The Unhoneymooners

She grins at the phone, taking it from me. “This is cute.”

“It is.” I take a deep breath, steadying myself.

“Caption this photo,” she says, oblivious to my internal mayhem, my mental preparation for one of the biggest moments of my life.

“Um . . .” I say, a little thrown but thinking as I try to play along.

And then she bursts out laughing. “Here’s one: ‘She said yes!’ ” She leans into me, cracking up. “Oh, my god, this is a good picture of us but this is exactly the kind of vacation photos people in Minnesota put on their mantel in shell-encrusted frames to remind themselves of the sunshine when we are in the deepest pit of winter.” She hands the phone back to me. “How many Minnesotans do you think get engaged on the beach? Eighty percent? Ninety?” Shaking her head, she grins at me. “What total—”

And then she stops, her gaze moving over my face. It feels like a tube of cotton has lodged itself in my throat. Olive claps a hand over her mouth as realization draws her eyes comically wide. “Oh. Shit. Oh, Ethan. Oh, shit.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“You weren’t, were you? Am I that big an asshole?”

“I—but no. I don’t—it isn’t. Don’t worry.”

She gapes at me, eyes wide with panic as it becomes clear her sarcasm wasn’t that far off the mark. “I am such a dick that I’ve broken your brain.”

I don’t know whether to be amused by this destroyed attempt at proposing or bummed. It did seem like the perfect moment; I felt like we were on the same page and then—nope. Not even a little.

“Ethan, I’m so—”

“Ollie, it’s okay. You don’t know what I was going to say. You think you do, but you don’t.” Based off her unsure look, I add, “Trust me. It’s all good.”

I lean in, kissing her, trying to get her to let go with a gentle bite to her lower lip, a growl that has her softening beside me, opening her mouth to let me feel her. It escalates until we’re both a little out of breath, wanting to take it to the next place where clothes come off and bodies come together, but although it’s getting dark, it isn’t that dark or that empty out here on the beach.

When I pull back and smile at her like everything is fine, I can sense the skepticism lingering in her posture, how she holds herself carefully like she doesn’t want to make a wrong move. Even if Olive thinks I was going to propose, she still hasn’t said anything like I would say yes, you know or I was waiting for you to ask, so maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t manage to get the words out. I know that her view of marriage has been marred by her parents and by Ami and Dane, but I also like to think that I’ve changed her views on long-term commitment. I love her wildly. I want this—want to marry her—but I have to accept the reality that it isn’t what she wants, and we can live just as happily together forever without that ceremony binding us.

God, my brain is a blender all of a sudden.

She lays down in the sand, pulling me gently back so that she can curl on her side, her head to my chest. “I love you,” she says simply.

“I love you, too.”

“Whatever you were going to say—”

“Sweetheart, let it go.”

She laughs, kissing my neck. “Okay. Fine.”

We need a new subject, something to help us limp away from this crash.

“You really like Lucas, don’t you?” I ask. It had taken Ami almost a year to start dating again after the divorce. Dane held out hope that she’d take him back and that they could work things out, but I didn’t blame her for not wanting to try. My brother didn’t just lose Ami’s trust in all this; he lost mine, too. Things between us have slowly gotten better, but we still have a long way to go.

“I do.

He’s good for her. I’m glad you introduced them.”

I didn’t think Olive would ever welcome another guy into her sister’s life. She was protective at first, but at dinner one night, Lucas—doctor, adventure seeker, and widowed father of the most adorable four-year-old I’ve ever seen—won her over.

“Ethan?” she says quietly, pressing small kisses up my neck and along my jaw.

“Hmm?”

She holds her breath and then lets it out in a shaky exhale. “I saw the ugliest dress the other day.”

I wait for her to continue, admittedly confused, but finally have to prompt her. “Trust me, I’m riveted. Tell me more.”