The Unhoneymooners

Besides, I have become a big fan of those hands.

We rent a lime-green Mustang convertible because we are idiot tourists. I’m sure Ethan expects an argument about who should drive, but I gleefully toss him the keys. Who doesn’t want to be chauffeured around Maui?

Once we’re on the northwestern coast, Ethan opens the speed as much as he can—people just don’t drive fast on the island. He puts on a Muse playlist, and I veto it and put on the Shins. He grumbles, and at a stoplight, chooses the Editors.

“I’m not in the mood for this,” I say.

“I’m driving.”

“I don’t care.”

With a laugh, he gestures for me to pick something. I put on Death Cab and he grins over at me—it brightens the sun. With their chill sound blowing in the air around us, I close my eyes, face to the wind, my loose braid trailing behind me.

For the first time in days, I am completely, no-hesitation, no-doubting-it happy.

“I am the smartest woman alive for suggesting this,” I say.

“I’d like to argue for the sake of arguing,” he says, “but I can’t.”

He smiles over at me, and my heart does an uneasy somersault beneath my breastbone because I realize I’m wrong: for the first time in months—maybe years—I’m happy. And with Ethan, of all people.

Being an expert at self-sabotage, I revert back to old habits. “That must be hard for you.”

Ethan laughs. “It is fun to argue with you.”

It’s not a jab, I realize—it’s a compliment.

“Stop that.”

He glances at me and back to the road. “Stop what?”

“Being nice.” And God, when he looks at me again to see whether I’m joking, I can’t help grinning. Ethan Thomas is doing something weird to my emotions.

“I did promise to be irritating and smug, didn’t I?”

“You did,” I agree, “so get to it.”

“You know, for someone who hates me, you sure moaned a lot when I touched you,” he says.

“Shut up.”

He grins over at me and then back at the road. “ ‘Press together. Don’t spread.’ ”

“Will you. Shut up.”

He laughs this wide-open laugh; it’s a sound I’ve never heard, and it’s an Ethan I’ve never seen: head tilted back, eyes crinkled in joy. He looks as happy as I feel.

And miraculously, we spend hours together without arguing once. My mom texts a few times, Ami, too, but I ignore them both. I’m honestly having one of the best days I can remember. Real life can wait.

We explore the rugged shoreline, find several breath­taking blowholes, and stop to eat roadside tacos near a coral-strewn bay of crystalline aquamarine water. I have nearly forty pictures of Ethan on my phone now—and sadly none of them can be used as blackmail, because he looks great in every single one.

He reaches over, pointing to my phone screen when I scroll to a photo of him. He’s grinning so wide I could count his teeth, and the wind is whipping hard enough to press his shirt tight to his chest. Behind him, the Nakalele blowhole majestically erupts nearly a hundred feet into the air. “You should frame that one for your new office,” he says.

I look over my shoulder at him, unsure whether he’s kidding. An inspection of his expression doesn’t clear things up for me.

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” I tilt my head. “It’s oddly obscene.”

“It was windy!” he protests, clearly thinking I’m referring to the fact that every contour of his chest is visible beneath the blue T-shirt.