“Well, I’m going to have to do, because my sister is barely conscious.”
“Then why are you leaving her?”
“For your information, I was headed downstairs to look for Gatorade,” I say. “Why aren’t you with Dane?”
“Because he hasn’t left the toilet in two hours.”
Gross. “What do you want?”
“I need the info for the honeymoon. Dane told me to call and see if they can get it moved.”
“They can’t,” I tell him. “I already called.”
“Okay.” He exhales long and slow, clawing a hand through hair that is thick and luscious for no good reason. “In that case, I told him I’d go.”
I actually bark out a laugh. “Wow, that is so generous of you.”
“What? He offered it to me.”
I straighten to my full height. “Unfortunately, you’re not her designated guest.”
“She only had to give his last name. Incidentally, it’s the same as mine.”
Damn it. “Well . . . Ami offered it to me, too.” I’m not planning on taking the trip, but I’ll be damned if Ethan is getting it.
He blinks to the side and then back to me. I’ve seen Ethan Thomas blink those lashes and use that dangerously uneven smile to sweet-talk Tía María into bringing him freshly made tamales. I know he can charm when he wants. Clearly he doesn’t want right now, because his tone comes out flat: “Olive, I have vacation time I need to take.”
And now the fire is rising in me. Why does he think he deserves this? Did he have a seventy-four-item wedding to-do list on fancy stationery? No, he did not. And come to think of it, that speech of his was lukewarm. Bet he wrote it in the groom suite while he was chugging back a plastic pitcher of warm Budweiser.
“Well,” I say, “I’m unemployed against my will, so I think I probably need the vacation more than you do.”
The frown deepens. “That makes no sense.” He pauses. “Wait. You were laid off from Bukkake?”
I scowl at him. “It’s Butake, dumb-ass, and yes. I was laid off two months ago. I’m sure that gives you immeasurable thrill.”
“A little.”
“You are Voldemort.”
Ethan shrugs and then reaches up, scratching his jaw. “I suppose we could both go.”
I narrow my eyes and hope I don’t look like I am mentally diagramming his sentence, even though I am. It sounded like he suggested we go . . .
“On their honeymoon?” I ask incredulously.
He nods.
“Together?”
He nods again.
“Are you high?”
“Not presently.”
“Ethan, we can barely stand to sit next to each other at an hourlong meal.”
“From what I gather,” he says, “they won a suite. It’ll be huge. We won’t even really have to see each other. This vacation is packed: zip-lining, snorkeling, hikes, surfing. Come on. We can orbit around each other for ten days without committing a violent felony.”
From inside the bridal suite, Ami groans out a low, gravelly “Gooooo, Olive.”
I turn to her. “But—it’s Ethan.”
“Shit,” Diego mumbles, “if I can take this garbage can with me, I’ll go.”
In my peripheral vision, Ami lifts a sallow arm, waving it. “Ethan’s not that bad.”
Isn’t he, though? I look back at him, sizing him up. Too tall, too fit, too classically pretty. Never friendly, never trustworthy, never any fun. He puts on an innocent smile—innocent on the surface: a flash of teeth, a dimple, but in his eyes, it’s all black-souled.
But then I think of Maui: crashing surf, pineapple, cocktails, and sunshine. Oh, sunshine. A glance out the window shows only blackness, but I know the cold that lies out there. I know the car-grime-yellowed snow lining the streets. I know the days that are so cold my wet hair would freeze if I didn’t completely dry it before leaving the apartment. I know that by the time April comes and it still isn’t consistently warm, I will be hunched over and resigned, Skeksis-like.
“Whether you’re coming or not,” he says, cutting into my rapid spiral down the mental drainpipe, “I’m going to Maui.” He leans in. “And I’m going to have the best fucking time of my life.”
I look back over my shoulder at Ami, who nods encouragingly—albeit slowly—and a fire ignites in my chest at the thought of being here, surrounded by snow, and the smell of vomit, and the bleak landscape of unemployment while Ethan is lying poolside with a cocktail in his hand.
“Fine,” I tell him, and then lean forward to press a finger into his chest. “I’m taking Ami’s spot. But you keep to your space, and I’ll keep to mine.”