The Unhoneymooners(82)

“He didn’t hurt me.” Ami stands to refill her glass of water. “He hurt you, and I’m sure he wants to own that, too, but that’s between the two of you, and you have to answer his calls first.”

“I don’t have to do anything where Ethan Thomas is concerned.”

Ami’s silence leaves my words to echo back to me, and I realize how they sound. So unforgiving but . . . familiar. I haven’t felt like that version of myself in so long, and I don’t like it.

“Well,” I amend, “tell me how dinner goes, and I’ll decide if he deserves a phone call.”

? ? ?

FROM WHAT I CAN TELL, Ami and Ethan had a great time at dinner. He showed her photos from our Maui trip, ate a sufficient amount of the blame for Dane’s past behavior, and generally charmed her senseless.

“Yeah, he’s really good at being charming over dinner,” I tell her, aggressively unloading the dishwasher. “Remember the Hamiltons in Maui?”

“He told me about that,” Ami says, and laughs. “Something about being invited to a club where they look at labia in mirrors.” She drinks from her wineglass. “I didn’t ask for clarification. He misses you.”

I try to pretend like this doesn’t absolutely thrill me, but I’m sure my sister sees straight through that nonsense.

“Do you miss him?” she asks.

“Yes.” There’s no purpose in lying. “A lot. But I opened my heart to him, and he pinched it.” I close the dishwasher and lean against the counter to face her. “I’m not sure if I’m the kind of person who can open back up again.”

“I think you are.”

“But if I’m not,” I say, “then I think that means I’m smart, right?”

Ami smiles at me, but it’s her new, restrained smile and it wrecks me a little. Dane killed something in her, some optimistic, innocent light, and it makes me want to scream. And then the irony hits me: I don’t want to let Ethan make me cynical again. I like my new optimistic and innocent light.

“I want you to know I’m proud of you,” she says. “I see all the changes you’re making.”

My life feels like mine again, but I didn’t know I needed her to acknowledge it. I take her hand, giving it a little squeeze. “Thank you.”

“We’re both growing up. Holding some people accountable for their choices, letting other people make amends for theirs . . .” She lets the sentence trail off and gives me a little grin. Very subtle, Ami.

“Wouldn’t it be weird for you if Ethan and I got back together?” I ask.

She shakes her head and quickly swallows another sip of wine before saying, “No, actually, it would make me feel like everything that happened in the past three years happened for a reason.” Ami blinks away, almost like she doesn’t want to admit this next part but can’t help herself. “I’m always going to want there to be a reason for it.”

I know now that it’s a waste of my time looking for reasons, or fate, or luck. But I’ve definitely come to embrace choices in the past month or so, and I’m going to have to figure out which one I’ll make where Ethan is concerned—do I forgive him, or do I walk away?

? ? ?

THE NIGHT THAT A CHOICE is put directly in front of me, the unexpected and terrible happens: I am happily working a dinner shift when Charlie and Molly Hamilton are seated in my section.

I can’t blame the hostess, Shellie, because how would she know that this is perhaps the most awkward dining party she could give me? But the moment I approach the table and they look up, we all fall into a corpse-level silence.

“Oh,” I say. “Hi.”

Mr. Hamilton does a double take over the top of his menu. “Olive?”

I enjoy waitressing so much more than I ever expected, but I admit I don’t enjoy the tiny wince that snags his shoulder when he registers that I’m not just coming up to his table to say hello, but I am in fact here to serve his dinner. This is going to be awkward for all of us.

“Mr. Hamilton, Mrs. Hamilton, good to see you.” I smile, nodding to each of them. Inside, I am screaming like a woman being chased with a chainsaw in a horror movie. “I’m supposed to be serving you this evening, but I expect that we would all feel more comfortable if you were put in someone else’s section?”

Mr. Hamilton gives me an easy, generous grin. “I’m okay with this if you are, Olive.”

Ah, but there’s the kicker: I am not.

Molly looks at him, brows pulled low. “I think she’s trying to say she would be more comfortable not having to serve the man who fired her on her first day of work.”

My eyes go wide. Is Molly Hamilton on Team Olive here?

I smile again at her, then him, struggling to keep a bit of professional distance. “It will just take a moment to get you set up. We’ve got a beautiful table right by the window for you.”

With pinpricks all down my neck—and Molly’s hissed “Are you pleased with yourself now, Charles? You are still trying to fill that position!” echoing in my ear—I hustle over to Shellie, tell her the situation, and she quickly shuffles a few reservations around.

They’re moved, given a free appetizer, and I exhale an enormous breath. Dodged that bullet!

But then I return to my section to find that Ethan Thomas is seated at the table in their place.