The Unhoneymooners

But Ethan will not be deterred. “I know your problem, Odessa.”

“What’s my problem, Ezra?”

“You’re only dating guys who were born in the 1940s.”

Ignoring him, I press on. “Anyway, I’d met Frank at work. Things were going well, we had a good, sexy vibe ifyouknowwhatImean,” I say, and I expect Ethan to laugh at this, but he doesn’t. “Anyway, he saw me freaking out about a presentation one day—I was nervous because I didn’t feel I’d had enough time with the material to get comfortable—and I swear, seeing me like that totally turned him off. We stayed together another few months, but it wasn’t the same.” I shrug. “Maybe it was all in my head, but, yeah. That insecurity just made it worse.”

“Where did you meet Frank again?”

“Butake.” As soon as I say it, I realize it was a setup.

“Bukkake!” he sings, and I push his water toward him.

“It’s Butake, you dumbass, why do you always do that?”

“Because it’s funny. Didn’t they

run the company name through some test audiences or—or—what’s it called?”

“Focus groups?”

He snaps his fingers together. “That. Like, Urban Dictionary is right there! It’s like naming a kid Richard.” He leans in, whispering like he’s imparting some great wisdom. “He’s gonna be called Dick. It’s just a matter of time.”

I register that I’m staring at him with overt fondness when he reaches forward, touching a careful fingertip to my chin.

“You’re looking at me like you like me,” he says.

“It’s the mai tai goggles you’re wearing. I hate you as much as ever.”

Ethan lifts a skeptical brow. “Really?”

“Yep.” Nope.

He exhales a little growl and polishes off his sixth mai tai. “I thought I rubbed your butt pretty well, well enough to at least be shifted up into the strongly dislike category.” The waiter, Dan, returns, grinning down at sweet, pliable Ethan. “One more?”

“No more,” I quickly answer, and Ethan protests with a drunken Psssshhhhhh. Dan waggles his eyebrows at me, like I might have a great time with this one tonight.

Look, Dan, I’m just hoping I can get him to the car.

I can, in fact, but it takes both me and Dan to keep him on task. Drunk Ethan is not only happy, he is exceedingly friendly, and by the time the three of us get out the door, he’s received a phone number from a cute redhead at the bar, bought a drink for a man wearing a Vikings T-shirt, and high-fived about forty strangers.

He babbles sweetly on the drive home—about his childhood dog, Lucy; about how much he loves to kayak in the Boundary Waters and hasn’t been in too long; and about whether I’ve ever had dill pickle popcorn (the answer is hell yes)—and by the time we get back to the hotel, he’s still drunk off his ass, but slightly more collected. We make it through the lobby with only a few more stops so Ethan can make new friends with strangers.

He stops to give a hug to one of the valet attendants who helped us check in. I give an apologetic smile over Ethan’s shoulder and check his name tag: Chris.

“Looks like the honeymooners are having a good time,” Chris says.

“Maybe too good.” I lean toward escape—I mean, the path to the elevator. “Just taking this one upstairs.”

Ethan lifts a finger and beckons Chris closer. “Do you want to know a secret?”

Uhhhh . . .

Amused, Chris leans in. “Sure?”

“I like her.”

“I would hope so,” Chris whispers back. “She’s your wife.”