The Unhoneymooners

“Is he home?”

“Work.” She straightens, taking a deep breath and pulling herself together. “He’ll be home around seven.”

She turns and leads me inside. I love their house—it’s so open and bright, and I’m grateful that Ami has such a strong decorating sense because I assume if it was left up to Dane, the decor would be a lot of Vikings purple, dart boards, and maybe some hipster leather couches and a craft cocktail cart that he’d never use.

Ami moves to the kitchen, pouring us each a big glass of wine.

I laugh when she hands mine to me. “Oh, so it’s that kind of night.”

She nods, smiling even though I can tell there’s nothing happy happening in her body right now. “You have no idea.”

I still feel like I have to tiptoe around the topic, but I can’t help but ask, “Did you take his phone last night? What’s the latest?”

“Yeah. I took his phone.” Ami takes a long drink and then looks at me over the rim of her glass. “I’ll tell you all about it later.” She tilts her head, indicating that I should follow her into the family room, where she’s already got our plates of lasagna set up on two TV trays.

“Well, this looks comfy,” I tell her.

She curtsies, flops down onto the couch, and hits play on The Big Sick. We missed it in the theater and kept meaning to watch it, so there’s a sweet little ache that rises in my throat knowing that she waited to see it with me.

The lasagna is perfect, the movie is wonderful, and I almost forget that Dane lives here. But then an hour into the movie, the front door opens. Ami’s entire demeanor shifts. She sits up, hands on her thighs, and takes a deep breath.

“You okay?” I whisper. Am I here for moral support while she confronts her husband? I can’t decide whether that will be fantastic or excruciating or both.

I hear Dane drop his keys on the counter, shuffle through the mail, and then call out, “Hey, babe.”

“Hey, honey,” she calls back, brightly, falsely, and it is so incongruous with the bleak way she looks at me.

My stomach drops in a weird burst of anticipatory stress, and then Dane is there in the doorway. He sounds surprised and displeased. “Oh. Hey, Olive.”

I don’t bother turning around. “Go to hell, Dane.”

Ami chokes on her wine and then looks at me, eyes shining with amusement and tension. “Honey, there’s lasagna in the oven if you want some.”

I can feel him still looking at the back of my head—I know he is—but he just stands behind me for a few more seconds before saying quietly, “Okay, I’ll grab some and leave you two to it.”

“Thanks, hon!” Ami calls out.

She glances at her watch and then reaches for the remote, turning the volume down. “I’m so nervous, I’m nauseated.”

“Ami,” I say, leaning in, “what’s going on?”

“I texted them,” she says, and my jaw drops. “I’m screaming inside.” I see it, too—the tightness around her eyes, the way I can tell she’s holding back tears. “I had to do it this way.”

“Do what exactly, Ami?” I ask.

But before she can answer, the doorbell rings.

Ami’s attention shoots over my shoulder, toward the door leading to the kitchen, and we listen as Dane walks across the tile entryway to answer it. Slowly, so slowly I can see she’s shaking, Ami stands.

“Come on,” she says quietly to me, and then she calls out to Dane with a calm clarity I can’t believe, “Who’s at the door?”

I follow Ami out just as Dane is frantically trying to guide a woman back outside, and my blood pressure drops.

Did she text the women as Dane, and invite them here?

“Who is it, honey?” Ami repeats, innocently.

The woman pushes past Dane. “Who’s that?”