The Unhoneymooners(48)

“A couple Tinder dates.” He drains the rest of his drink, and then notices my expression. “It’s not that bad.”

“I guess not. In my head, I just picture every dude on Tinder is expecting it to just be sex.”

He laughs. “A lot probably are. Probably a lot of women are, too. I’m certainly not expecting sex on the first date.”

“Or, what? The fifth?” I say, gesturing to the table, and then clap my mouth shut because HELLO, THIS IS NOT A DATE.

Thankfully, my idiocy coincides with the waiter coming by to take another drink order, so by the time Ethan turns back to me, he’s ready to move on.

And as it turns out, Ethan is a really cute, happy drunk. His cheeks turn pink, he’s got a permagrin, and even when we return to the topic of Sophie, he’s still giggling.

“She wasn’t very nice to me,” he says, and then laughs. “And I’m sure it made it worse that I stayed. Nothing is harder in a relationship than not respecting the person you’re with.” He leans his chin heavily into his hand. “I didn’t like myself with her. I was willing to try to be the guy she wanted rather than who I really am.”

“Examples, please.”

He laughs. “Okay, here’s one that might give you a sense of it: we had a couple’s photo shoot.”

“White shirts and denim with a fence backdrop?” I ask, wincing.

He laughs harder. “No, she wore white, I wore black. In front of an artfully dilapidated barn.” We both groan. “More importantly, though, we never fought. She hated fighting, so it was like we couldn’t even disagree.”

“Sounds just like me and you,” I say sarcastically, giving him a grin.

He laughs, and his smile lingers as he looks at me. “Yeah.” After a pause that seems to hang, heavy and expectant, he inhales deeply and says, “I’ve never been like that before.”

God, I relate to this more than I can say. “Honestly, I get that.”

“Do you?”

“Before Carl—” I say, and he snickers again at the name, “I dated this guy, Frank—”

“Frank?”

“We’d met at wor—”

But Ethan will not be deterred. “I know your problem, Odessa.”

“What’s my problem, Ezra?”

“You’re only dating guys who were born in the 1940s.”

Ignoring him, I press on. “Anyway, I’d met Frank at work. Things were going well, we had a good, sexy vibe ifyouknowwhatImean,” I say, and I expect Ethan to laugh at this, but he doesn’t. “Anyway, he saw me freaking out about a presentation one day—I was nervous because I didn’t feel I’d had enough time with the material to get comfortable—and I swear, seeing me like that totally turned him off. We stayed together another few months, but it wasn’t the same.” I shrug. “Maybe it was all in my head, but, yeah. That insecurity just made it worse.”

“Where did you meet Frank again?”

“Butake.” As soon as I say it, I realize it was a setup.

“Bukkake!” he sings, and I push his water toward him.

“It’s Butake, you dumbass, why do you always do that?”

“Because it’s funny. Didn’t they run the company name through some test audiences or—or—what’s it called?”

“Focus groups?”

He snaps his fingers together. “That. Like, Urban Dictionary is right there! It’s like naming a kid Richard.” He leans in, whispering like he’s imparting some great wisdom. “He’s gonna be called Dick. It’s just a matter of time.”

I register that I’m staring at him with overt fondness when he reaches forward, touching a careful fingertip to my chin.

“You’re looking at me like you like me,” he says.

“It’s the mai tai goggles you’re wearing. I hate you as much as ever.”

Ethan lifts a skeptical brow. “Really?”

“Yep.” Nope.

He exhales a little growl and polishes off his sixth mai tai. “I thought I rubbed your butt pretty well, well enough to at least be shifted up into the strongly dislike category.” The waiter, Dan, returns, grinning down at sweet, pliable Ethan. “One more?”

“No more,” I quickly answer, and Ethan protests with a drunken Psssshhhhhh. Dan waggles his eyebrows at me, like I might have a great time with this one tonight.

Look, Dan, I’m just hoping I can get him to the car.

I can, in fact, but it takes both me and Dan to keep him on task. Drunk Ethan is not only happy, he is exceedingly friendly, and by the time the three of us get out the door, he’s received a phone number from a cute redhead at the bar, bought a drink for a man wearing a Vikings T-shirt, and high-fived about forty strangers.

He babbles sweetly on the drive home—about his childhood dog, Lucy; about how much he loves to kayak in the Boundary Waters and hasn’t been in too long; and about whether I’ve ever had dill pickle popcorn (the answer is hell yes)—and by the time we get back to the hotel, he’s still drunk off his ass, but slightly more collected. We make it through the lobby with only a few more stops so Ethan can make new friends with strangers.

He stops to give a hug to one of the valet attendants who helped us check in. I give an apologetic smile over Ethan’s shoulder and check his name tag: Chris.