The Unhoneymooners

by Christina Lauren

  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 w
hy 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 find 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.”

  chapter five

  The lock chimes and the double doors swing open. My breath catches in my throat. Never in my life have I stayed in a suite, let alone one this opulent. I pour one out for Ami’s dream honeymoon and try not to feel grateful that she’s back in St. Paul suffering so that I can be here. But it’s hard; objectively this has turned out very well for me.