Thomas so we can snag this sweet honeymoon package, or

  2.I could lie my face off and tell them that I just got married and—silly me—I’m not used to my new name yet.

  In either case, I am a liar. Option one leaves me with my integrity. However, with option two I won’t disappoint my new boss (especially given that half my interview was focused on building a workforce with “a strong moral compass” and people who “put honesty and integrity above everything else”), and won’t end up sleeping on the beach, hungry and unemployed, with only a giant spa and hotel bill to use as shelter.

  I know there’s an obvious right choice here, but I do not make it.

  “Oh yeah. Just got married.”

  Oh God. Why? Why does my mouth do this? That was honestly the worst choice. Because now, when we return home, I’m going to have to pretend to be married whenever I run into Mr. Hamilton—which could be daily—or fess up to getting fake divorced immediately after the fake wedding.

  Gah.

  His smile is so big it lifts the mustache. The therapist is relieved the weird moment of tension is gone and excuses herself with a smile. Still beaming, Mr. Hamilton reaches out, shaking my hand. “Well, now, that is some wonderful news. Where was the wedding?”

  At least here I can be truthful: “At the Hilton, downtown St. Paul.”

  “My gosh,” he says, shaking his head, “just starting out. What a blessing.” He leans in and winks. “My Molly and I are here celebrating our thirtieth anniversary, can you believe it?”

  I make my eyes round, like it’s just wild that this white-haired man has been married for so long, and fumble through some noises about that being amazing and exciting and you must just be . . . so happy.

  And then he takes out a metaphorical anvil and knocks me into the floor: “Why don’t you two join us for dinner?”

  Me and Ethan, sitting beside each other at a table, having to . . . touch, and smile, and pretend to love each other? I stifle a chortle.

  “Oh, we couldn’t impose. You two probably never get away together.”

  “Of course we do! The kids are out of the house—it’s just us two all the time. Come on. It’s our last night, and I’m sure she’s sick of me, to be honest!” He lets out a hearty laugh. “It wouldn’t be any imposition at all.”

  If there’s a way out of this situation, I’m not coming up with it fast enough. I think I have to bite the bullet.

  Smiling—and hoping I look far less terrified than I feel—I give in. I need this job, and am dying to land in Mr. Hamilton’s good graces. I’m going to have to ask Ethan for a huge favor. I’m going to owe him so big, it makes me want to hurl.

  “Sure, Mr. Hamilton. Ethan and I would love that.”

  He reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “Call me Charlie.”

  • • •

  THE HALLWAY WEAVES AND ELONGATES in front of me. I wish it weren’t just an illusion born from dread, and that it really were five miles to our suite. But it isn’t, and sooner than I’d like, I’m back at the room, half praying that Ethan is out doing somethi
ng amazing until tomorrow, and half praying that he’s here so we can make it to dinner with Mr. Hamilton.

  As soon as I walk in, I see him sitting on the balcony. Why is he in Maui, hanging out in the hotel room? Although, now that I think about it, it sounds lovely. I grow instinctively itchy at the prospect of sharing the homebody gene with him.

  At least he’s changed into shorts and a T-shirt, and has his bare feet propped up on the ledge. The wind blows his dark hair all over his head, but I imagine him squinting judgmentally out at the surf, silently telling the waves they could do better.

  When I move closer, I see that he’s holding a cocktail in a highball glass. His bare arms are tanned and toned; his legs are surprisingly muscular and seem to go on forever. For some reason I expected that, in shorts and a T-shirt, he’d look like a string bean with awkward limbs bending at odd angles. Maybe it’s because he’s so tall. Or maybe it was just easier to tell myself that only his face could be pretty, and he’d be gnarled and gangly beneath his clothes.

  Quite frankly, he’s so well-rounded physically, it’s a little unfair.

  I slide open the door as quietly as I can; he looks pretty relaxed. I’m sure he’s thinking about drowning puppies, but I’m not here to judge. At least not until after he’s had dinner with my boss. Then it’s on.

  I realize I’ll need to be charming, so I slap a smile on my face. “Hey there.”

  He turns, and his blue eyes narrow. “Olivia.”

  Wow, I am getting sick of his stupid name game. “What’re you up to, Elijah?”

  “Just enjoying the view.”

  Well, that’s . . . nice. “I didn’t know you did that.”

  He blinks back out to the water. “Did what?”

  “Enjoyed things?”

  Ethan laughs incredulously, and it occurs to me that I could stand to up my sweet-talking game a bit. “How was the massage?” he asks.

  “Great.” I search for more words that aren’t panicky and groveling. “Super relaxing.”

  He glances at me again. “This is what relaxed looks like on you? Wow.” When I don’t say anything else, he asks, “What’s with you? You’re being weirder than usual.”