The Unhoneymooners

Cue the awkward pause.

She clears her throat. “You can find a more comprehensive list in your room. Take a look, and we can schedule anything you like.”

I thank her and chance a peek over at Ethan, who is now gazing at me lovingly—which means he’s planning the nonbuffet menu for my funeral reception, after he’s murdered me and hidden my body.

With a final swipe of our room keys to activate them, she hands them to Ethan and smiles warmly. “You’re on the top floor. Elevators are around that corner there. I’ll have your bags sent up immediately.”

“Thank you,” he manages easily, without spilling the details of the past year of his life.

But I’m pleased to see him falter in his smooth footsteps as she calls out after us: “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas. Enjoy your honeymoon.”

chapter five

The lock chimes and the double doors swing open. My breath catches in my throat. Never in my life have I stayed in a suite, let alone one this opulent. I pour one out for Ami’s dream honeymoon and try not to feel grateful that she’s back in St. Paul suffering so that I can be here. But it’s hard; objectively this has turned out very well for me.

Well, mostly. I look up at Ethan, who gestures for me to lead us inside. Ahead of us is an absurdly spacious living room, with a couch, love seat, two chairs, and low glass coffee table on a fluffy white rug. The table is topped with a beautiful violet orchid in a woven basket, a complicated remote that looks like it probably operates a bionic housekeeper, and a bucket with a bottle of champagne and two flutes that have Mr. and Mrs. etched in the glass.

I meet Ethan’s eyes only long enough for both of our instinctive sneers to take root.

Just to the left of the living room is a small dining nook, with a table, two brass candlesticks, and a tiki-themed bar cart covered in all manner of ornate cocktail glasses. I mentally gulp down about four margaritas and get an anticipatory buzz from all the upcoming free booze I’m about to enjoy.

But at the far end is the true beauty of the room: a wall of glass doors that open to a balcony overlooking the crashing Maui surf. I gasp, sliding them to the side and stepping out into the warm January breeze. The temperature—so balmy, so not Minnesota—shocks me into a surreal awareness: I’m in Maui, in a dream suite, on an all-inclusive trip. I’ve never been to Hawaii. I’ve never done anything dreamlike, period. I start to dance but only realize I’m doing it when Ethan steps out onto the balcony and dumps an enormous bucket of water on my joy by clearing his throat and squinting out across the waves.

He looks like he’s thinking, Eh. I’ve seen better.

“This view is amazing,” I say, almost confrontationally.

Slowly blinking over to me, he says, “As is your propensity to overshare.”

“I already told you I’m not a good liar. I got nervous when she was looking at Ami’s ID, okay?”

He holds his hands up in sarcastic surrender. With a scowl, I escape Mr. Buzzkill and head back inside. Just to the immediate right of the entry, there is a small kitchen I completely bypassed on my way to the balcony. Past the kitchen is a hallway that leads to a small bathroom, and, just past it, the opulent master bedroom. I step inside and see there’s another huge bathroom here with a giant tub big enough for two. I turn to face the gigantic bed. I want to roll in it. I want to take off my clothes and slip into the silky—

I feel the tires come to a screeching halt inside my brain.

But . . . how? How have we come this far without discussing the logistics of sleeping arrangements? Did we both truly assume that the honeymoon suite would have two bedrooms? Without a doubt, we both would happily die on the Not Sharing a Bed with You hill, but how do we decide who gets the only bedroom? Obviously, I think I should—but knowing Ethan, he probably thinks he’ll take the bed and I’ll happily build my little troll fort under the dining table.

I step out of the bedroom just as Ethan is closing the wide double doors, and then we are sealed into this awkward moment of unprepared cohabitation. We turn in unison to gaze at our suitcases.

“Wow,” I say.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“It’s really nice.”

Ethan coughs. A clock ticks somewhere in the room, too loud in the awkward silence.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

“It is.” He reaches up, scratching the back of his neck. Ocean waves crash in the background. “And, obviously you’re the woman. You should take the bedroom.”

Some of those words are the ones I want to hear, and some of them are just terrible. I tilt my head, scowling. “I don’t get the bedroom because I’m a woman. I get the room because my sister won it.”

He gives a douchey little wince-shrug and says, “I mean, if we’re going by those standards, then I should get the room, since Ami got it partly using Dane’s Hilton status.”