The Unhoneymooners(25)

He turns his face to me. “Big favor: I need you to go along with me.” We’re pressed so close I can feel his breath on my lips. I smell the chocolate he had for dessert, and a piney hint of his deodorant.

I try to hate it.

“You need my help?” I ask, and if it sounds a little breathy I’m sure it’s because I ate too much at dinner and am a little winded from the walk.

“Yes.”

My smile literally unfurls. Suddenly, I am the Grinch wearing a Santa hat. “It’s gonna cost you.”

He looks pissed for about two seconds before panic wipes it away. “The room is yours.”

The footsteps get closer, and then a blond head is invading my space. “Oh my God. It is you!” she says, bypassing me completely to wrap Ethan in a hug.

“Sophie?” he says, feigning surprise. “I . . . what are you doing here?”

Detangling from the embrace, Ethan glances over at me, eyes wide.

She turns to beckon to the man standing just off to the side, and I take the opportunity to mouth—because oh my God—This is Simba?!

He nods, clearly miserable.

Holy awkward! This is way worse than running into your new boss while naked under a robe!

“Billy,” Sophie says proudly, pulling the guy forward, and I gape because he looks exactly like Norman Reedus, but somehow greasier. “This is Ethan. The guy I told you about. Ethan, this is Billy. My fiancé.”

Even in the dark I see the way Ethan pales. “Fiancé,’ ” he repeats. The word lands with a heavy thud, and it’s infinitely more awkward with Ethan described only as the guy I told you about. Weren’t Ethan and Sophie together for a couple of years?

It doesn’t take a genius to put the pieces together: Ethan’s reaction at seeing her across the path, the way he shut down when I asked about a girlfriend on the plane. A fresh breakup, and she’s already engaged? Ouch.

But it’s as if someone has pushed a button somewhere on his back, because robot Ethan is back and suddenly in motion, stepping forward to offer Billy a confident hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Moving to his side, I loop a casual arm through his. “Hi. I’m Olive.”

“Right, sorry,” he says. “Olive, this is Sophie Sharp. Sophie, this is Olive Torres.” He pauses and everything goes tight between us in anticipation of what comes next. I have the sense of being on the back of a motorcycle, staring over the lip of the canyon, not knowing if he’s going to rev the throttle and send us over the edge. He does: “My wife.”

Sophie’s nostrils flare and for a fraction of a second, she looks positively homicidal. But then the look is gone, and she gives him an easy smile. “Wow! Wife! Amazing!”

The problem with lying about relationships is that humans are fickle, fickle creatures. For all I know Sophie could be the one who ended things, but seeing that Ethan is no longer on the market will make him seem forbidden—and therefore more alluring. I have no idea what happened to end their relationship—nor do I know if he even wants her back—but if he does, I wonder if he realizes the irony that being married has just made it more likely she’ll want him back, too.

She glances at me and then him. “When did this happen?” I’m sure we can all hear how it’s an effort for her to keep her voice from being razor sharp, which just makes it that much more uncomfortable (and awesome).

“Yesterday!” I wiggle my ring finger, and the plain gold band winks in the torchlight.

She looks back at him. “I can’t believe I didn’t hear anything!”

“I mean,” Ethan says, laughing sharply, “we haven’t exactly spoken, Soph.”

And oh. Tension. This is so, so awkward (and juicy). My curiosity is officially piqued.

She gives a coy little pout. “Still! You didn’t tell me. Wow. Ethan—married.”

It’s impossible to miss the way his mouth hardens, his jaw flexes. “Thanks,” he says. “It happened pretty fast.”

“Feels like only moments ago we decided to really do this!” I agree with a hearty smile up at him.

He presses a hard, fast kiss to my cheek, and I force myself not to jerk away like I’ve been slapped with a dead lizard.

“And you’re engaged,” he says, giving the world’s stiffest thumbs-up. “Look at us . . . moving on.”

Sophie is small, thin, and wearing a pretty silk tank top, skinny jeans, and sky-high heels. Her tan comes from a bottle, and I’m guessing her hair color does, too, but that’s really all I can find wrong with her. I try to imagine her in twenty years—vaguely leathery, long red nails curled around a Diet Coke can—but for now she’s still beautiful in a semi-unattainable way that makes me feel dumpy in comparison. It’s easy to imagine her and Ethan side by side on a Christmas card, wrapped in J.Crew cardigans and leaning against their broad stone fireplace.

“Maybe we can go to dinner or something,” she says, and it’s so half-hearted that I actually bark out a laugh before Ethan reaches for my hand and squeezes it.

“Yes,” I say, trying to cover. “Dinner. We have it every day.”

Ethan looks down at me, and I realize he’s not glaring; he’s fighting a laugh.

Billy pipes up with a subject change, similarly cool on the dinner idea. “How long are you here?”