The Unhoneymooners
: Chapter 4

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, replaceing 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 me 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 replace 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 replaceing 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?”

With a scowl, he slips it back into his pocket.

“I never thought I had good luck,” I tell him, feeling magnanimous, “but look. My allergy kept me from eating the buffet, I’m going to Maui, and I got a job. Wouldn’t it be hilarious”—I laugh and roll my head in his direction—“to have a streak of good luck for the first time in my life, only to go down in a fiery plane crash?”

Judging by his expression, Ethan does not see the humor at all. When a member of the flight crew walks by, he shoots an arm out in front of me, stopping her.

“Excuse me, can you tell me how many miles are on this plane?”

The flight attendant smiles. “Aircraft don’t have miles. They have flight hours.”

I can see Ethan swallowing down his impatience. “Okay, then how many flight hours are on this plane?”

She tilts her head, understandably puzzled by his question. “I’d have to ask the captain, sir.”

Ethan leans across me to get closer and I push back into my seat, scrunching my nose against the obnoxiously pleasant smell of his soap.

“And what do we think of the captain? Competent? Trustworthy?” Ethan winks, and I realize he’s no less anxious than he was a minute ago, but he’s coping via flirtation. “Well-rested?”

“Captain Blake is a great pilot,” she says, tilting her head and smiling.

I look back and forth between the two of them and dramatically fidget with the gold wedding band I borrowed from Tia Sylvia. No one notices.

Ethan gives her a smile—and wow, he could probably ask her for her social security number, a major credit card, and to bear his children, and she’d say yes. “Of course,” he says. “I mean it’s not like he’s ever crashed a plane or anything. Right?”

“Just the once,” she says, before straightening with a wink of her own and continuing on down the aisle.

• • •

FOR THE NEXT HOUR, ETHAN barely moves, doesn’t speak, and holds himself as if breathing too hard or somehow jostling the plane will make it fall out of the sky. I reach for my iPad before realizing that of course we don’t have Wi-Fi. I open a book, hoping to get lost in some delicious paranormal fun, but can’t seem to focus.

“An eight-hour flight, and there’s no movie,” I say to myself, glaring at the screenless seat back in front of me.

“Maybe they’re hoping your life flashing in front of your eyes will be distraction enough.”

“It lives.” I turn and look at him. “Won’t speaking upset the barometric pressure in the cabin or something?”

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out the penny again. “I haven’t ruled it out.”

We haven’t spent much time together, but from stories I’ve heard from both Dane and Ami, I feel like I’ve built a pretty accurate picture of Ethan in my head. Daredevil, adventure hound, ambitious, cutthroat . . .

The man clinging to the armrest as if his very life depends on it is . . . not that guy.

With a deep breath, he rolls his shoulders, grimacing. I’m five foot four and mildly uncomfortable. Ethan’s legs have to be at least ten feet long; I can’t imagine what it’s like for him. After he speaks, it’s like the stillness spell has broken: his knee bounces with nervous energy, his fingers tap against the drink tray until even the sweet old lady wearing a Day-Glo muumuu in front of us is giving him a dirty look. He smiles in apology.

“Tell me about that lucky penny of yours,” I say, motioning to the coin still clutched in his fist. “Why do you think it’s lucky?”

He seems to internally weigh the risk of interacting with me against the potential relief of distraction.

“I don’t really want to encourage conversation,” he says, “but what do you see?” He opens his palm.

“It’s from 1955,” I note.

“What else?”

I look closer. “Oh . . . you mean how the lettering is doubled?”

He leans in, pointing. “You can really see it right here, above Lincoln’s head.” Sure enough, the letters that read IN GOD WE TRUST have been stamped twice.

“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” I admit.

“There’s only a few of them out there.” He rubs his thumb over the surface and slips it back into his pocket.

“Is it valuable?” I ask.

“Worth about a thousand dollars.”

“Holy shit!” I gasp.

We hit some mild turbulence, and Ethan’s eyes move wildly around the plane as if the oxygen masks might deploy at any moment.

Hoping to distract him again, I ask, “Where did you get it?”

“I bought a banana just before a job interview, and it was part of my change.”

“And?”

“And not only did I get the job, but when I went to have some coins rolled the machine spit the penny out because it thought it was a fake. I’ve carried it around ever since.”

“Don’t you worry you’re going to drop it?”

“That’s the whole point of luck, isn’t it?” he says through gritted teeth. “You have to trust that it’s not fleeting.”

“Are you trusting that right now?”

He tries to relax, shaking out his hands. If I’m reading his expression correctly, he’s regretting telling me anything. But the turbulence intensifies, and all six-plus feet of him stiffen again.

“You know,” I say, “you don’t strike me as someone who’d be afraid of flying.”

He takes a series of deep breaths. “I’m not.”

This doesn’t really require any sort of rebuttal. The way I have to pry his fingers from my side of the armrest communicates it plainly.

Ethan relents. “It’s not my favorite.”

I think of the weekends I spent with Ami because Dane was off on some wild adventure with his brother, all the arguments those trips caused. “Aren’t you supposed to be like, Bear Grylls or something?”

