The Unhoneymooners

Dane waves this off. “Eh, with you, it’s a safe bet. You hate everyone.”

This tilts inside me, ringing untrue. For the life of me, I can’t think of a single person I hate right now. Except maybe myself, for lying to Mr. Hamilton and ending up in this place, where I’m not sure I’ll be able to pay my rent in a month . . . again.

Ethan puts his hand over mine, a silent Let it go. And truly, with Dane right now—or ever—arguing hardly seems worth it.

“Where’s Ami?” I ask, and Dane shrugs, peeking back over his shoulder at the door. She’s fifteen minutes late, and it’s disorienting. My sister is the prompt one; Dane is the late one and he’s already flagging down the bartender for a second beer.

“So, was this the job offer you got in the airport?” Dane asks once she’s gone.

I nod.

“Was it, like, your dream job?”

“No,” I say, “but I knew I’d be good at it.” I lift the toothpick and swirl the olive in my martini glass. “The best part? I was fired because I saw my new boss in Maui, and we lied to him about being married.”

A laugh bursts out of Dane’s mouth before he can contain it. He seems to realize I’m being sincere. “Wait. Seriously?”

“Yes, and the wife, Molly, really loved Ethan and invited him to the spouses club and all of that stuff. I think Mr. Hamilton felt uncomfortable trusting me knowing that I’d completely lied my face off for an entire meal with him, and I can’t say I blame him.”

Dane looks like he has more laughs in him but is wisely keeping them contained. “Why didn’t you just tell him you were taking your sister’s vacation?”

“That, Dane, is the question of the hour.”

He lets out a long, low whistle.

“We can talk about anything else, by the way,” I say. “Please.”

Dane deftly changes the topic to himself, his workday, how much better he’s feeling. How he’s gone down a pants size. He has some pretty entertaining stories about explosive diarrhea in public restrooms, but for the most part it just feels like the Dane Show.

The moment Dane pauses to toss a few peanuts in his mouth, Ethan excuses himself to use the men’s room, and Dane waves to the bartender for a third beer. Once she leaves again, he turns back to me. “It’s wild how much you and Ami look alike,” he says.

“Identical, they say.” I pick up a straw wrapper and roll it into a tight spiral, feeling oddly uncomfortable sitting here with just Dane. What’s odd is how I used to see the family resemblance in Ethan and Dane, but in this moment, they look nothing alike at all. Is it because I know Ethan intimately now, or is it because he is a good human and his brother seems rotten from the inside?

It’s especially uncomfortable because he’s still looking at me. Even though I’m not meeting his eyes, I can feel his focus on the side of my face. “I bet Ethan told you all kinds of stories.”

And oh. My mind is immediately buzzing. Is he talking about what I think he’s talking about?

“About himself?” I deflect.

“About all of us, the whole fam.”

Dane and Ethan’s parents are two of the most milquetoast people I’ve ever met in my life—the epitome of Minnesota nice, but also exceedingly dull—so I think both Dane and I know that Ethan wouldn’t share many adventures about the whole fam. Is it my eternal skeptical filter here that’s making me think he’s talking about the brother trips being Dane’s ideas and, of course, all of his pre-­engagement girlfriends?

I look at him over the lip of my martini glass. I am so conflicted. I told Ethan—and myself—that I would let this one go. That Ami is a smart woman and knows what she’s getting into. That I am always the buzzkill pessimist.

Dane gets one last freebie, and that’s it.

“We all have stories, Dane,” I tell him evenly. “You and Ethan have yours. Ami and I have ours. We all have them.”

He pops a couple of peanuts into his mouth and grins at me as he chews, mouth open, like he’s just outsmarted me. As irritating as he’s being, I can tell he’s genuinely relieved. If it were anyone else smiling at me like this, I’d feel honored to be so clearly welcomed into the inner circle with just a shift in an expression. But with Dane, it makes me feel slimy, like I’m not supporting my sister by supporting her husband, like I’m betraying her.

“So you like my big brother, huh?” he asks.

The husky quiet of his voice makes me uneasy. “He’s all right, I guess,” I joke.

“He’s pretty great,” he says, and then adds, “even if he isn’t me.”

“I mean,” I say, forcing a dorky grin, “who is? Am I right?”