The Unhoneymooners

Ethan nods and gives me what I’ve come to know is a fake smile. “I’m fine.”

“Good, because I was about to flip the table over the way she was staring at you with sad dog eyes.”

He lifts his head. “She what?”

I don’t like how immediately this perked him up. I want to be honest with him, but my words come out forced. “Just—she seemed to want to make eye contact with you.”

“I mean, we made eye contact. She asked to meet us for drinks . . .”

“Yeah, no. She wanted to meet you for drinks.”

Ethan very deliberately tries to look cool about this and does a very bad job at it. He’s fighting a gloating smile.

And I get it. Who hasn’t wanted to wave their shiny new relationship in the face of the person who dumped them? Even the best among us aren’t above that kind of pettiness. And yet, heat rushes to my face. I’m not just wary in this moment, I’m humiliated. A very obvious vacation screw. At the very least, dude, put away your boner for your ex for a good six hours after having sex with someone else.

I stop myself.

This is exactly what I do. I assume the worst. Needing a break, I stand and drop my napkin on the table. “I’m going to head up and shower. Think I want to do some shopping around the hotel shops for souvenirs.”

He stands, too, more out of surprise than courtesy, I think. “Okay. I could—”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll catch up with you later.”

He doesn’t say anything else, and when I look back near the exit, his expression is hidden from me: he’s back in his seat, staring down at his meal.

• • •

RETAIL THERAPY IS REAL AND glorious. I’m able to noodle around the hotel shops and find a few thank-you gifts for Ami, some souvenirs for my parents, and I even buy a T-shirt for Dane. He may be a jerkface, but he did miss his honeymoon.

Although I can lose myself in the mental blankness of perusing overpriced island tchotchkes, in the background, the low hum of irritation with Ethan remains, and is accompanied by the throbbing baseline of stress over whether we made a terrible mistake by sleeping together. It’s possible we did, and if so, we’ve just made the remaining five days here exponentially more awkward than they would be if we still hated each other.

This day has been emotionally draining: waking up with the memory of a kiss, a fight with Ethan, the realization about Dane, reconciliation and sex, and then the predictable daily Sophie run-in that wedged a whole boatload of uncertainty between us. This day has lasted four years.

My first go-to whenever I’m upset has always been my sister. I pull out my phone and focus on the swaying palm trees overhead in its reflection. I want to ask if she’s okay. I want to ask if Dane is around, to see what he’s been doing, and with who. I really want her advice about Ethan, but know that I can’t get into any of that without explaining all the details that led up to it first.

I can’t do that over the phone. I certainly can’t do it over text with her. So, needing some anchor to home, I text Diego instead.

What’s the latest in the frozen tundra?

I had a date last night.

Oooh, was it good?

He reached forward to retrieve a piece of food from my teeth without warning.

So . . . no, then?

I’m guessing you and Ethan haven’t murdered each other yet?

Close, but no.

Now is definitely not the time to break the news that Ethan and I did The Deed, and Diego is definitely not the one to tell—I’ll lose all aspects of message control.

Well I’m sure you’re managing to somehow suffer through a dream vacation.

No, it’s amazing. Even I can’t complain. How is Ami?

Emaciated, bored, married to a bro.