The Unhoneymooners

He processes this for a beat before glancing at Kasey, then back to me and saying quietly, “Well, regardless . . . welcome to Hamilton,” before ducking out.

I want to drop my head to the desk and then bang it a few (dozen) times. I want to let out a long string of curse words. I want to get up and follow him down the hall. Surely he’ll understand the situation once I lay it out for him?

I look back at Kasey, who is regarding me with a mixture of sympathy and confusion. I think she’s starting to realize that she didn’t really misunderstand what I’d said about a sick relative.

Not exactly the best way to start day one at a new job.

• • •

TWO HOURS LATER, AFTER I sign all the forms, after I meet the group that will be my medical affairs team (and genuinely liking all of them), Mr. Hamilton’s assistant, Joyce, calls me down to his office.

“Just a welcome, I assume!” my new manager, Tom, says cheerfully.

But I think I know better.

Mr. Hamilton lets out a low “Come on in” after I knock, and his expectant smile flattens marginally when he sees me. “Olive.”

“Hi,” I say, and my voice shakes.

He doesn’t say anything right away, confirming my assumption that this meeting is a chance for me to explain myself. “Look, Mr. Hamilton”—I don’t dare call him Charlie here—“about Maui.”

Put on your big girl pants and own it, Olive.

Mr. Hamilton puts his pen down, takes off his glasses, and leans back in his chair. Right now, he looks so different from the man I sat across from at dinner, who howled with laughter every time Ethan teased me. I’m sure he’s thinking about that meal, too, and how much Molly loved Ethan, how she invited him into her spouses group, how they were so genuinely happy for us, while we sat there and lied to their faces.

I gesture to the chair, silently asking if I may sit, and he waves me forward, sliding the arm of his glasses between his teeth.

“My twin sister, Ami, was married two weeks ago,” I tell him. “She married Ethan’s brother, Dane. They hosted a seafood buffet, and the entire wedding party—except for me and Ethan—fell ill with food poisoning. Ciguatera toxin,” I add, because he’s a scientist and maybe he knows these things.

He seems to, because his bushy eyebrows lift, and he lets out a quiet “Ah.”

“My sister, Ami . . . she wins everything. Raffles, sweepstakes,” I say, smiling wryly, “even coloring contests.”

At this, Mr. Hamilton’s mustache twitches under a grin.

“She won the honeymoon, too, but the rules were really strict. It was nontransferable, nonrefundable. The dates were set hard and fast.”

“I see.”

“So, Ethan and I went in their place.” I give him a wobbly smile. “Before that trip, we hated each other. Or, I hated him because I thought he hated me.” I wave this off. “Anyway, I am terrible at lying and really hate doing it. I kept almost explaining it to everyone I saw. And when the massage therapist called me Mrs. Thomas, and you asked if I’d gotten married, I panicked because I didn’t want to admit that I wasn’t Ami.” I fidget with a magnetic paperclip holder on his desk, unable to look at him. “But I didn’t want to lie to you, either. So, either I lie and tell you I’m committing fraud to steal a vacation, or I lie and tell you I’m married.”

“Pretending to be your sister to get a vacation doesn’t sound like such a horrible lie, Olive.”

“In hindsight—and I mean, immediate hindsight—I knew that, too. I don’t think the massage therapist would have reported me or anything, but I really didn’t want to be sent home. I panicked.” I finally look up at him, feeling the apology all the way to my breastbone. “I’m really sorry for lying to you. I admire you immensely, admire the foundation of this company and have been feeling sick over it for the past couple weeks.” Pausing, I say, “For what it’s worth—and at the risk of being unprofessional—I think that dinner with you was the reason I fell for Ethan on that trip.”

Mr. Hamilton sits forward to rest his elbows on his desk. “Well, I guess I’m reassured that it made you uncomfortable to lie,” he says. “And I appreciate your bravery in telling me.”

“Of course.”

He nods, and smiles, and I exhale for the first time all day, it seems. This has been weighing on me, making my stomach feel wavy for hours.

“The truth is,” he says, and slides his glasses back on, looking at me over the rims, “we enjoyed that dinner. Molly really loved your company, adored Ethan.”

I smile. “We had a great—”

“But you sat across the table for an entire meal and lied to me.”

Dread turns the surface of my skin cold. “I know. I—”