The Unhoneymooners(27)

“Do you usually do it at night?” he asks.

I spin around. “Uh, pardon?”

Ethan sighs the deep, weary sigh of a long-suffering ghoul. “Shower, Oscar.”

“Oh.” I press my pajamas to my chest. “Yes. I shower at night.”

“Would you like to go first?”

“Since I have the bedroom,” I say, “why don’t you go first?” Lest this sound too generous, I add, “Then you can get out of my space.”

“Such a caretaker, you.”

He steps around me to the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a solid click. Even with the bedroom’s balcony doors shut, I can hear the sound of the tide coming in, the waves crashing against the shore. But it’s not so loud that I don’t also hear the rustle of fabric as Ethan undresses and drops his clothes onto the bathroom floor, his footsteps as he walks barefoot across the tile, or the soft groan he makes when he moves under the warm spray of water.

Flustered, I jog immediately to the balcony door and step outside until he’s finished. Honestly, I’d only want to listen to that if he was drowning in there.

? ? ?

I’M SURE ETHAN WOULD LOVE to hear it was a long night for me and I barely slept, but my bed is fucking amazing. Sorry about the couch, dude.

In fact, I’m so rested and rejuvenated that I wake up convinced this running-into-people-from-our-real-life thing isn’t a catastrophe. It’s fine! We’re fine. Sophie and Billy don’t want to see us any more than we want to see them and are probably staying all the way on the other side of the resort anyway. And the Hamiltons are checking out today. We are in the clear.

As luck would have it, we run into the Hamiltons on our way to breakfast. Apparently the friendship was deeply solidified last night: they give us each a tight embrace . . . as well as their personal cell numbers.

“I was serious about that spouses club,” Molly tells Ethan conspiratorially. “We have fun, if you know what I mean.” She winks. “Give us a call when you’re home.”

They turn back to the reception desk, and we wave as we weave through the crowd toward the restaurant. Ethan leans down, muttering in a shaky voice, “I really don’t know what she means by fun.”

“Could be innocent, like a bunch of wives drinking merlot and complaining about their husbands,” I tell him. “Or it could be Fried Green Tomatoes complicated.”

“ ‘Fried Green Tomatoes complicated’?”

I nod somberly. “A group of women looking at their labia with hand mirrors.”

Ethan looks like he is literally fighting the urge to sprint down the curved driveway and into the ocean. “I think you’re enjoying this too much.”

“God, I am the worst, right? Enjoying Maui?”

We come to a stop in front of the hostess stand, give our room number, and follow the woman to a small booth toward the back, near the buffet.

I laugh. “A buffet, honey! Your fave.”

Once we’re seated, Ethan—running on slightly less sleep than I am—glares at the menu, clearly working to burn a hole in it. I wander over to the buffet and fill my plate with giant hunks of tropical fruit and all manner of grilled meats. When I return, Ethan has apparently ordered à la carte and is cradling a large cup of black coffee in his enormous hands. He doesn’t even acknowledge my return.

“Hi.”

He grunts.

“All that food up there, and you ordered something off the menu?”

Sighing, he says, “I don’t like buffets, Olive, Jesus Christ. After what we witnessed two days ago, I’d think you’d agree with me.”

I take a bite of pineapple and am pleased to see him cringe when I speak with my mouth full: “I just like hassling you.”

“I can tell.”

God, he is such a grouch in the morning. “Seriously, though, you think I’m enjoying this vacation too much? Do you even hear yourself?”

He puts the mug down carefully, like it’s taking every ounce of control he has to not use it for violent means. “We did well last night,” he says calmly, “but things just got a whole lot more complicated. My ex-girlfriend—with whom I share a number of mutual friends—thinks we are married. The wife of your new boss wants to have labia-hand-mirror time with me.”

“That was just one possibility,” I remind him. “Could be that Molly’s version of fun is a Tupperware party.”

“You don’t think this is complicated?”

I shrug at him, turning the blame back where it’s deserved. “To be honest, you were the one who had to go and be ridiculously charming last night.”

He picks his mug back up and blows across the surface. “Because you asked me to be.”

“I wanted you to be sociopath charming,” I say. “Too charming, so that afterwards people look back and think, ‘You know, I didn’t get it at the time, but he was always too perfect.’ That sort of charming. Not, like, self-deprecating and cute.”

Half of Ethan’s mouth turns up, and I know what’s coming before it launches: “You think I’m cute.”

“In a gross way.”

This makes him smile wider. “Cute in a gross way. Okay.”

The waiter brings his food, and when I look up, I see that Ethan’s smile has fallen and he’s staring over my shoulder, his face ashen. With a frown, he blinks down to his plate.