The Unhoneymooners

“You went downstairs to eat?” he asks. The follow-up Without me? is clearly implied.

His tone is dickish, but I forgive him. No one likes a pounding head.

Setting the food down on the table, I head into the kitchen to get him some coffee. “Yeah, I waited for you until about nine thirty, but my stomach was digesting itself.”

“Did Sophie see you there alone?”

This feels like being jerked to a standstill. I turn to look at him over my shoulder. “Um, what?”

“I just don’t want her to think that there’s trouble in our marriage.”

We spent all afternoon talking about how he’s better off without Sophie, he kissed me last night, and this morning he’s worried about what she thinks. Awesome. “You mean our fake marriage?” I say.

He rubs a hand across his forehead. “Yeah. Exactly.” Dropping his hand, he looks up at me. “So?”

My jaw tightens, and I feel the storm build in my chest. This is good. Anger is good. I can do angry at Ethan. It’s so much easier than feeling the tickling edges of smitten. “No, Ethan, your ex-girlfriend was not at breakfast. Neither was her fiancé, or any of the new friends you made in the lobby last night.”

“The what?” he asks.

“Never mind.” Obviously he doesn’t remember. Excellent. We can pretend the rest didn’t happen, either.

“Are you in a bad mood?” he asks, and a dry, sardonic laugh bursts out of me.

“Am I in

a bad mood? Is that a serious question?”

“You seem upset or something.”

“I seem—?” I take a deep breath, pulling myself to my full height. Do I seem upset? He kissed me last night, said sweet things implying that maybe he’d wanted to do that for a while, and then passed out. Now he’s grilling me about who might have seen me getting food alone in the hotel. I don’t think my reaction is overblown.

“I’m great.”

He mumbles something and then reaches for the fruit, opening the lid and peering in. “Was this from the—”

“No, Ethan, it’s not from the buffet. I ordered a freshly made fruit plate. I brought it up to spare us the twelve-dollar room service delivery charge.” My palm is itchy to smack him for the first time in two days, and it feels glorious.

He grunts out a “Thanks,” and then picks up a piece of mango with his fingers. He stares at it, and then bursts out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“Just remembering that girlfriend of Dane’s who had a mango tattoo on her ass.”

“What?”

He chews, and swallows before speaking. “Trinity. The one he was dating like two years ago?”

I frown; discomfort worms through me. “Couldn’t have been two years ago. He was with Ami three and a half years ago.”

He waves this away. “Yeah, but I mean before he and Ami were exclusive.”

At these words, I drop the sugar spoon I’m holding and it clatters dissonantly on the counter. Ami met Dane at a bar, and by her account, they went home that night, had sex, and never looked back. As far as I know, there was never a time they weren’t exclusive.

“How long was it again that they were seeing other people?” I ask, with as much control as possible.

Ethan pops a blackberry into his mouth. He’s not looking at my face now, which is probably good, because I’m sure I look like I’m ready to do a murder. “Like the first couple years they were together, right?”

Bending, I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to channel Professional Olive, who can keep her cool even when being challenged by condescending physicians. “Right. Right.” I can either freak out, or milk this moment for information. “They met at that bar but it wasn’t until . . . when did they decide to be exclusive again?”