He looks at me, frowning. “Who?”

“The trip to New Zealand. The river rafting, death-defying bro trip? Surfing in Nicaragua? You fly for fun all the time.”

He rests his head back against the seat and closes his eyes again, ignoring me.

As the squeaky wheels of the beverage cart make their way down the aisle, Ethan crowds into my space again, flagging down the flight attendant. “Can I get a scotch and soda?” He glances at me and amends his order. “Two, actually.”

I wave him off. “I don’t like scotch.”

He blinks. “I know.”

“Actually, we don’t have scotch,” she says.

“A gin and tonic?”

She winces.

His shoulders slump. “A beer?”

“That, I have.” She reaches into a drawer and hands him two cans of generic-looking beer. “That’s twenty-two dollars.”

“Twenty-two American dollars?”

“We also have Coke products. They’re free.” He moves to hand back the cans. “But if you’d like ice that’s two dollars.”

“Wait,” I say, and reach into my bag.

“You’re not buying my beer, Olive.”

“You’re right, I’m not.” I pull out two coupons and hand them over. “Ami is.”

“Of course she is.”

The flight attendant continues on down the aisle.

“Some respect, please,” I say. “My sister’s obsessive need to get things for free is why we’re here.”

“And why two hundred of our friends and family were in the emergency room.”

I feel a protective itch for my sister. “The police already said she wasn’t responsible.”

He cracks his beer open with a satisfying pop. “And the six o’clock news.”

I mean to glare, but am momentarily distracted by the way his Adam’s apple moves as he drinks.

“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” he says. “It was doomed anyway.”

The itch flares to a full-on blaze. “Hello, Ethan, that’s your brother and sister-in—”

“Calm down, Olive. I don’t mean them.” He takes another gulp and I stare. “I meant weddings in general.” He shudders and a note of revulsion coats the next word: “Romance.”

Oh, he’s one of those.

I admit my parental model of romance has been lacking, but Tío Omar and Tía Sylvia have been married for forty-five years, Tío Hugo and Tía Maria have been married for nearly thirty. I have examples of lasting relationships all around me, so I know they exist—even if I suspect they might not exist for me. I want to believe that Ami hasn’t started something doomed, that she can be truly happy with Dane.

Ethan drains at least half of the first beer in a long chug, and I try to piece together the extent of my Ethan knowledge. He’s thirty-four, two years older than us and Dane. He does some sort of . . . math thing for a living, which explains why he’s such a laugh a minute. He carries at least one form of personal disinfectant on his person at all times, and he won’t eat at buffets. I think he was single when we met, but not long after he entered into a relationship that seemed at least semiserious. I don’t think his brother liked her because I distinctly recall Dane ranting one night about how much it would suck if Ethan proposed to her.

Oh my God, am I going to Maui with someone’s fiancé?

“You’re not dating anyone now, right?” I ask. “What was her name . . . Sierra or Simba or something?”

“Simba?” He almost cracks a smile. Almost.

“No doubt it shocks you when someone doesn’t keep close track of your love life.”

His forehead scrunches up in a frown. “I wouldn’t go on a fake honeymoon with you if I had a girlfriend.” Sinking back in his seat, he closes his eyes again. “No more talking. You’re right, it shakes the plane.”

• • •

WITH LEIS AROUND OUR NECKS and the heavy ocean air adhering our clothing to our skin, we catch a cab just outside the airport. I spend most of the ride with my face pressed to the window, taking in the bright blue sky and the glimpses of ocean visible through the trees. I can already feel my hair frizzing in the humidity, but it’s worth it. Maui is stunning. Ethan is quiet beside me, watching the view and occasionally tapping something into his phone. Not wanting to disturb the peace, I snap a few blurry photos as we drive down the two-lane highway and send them to Ami. She replies with a simple emoji.

I know. I’m sorry.

Don’t be sorry.

I mean, I have Mom with me for the foreseeable future. Who’s the real winner here?

Enjoy yourself or I’ll kick your ass.

My poor sister. It’s true that I’d rather be here with Ami or . . . anyone else, for that matter, but we’re here and I’m determined to make the most of it. I have ten beautiful, sun-drenched days ahead of me.

When the taxi slows and makes a final right turn, the hotel grounds seem to unfurl in front of us. The building is massive: a towering tiered structure of glass, balconies, and greenery spilling everywhere. The ocean crashes right there, so close that someone standing on one of the higher floors could probably throw a rock and make it into the surf.

We drive down a wide lane lined on both sides with full-grown banyan trees. Hundreds of lanterns sway in the breeze, suspended from branches overhead. If it’s this gorgeous during the day, I can’t imagine the sight once the sun goes down.

Music filters through speakers hidden in the thick foliage, and next to me even Ethan is sitting forward, eyes trained on the grounds as we pass.

We come to a stop, and two valet attendants appear out of nowhere. We climb out, stumbling a bit as we look around, eyes meeting over the roof of the car. It smells like plumeria, and the sound of the waves crashing nearly drowns out the sound of engines idling at the valet. I’m pretty sure Ethan and I have reached our first, enthusiastic consensus: Holy shit. This place is amazing.

