The Unhoneymooners

“Hey guys!” Her voice is so high-pitched it’s like having someone blow a whistle next to your head.

I study Ethan from across the table, eternally curious how that relationship worked once upon a time: Ethan with his deep, warm-honey voice; Sophie with her cartoon mouse voice. Ethan with his watchful gaze; Sophie with her eyes that bounce all over a room, searching for the next interesting thing. He’s also so much bigger than she is. For a second I imagine him carrying her around the Twin Cities in a BabyBjörn, and have to swallow back a giant cackle.

We let out a flaccid “Hey,” in unison.

“Catching a late lunch?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says, and then puts on a plastic expression of marital happiness. If I recognize how forced it is, Sophie—his live-in girlfriend of nearly two years—has got to see through it, too. “Spent the day in.”

“In bed,” I add, too loudly.

Ethan looks at me like I am eternally hopeless. He exhales through his nose in a long, patient stream. For once, I’m not even lying and I still sound like a maniac.

“That was our day yesterday.” Sophie’s eyes slide to Billy. “Fun, right?”

This entire thing is so weird. Who talks to each other like this?

Billy nods, but isn’t looking at us—who can blame him? He doesn’t want to hang out with us any more than we want them here. But his reaction is clearly not enough for her because a cloudy frown sweeps across her face. She glances at Ethan, hungrily, and then away again, like the loneliest woman on the planet. I wonder how he’d feel if he looked up and noticed it—the flat-out yearning in her expression, the Did I make a mistake? expression—but he’s back to obliviously poking at his noodles.

“So,” she says, staring directly at Ethan. It looks like she’s sending him messages with the power of her mind.

They are not penetrating.

Finally, he glances up with a forced blank expression. “Hm?”

“Maybe we can get drinks later. Talk?” She’s clearly asking him, singular, not us, plural. And I assume Billy is also not included in the invitation.

I want to ask her, Now you want to talk? You didn’t when he was yours!

But I refrain. An awkward weight descends, and I look up at Billy to see whether he feels it, too, but he’s pulled his phone out of his pocket and is scrolling through Instagram.

“I’m not . . .” Ethan looks over at me, brows drawn. “I mean, maybe?”

I give him an Are you fucking serious? face, but he misses it.

/> “Text me?” she asks softly.

He lets out a garbled sound of agreement, and I want to snap a picture of her expression and his to show him later and make him explain what the hell is happening. Does Sophie regret breaking up with Ethan? Or is it only bothering her because he’s “married” and not pining over her anymore?

This dynamic is fascinating . . . and just so, so weird. There’s no other way to explain it.

I let myself imagine this bubbly person in front of me leaving a note that says simply, I don’t think we should get married. Sorry.

And, in fact, I can totally see it. She’s candy-sweet at the surface and probably terrible at communicating negative emotions. Meanwhile, I’m like a sour patch kid on the surface, but will happily detail all the ways I think the world is going to hell.

After lingering for a few more stilted beats, Sophie tugs at Billy’s arm, and they make their way toward the exit. Ethan lets out a long breath aimed at his plate.

“Seriously, why do they insist on socializing with us?” I ask.

He takes his grumpy feelings out on a piece of chicken, harshly stabbing it. “No idea.”

“I think drinks tonight would be a bad idea.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything.

I turn to watch Sophie’s high and firm retreating backside, then look back to Ethan. “You okay?”

I mean, we had sex like an hour ago. Even with his ubiquitous ex wandering around the hotel, the correct answer here is Yes, right?