naked under a robe—and then I see when he registers that his brain is on vacation and he doesn’t hug his employees, either, but we’re committed now and come together in an awkward side hug that ensures our robes don’t gape anywhere.
“If this isn’t a small world,” he says once he’s pulled away. “Recharging the batteries before starting your new adventure at Hamilton? That’s exactly what I like to see. Can’t take care of others if you don’t take care of yourself first.”
“Exactly.” My nerves have dumped buckets of adrenaline into my veins; going from Zen to New Boss Alert is jarring. I pull the tie on my robe a little tighter. “And I want to thank you again for the opportunity. I am beyond excited to be joining the team.”
Mr. Hamilton waves me off. “The minute we spoke I knew you’d be a great fit. Your dedication to Butake was commendable. I always say that Hamilton is nothing without the good people working there. Honesty, integrity, loyalty—those are our hallmarks.”
I nod; I like Mr. Hamilton—he has an impeccable reputation in the biosciences field and is known for being an incredibly involved and hands-on CEO—but I can’t help but note that this line is an almost exact replica of the one he gave me as we shook hands at the end of the interview. Now that I’ve lied to about twenty people on the hotel’s staff, hearing it here feels more ominous than inspiring.
The sound of quickened footsteps can be heard on the other side of the door before a panicked Kelly bursts through. “Mrs. Thomas.”
My stomach drops.
“Oh, thank God you’re still here. You left your wedding ring in the treatment room.” She offers an outstretched hand and places the simple band in my palm.
I let out a deranged silent scream inside my cranium while I manage to give her a muted thanks.
“ ‘Mrs. Thomas?’ ” Hamilton prompts.
The therapist looks between us, obviously confused.
“You mean Torres,” he says.
“No . . .” She blinks down to a clipboard and then back to us. “This is Mrs. Thomas. Unless there’s been some mistake . . . ? ”
I realize there are two things I can do here:
1. I could admit that I had to take my sister’s honeymoon because she got sick and am pretending to be married to a guy named Ethan Thomas so we can snag this sweet honeymoon package, or
2. I could lie my face off and tell them that I just got married and—silly me—I’m not used to my new name yet.
In either case, I am a liar. Option one leaves me with my integrity. However, with option two I won’t disappoint my new boss (especially given that half my interview was focused on building a workforce with “a strong moral compass” and people who “put honesty and integrity above everything else”), and won’t end up sleeping on the beach, hungry and unemployed, with only a giant spa and hotel bill to use as shelter.
I know there’s an obvious right choice here, but I do not make it.
“Oh yeah. Just got married.”
Oh God. Why? Why does my mouth do this? That was honestly the worst choice. Because now, when we return home, I’m going to have to pretend to be married whenever I run into Mr. Hamilton—which could be daily—or fess up to getting fake divorced immediately after the fake wedding.
Gah.
His smile is so big it lifts the mustache. The therapist is relieved the weird moment of tension is gone and excuses herself with a smile. Still beaming, Mr. Hamilton reaches out, shaking my hand. “Well, now, that is some wonderful news. Where was the wedding?”
At least here I can be truthful: “At the Hilton, downtown St. Paul.”
“My gosh,” he says, shaking his head, “just starting out. What a blessing.” He leans in and winks. “My Molly and I are here celebrating our thirtieth anniversary, can you believe it?”
I make my eyes round, like it’s just wild that this white-haired man has been married for so long, and fumble through some noises about that being amazing and exciting and you must just be . . . so happy.
And then he takes out a metaphorical anvil and knocks me into the floor: “Why don’t you two join us for dinner?”
Me and Ethan, sitting beside each other at a table, having to . . . touch, and smile, and pretend to love each other? I stifle a chortle.
“Oh, we couldn’t impose. You two probably never get away together.”