I’ve been so distracted that I startle when the first valet pulls out a handful of luggage tags and asks for my name.

“My name?”

The valet smiles. “For the luggage.”

“The luggage. Right. My name. My name, is—well, it’s a funny story—”

Ethan rounds the car and immediately takes my hand. “Torres,” he says. “Ami Torres-soon-to-be-Thomas, and husband.” He leans in, pressing a stiff kiss to the side of my head for realism. “She’s a bit wiped from the trip.”

Stunned, I watch as he turns back to the valet and looks like he’s resisting the urge to wipe his lips with his hand.

“Perfect,” the attendant says, scribbling the name on a few of the tags and attaching them to the handles of our luggage. “Check-in is through those doors there.” He smiles and points to an open-air lobby. “Your bags will be brought up to your room.”

“Thank you.” Ethan presses a few folded bills into the valet’s palm and steers me toward the hotel. “Smooth,” he says as soon as we’re out of earshot.

“Ethan, I’m a terrible liar.”

“Really? You hid it so well.”

“It’s never been my strength, okay? Those of us who aren’t summoned by the Dark Mark consider honesty to be a virtue.”

He curls his fingers toward his palm, beckoning. “Give me both IDs—yours and Ami’s—so you don’t accidentally hand them the wrong one at the front desk. I’ll put my credit card down for incidentals, and we’ll square it up later.”

An argument bubbles up in my chest, but he has a point. Even now, with a bit of mental rehearsal, I am sure the next time someone asks my name, I will shout, “I AM NAMED AMI.” Better than nearly spilling our entire cover story to a valet attendant, but not by much.

I reach into my purse for my wallet and pull out both IDs. “But put them in the safe when we’re in the room.”

He slips them in his wallet next to his own. “Let me do the talking at reception. From what Dane told me, the rules of this vacation are really strict, and even just looking at you, I can tell you’re lying about something.”

I scrunch my face, and then frown and smile in quick succession to try to clear it.

Ethan watches, expression mildly horrified. “Get it together, Olive. I’m sure it was on my bucket list at some point, but I don’t really want to sleep on the beach tonight.”

“Mele Kalikimaka” plays quietly overhead as we enter the hotel. Holiday festivity lingers post–New Years: massive Christmas trees flank the entrance to the lobby, their branches dripping with twinkling lights and the weight of hundreds of red and gold ornaments. Gauzy garlands and more ornaments hang from the ceiling, wrap around columns, and sit in baskets and bowls decorating every flat surface. Water from a giant fountain splashes into a pool below and the scents of plumeria and chlorine intermingle in the humid air.

We’re greeted almost immediately. My stomach twists and my smile is too bright as a beautiful Polynesian woman takes Ami’s ID and Ethan’s credit card.

She enters the name and smiles. “Congratulations on winning the sweepstakes.”

“I love sweepstakes!” I say, too brightly, and Ethan elbows me in the side.

And then, her eyes linger on Ami’s photo a moment before slowly blinking up to me.

“I’ve put on a little weight,” I blurt.

Because there is no good response to this, she gives me a polite smile and begins entering the information.

I don’t know why I feel compelled to continue, but I do. “I lost my job this fall, and it’s been one interview after another.” I can feel Ethan tensing at my side, the casual hand on my lower back clutching at my shirt until his grip must resemble a bird of prey trying to put a struggling field mouse out of its misery. “I tend to bake when I’m stressed, which is why I look a little different in the photo. The photo of me. But I did get a job. Today, actually, if you can believe it. Not that it’s unbelievable or anything. The job or the wedding.”

When I finally come up for air, both the woman and Ethan are just staring at me.

Smiling tightly, she slides a folder filled with various maps and itineraries across the counter. “It looks like we have you in our honeymoon suite.”

My brain trips on the phrase honeymoon suite and fills with images of the room Lois and Clark Kent share in Superman II: the pink fabrics, the heart-shaped tub, the giant bed.

“The romance package is all-inclusive,” she continues, “and you can choose from a number of amenities, including candlelit dinners in the Molokini Garden, a couple’s massage on the spa balcony at sunset, turn-down service with rose petals and champagne—”

Ethan and I exchange a brief look.

“We’re really more the outdoorsy types,” I cut in. “Are there any activities available that are a little more rugged and a lot less . . . naked?”

Cue the awkward pause.

She clears her throat. “You can replace a more comprehensive list in your room. Take a look, and we can schedule anything you like.”

I thank her and chance a peek over at Ethan, who is now gazing at me lovingly—which means he’s planning the nonbuffet menu for my funeral reception, after he’s murdered me and hidden my body.

With a final swipe of our room keys to activate them, she hands them to Ethan and smiles warmly. “You’re on the top floor. Elevators are around that corner there. I’ll have your bags sent up immediately.”

“Thank you,” he manages easily, without spilling the details of the past year of his life.

But I’m pleased to see him falter in his smooth footsteps as she calls out after us: “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas. Enjoy your honeymoon.”