The Unhoneymooners(55)

“Catching a late lunch?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says, and then puts on a plastic expression of marital happiness. If I recognize how forced it is, Sophie—his live-in girlfriend of nearly two years—has got to see through it, too. “Spent the day in.”

“In bed,” I add, too loudly.

Ethan looks at me like I am eternally hopeless. He exhales through his nose in a long, patient stream. For once, I’m not even lying and I still sound like a maniac.

“That was our day yesterday.” Sophie’s eyes slide to Billy. “Fun, right?”

This entire thing is so weird. Who talks to each other like this?

Billy nods, but isn’t looking at us—who can blame him? He doesn’t want to hang out with us any more than we want them here. But his reaction is clearly not enough for her because a cloudy frown sweeps across her face. She glances at Ethan, hungrily, and then away again, like the loneliest woman on the planet. I wonder how he’d feel if he looked up and noticed it—the flat-out yearning in her expression, the Did I make a mistake? expression—but he’s back to obliviously poking at his noodles.

“So,” she says, staring directly at Ethan. It looks like she’s sending him messages with the power of her mind.

They are not penetrating.

Finally, he glances up with a forced blank expression. “Hm?”

“Maybe we can get drinks later. Talk?” She’s clearly asking him, singular, not us, plural. And I assume Billy is also not included in the invitation.

I want to ask her, Now you want to talk? You didn’t when he was yours!

But I refrain. An awkward weight descends, and I look up at Billy to see whether he feels it, too, but he’s pulled his phone out of his pocket and is scrolling through Instagram.

“I’m not . . .” Ethan looks over at me, brows drawn. “I mean, maybe?”

I give him an Are you fucking serious? face, but he misses it.

“Text me?” she asks softly.

He lets out a garbled sound of agreement, and I want to snap a picture of her expression and his to show him later and make him explain what the hell is happening. Does Sophie regret breaking up with Ethan? Or is it only bothering her because he’s “married” and not pining over her anymore?

This dynamic is fascinating . . . and just so, so weird. There’s no other way to explain it.

I let myself imagine this bubbly person in front of me leaving a note that says simply, I don’t think we should get married. Sorry.

And, in fact, I can totally see it. She’s candy-sweet at the surface and probably terrible at communicating negative emotions. Meanwhile, I’m like a sour patch kid on the surface, but will happily detail all the ways I think the world is going to hell.

After lingering for a few more stilted beats, Sophie tugs at Billy’s arm, and they make their way toward the exit. Ethan lets out a long breath aimed at his plate.

“Seriously, why do they insist on socializing with us?” I ask.

He takes his grumpy feelings out on a piece of chicken, harshly stabbing it. “No idea.”

“I think drinks tonight would be a bad idea.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything.

I turn to watch Sophie’s high and firm retreating backside, then look back to Ethan. “You okay?”

I mean, we had sex like an hour ago. Even with his ubiquitous ex wandering around the hotel, the correct answer here is Yes, right?

Ethan nods and gives me what I’ve come to know is a fake smile. “I’m fine.”

“Good, because I was about to flip the table over the way she was staring at you with sad dog eyes.”

He lifts his head. “She what?”

I don’t like how immediately this perked him up. I want to be honest with him, but my words come out forced. “Just—she seemed to want to make eye contact with you.”

“I mean, we made eye contact. She asked to meet us for drinks . . .”

“Yeah, no. She wanted to meet you for drinks.”

Ethan very deliberately tries to look cool about this and does a very bad job at it. He’s fighting a gloating smile.

And I get it. Who hasn’t wanted to wave their shiny new relationship in the face of the person who dumped them? Even the best among us aren’t above that kind of pettiness. And yet, heat rushes to my face. I’m not just wary in this moment, I’m humiliated. A very obvious vacation screw. At the very least, dude, put away your boner for your ex for a good six hours after having sex with someone else.

I stop myself.

This is exactly what I do. I assume the worst. Needing a break, I stand and drop my napkin on the table. “I’m going to head up and shower. Think I want to do some shopping around the hotel shops for souvenirs.”

He stands, too, more out of surprise than courtesy, I think. “Okay. I could—”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll catch up with you later.”

He doesn’t say anything else, and when I look back near the exit, his expression is hidden from me: he’s back in his seat, staring down at his meal.

? ? ?

RETAIL THERAPY IS REAL AND glorious. I’m able to noodle around the hotel shops and find a few thank-you gifts for Ami, some souvenirs for my parents, and I even buy a T-shirt for Dane. He may be a jerkface, but he did miss his honeymoon.