The Unhoneymooners(56)

Although I can lose myself in the mental blankness of perusing overpriced island tchotchkes, in the background, the low hum of irritation with Ethan remains, and is accompanied by the throbbing baseline of stress over whether we made a terrible mistake by sleeping together. It’s possible we did, and if so, we’ve just made the remaining five days here exponentially more awkward than they would be if we still hated each other.

This day has been emotionally draining: waking up with the memory of a kiss, a fight with Ethan, the realization about Dane, reconciliation and sex, and then the predictable daily Sophie run-in that wedged a whole boatload of uncertainty between us. This day has lasted four years.

My first go-to whenever I’m upset has always been my sister. I pull out my phone and focus on the swaying palm trees overhead in its reflection. I want to ask if she’s okay. I want to ask if Dane is around, to see what he’s been doing, and with who. I really want her advice about Ethan, but know that I can’t get into any of that without explaining all the details that led up to it first.

I can’t do that over the phone. I certainly can’t do it over text with her. So, needing some anchor to home, I text Diego instead.

What’s the latest in the frozen tundra?

I had a date last night.

Oooh, was it good?

He reached forward to retrieve a piece of food from my teeth without warning.

So . . . no, then?

I’m guessing you and Ethan haven’t murdered each other yet?

Close, but no.

Now is definitely not the time to break the news that Ethan and I did The Deed, and Diego is definitely not the one to tell—I’ll lose all aspects of message control.

Well I’m sure you’re managing to somehow suffer through a dream vacation.

No, it’s amazing. Even I can’t complain. How is Ami?

Emaciated, bored, married to a bro.

And mom/dad?

Rumor has it your dad brought her flowers and she pulled off every petal and used them to spell PUTA in the snow.

Wow. That’s. Wow.

So, all is the same here.

I sigh. That’s exactly what I worried about.

OK. I’ll see you in a few days.

Miss you, mami.

Miss you, too.

I return to the room with my bags, expecting—maybe hoping—that Ethan is out so that I can use the calm of my post-shopping brain to figure out how I’m going to handle him.

But of course he’s there, showered, dressed, and sitting on the balcony with a book. He hears me come in, and stands, stepping inside.

“Hey.”

Just a glance at him and I’m remembering what happened only a few hours ago, and how he looked down at me, eyes heavy, mouth slack with pleasure. I drop the bags onto a chair in the living room and busy myself by digging through them to pretend to look for something. “Hey,” I say, faux-distracted.

“Did you want to grab dinner?” he asks.

My stomach rumbles but I lie: “Um . . . not super hungry.”

“Oh. I was just waiting to see—” He cuts the words short, rubbing his chin with mild aggravation.

My response to this is completely unrelated, but it’s what my brain decides to throw out into the room: “I thought you might be having drinks with Sophie.”

He has the nerve to look confused. “I . . . no?”

“You could have gone to dinner without me, you know.” I don’t have anything to do with my hands, so I aggressively roll my plastic shopping bag closed and shove it deeper on the chair. “We don’t have to eat every meal together.”

“What if I wanted to go with you?” he asks, studying me, clearly vexed. “Would that break your new, confusing rules?”

I bark out a laugh. “Rules? What are rules?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You sleep with me and then have an emotional brain fart with me in front of your ex. I would say that’s breaking a pretty big rule.”

He frowns immediately. “Wait. This is about Sophie? Is this another cheese curd misreading of the situation?”

“No, Ethan, it isn’t. I don’t give a crap about Sophie. This is about me. You were more focused on her reaction to you than you were on what I was feeling in the moment. I don’t often put myself in situations where I’m a rebound or a distraction, and so you can probably understand that it was awkward for me to see her, too. But you had zero awareness of it. And obviously that’s to be expected if you don’t have feelings for me, but . . .” I trail off lamely. “Anyway. It’s not about Sophie.”

Ethan pauses, mouth open like he wants to speak but isn’t sure what to say. Finally, he manages, “What makes you think I don’t have feelings for you?”

It’s my turn to hesitate. “You didn’t say you did.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t, either.”

I am tempted to continue this ridiculousness just to be a brat, but someone has to be an adult here. “Please don’t pretend you don’t understand why I’m pissed.”

“Olive, we’ve barely had a conversation since we had sex. What do you have to be pissed about?”

“You were totally freaking out at lunch!”

“You’re freaking out now!”

I realize that he’s not denying anything I’ve said. “Of course I’m going to be annoyed watching you quietly soak up Sophie’s jealousy after you just had sex with me.”