The Unhoneymooners(15)

“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.”