The Unhoneymooners(64)

“My fridge was empty,” he tells me. “Figured yours was, too, and it was only a matter of time before you came to my door because you were so lonely.”

I shove a mouthful of noodles in my mouth and speak around them: “Yeah, that sounds like me.”

“So needy,” he agrees, laughing.

I watch him tuck into the Mongolian beef and give myself a few quiet seconds to stare at the face I’ve missed for the past hour. “I like that you just showed up,” I tell him.

“Good.” He chews and swallows. “I was pretty sure you would, but there was a twenty percent chance you’d be like, ‘Get the hell out of my apartment, I need to do a fancy bath tonight.’ ”

“Oh, I definitely want a fancy bath.”

“But after the food and sex.”

I nod. “Right.”

“I’ll snoop around your apartment while you’re doing that. I’m not a bath guy.”

This makes me laugh. “Do you think this feels so easy because we hated each other first?” I ask.

He shrugs, digging into the container for a giant piece of beef.

“We’re a week in,” I say, “and I’m pantsless and eating greasy food in front of you.”

“I mean, I saw you in that bridesmaid dress. Everything else is an improvement.”

“I take it back,” I tell him. “I still hate you.”

Ethan comes over, bends and kisses my nose. “Sure.”

The mood shifts. So many times I’ve gone from uneasy to angry with him, but now it’s from happy to heated. He slides the food onto the counter behind me, cupping my face.

When he’s only an inch away, I whisper, “I just realized you and I shared a container of food and it didn’t gross you out.”

He kisses me and then rolls his eyes, moving his mouth to my cheek, my jaw, my neck. “I told you, I don’t mind sharing. It’s”—kiss—“about”—kiss—“buffets. And. I. Was. Right.”

“Well, I’m forever grateful that you’re such a weirdo.”

Ethan nods, kissing my jaw. “That was the best honeymoon I’ve ever been on.”

I pull his mouth back to mine and then hop up on him, relieved that he anticipates he’ll need to catch me, and lift my chin toward the bedroom. “That way.”

? ? ?

ONCE ETHAN AND I DISCOVER that we live only two miles apart, you’d think we’d find a way to alternate between apartments at night. You’d be wrong. Clearly I am terrible at compromise, because from Wednesday night when we return home, to Monday morning when I begin my new job, Ethan spends every night at my place.

He doesn’t leave things here (except a toothbrush), but he does learn that I have to hit my alarm four times before getting out of bed to go to the gym, that I don’t use my favorite spoon for anything as menial as stirring coffee, that my family can and will show up at the most inopportune moment, and that I require him to turn on the television or play some music every time I use the restroom.

Because I am a lady, obviously.

But with this familiarity comes the awareness of how fast everything is moving. By the time we’re closing in on two weeks together—which in the grand scheme of life is nothing—it feels to me like Ethan has been my boyfriend since the moment I met him at the State Fair years ago.

Things are easy, and fun, and effortless. This isn’t how new relationships are supposed to be: they are supposed to be stressful, and exhausting, and uncertain.

The morning before I go to work at Hamilton Biosciences for the first time is not the time to be having an existential crisis about moving too fast with my new boyfriend, but my brain didn’t get the memo.

In a new suit, cute-but-comfortable heels, and with my hair blow-dried to a silky sheet down my back, I look over at Ethan at my small dining room table. “You haven’t said anything about how I look this morning.”

“I said it with my eyes when you stepped out of the bedroom, you just weren’t looking.” He takes a bite of toast and speaks around it. “You look beautiful, and professional, and intelligent.” Pausing, to swallow, he adds, “But I also like the island-scrappy version of you.”

I scrape some butter across my toast, then set the knife down with a clatter. “Do you think we’re moving too fast?”

Ethan sips his coffee, blue eyes now focused on the scrolling news on his phone. He’s not even fazed by this question. “Probably.”

“Does that worry you?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

He looks back up at me. “Do you want me to stay at my place tonight?”

“God no,” I say, in a complete knee-jerk response. He smiles, smug, and looks back down. “But maybe?” I say. “Should you?”

“I don’t think there are rules to this.”

I gulp my scalding coffee and then roar in pain. “Ow!” I stare at him, placid as ever, back to being nose-deep in the Washington Post mobile app. “Why are you not freaking out a little?”

“Because I’m not starting a new job today and looking for reasons to explain my stress about it.” He puts his phone down and folds his arms on the table. “You’re going to be great, you know.”