The Unhoneymooners

“I bought a banana just before a job interview, and it was part of my change.”

“And?”

“And not only did I get the job, but when I went to have some coins rolled the machine spit the penny out because it thought it was a fake. I’ve carried it around ever since.”

“Don’t you worry you’re going to drop it?”

“That’s the whole point of luck, isn’t it?” he says through gritted teeth. “You have to trust that it’s not fleeting.”

“Are you trusting that right now?”

He tries to relax, shaking out his hands. If I’m reading his expression correctly, he’s regretting telling me anything. But the turbulence intensifies, and all six-plus feet of him stiffen again.

“You know,” I say, “you don’t strike me as someone who’d be afraid of flying.”

He takes a series of deep breaths. “I’m not.”

This doesn’t really require any sort of rebuttal. The way I have to pry his fingers from my side of the armrest communicates it plainly.

Ethan relents. “It’s not my favorite.”

I think of the weekends I spent with Ami because Dane was off on some wild adventure with his brother, all the arguments those trips caused. “Aren’t you supposed to be like, Bear Grylls or something?”

He looks at me, frowning. “Who?”

“The trip to New Zealand. The river rafting, death-defying bro trip? Surfing in Nicaragua? You fly for fun all the time.”

He rests his head back against the seat and closes his eyes again, ignoring me.

As the squeaky wheels of the beverage cart make their way down the aisle, Ethan crowds into my space again, flagging down the flight attendant. “Can I get a scotch and soda?” He glances at me and amends his order. “Two, actually.”

I wave him off. “I don’t like scotch.”

He blinks. “I know.”

“Actually, we don’t have scotch,” she says.

“A gin and tonic?”

She winces.

His shoulders slump. “A beer?”

“That, I have.” She reaches into a drawer and hands him two cans of generic-looking beer. “That’s twenty-two dollars.”

“Twenty-two American dollars?”

“We also have Coke products. They’re free.” He moves to hand back the cans. “But if you’d like ice that’s two dollars.”

“Wait,” I say, and reach into my bag.

“You’re not buying my beer, Olive.”

“You’re right, I’m not.” I pull out two coupons and hand them over. “Ami is.”

“Of course she is.”

The flight attendant continues on down the aisle.