ETHAN'S ALARM GOES OFF AT four, and we startle awake, mumble into the
darkness, and roll in a naked, sheet-tangled tumble from bed and into our
layers of clothing. Although we are on a tropical island, Front Desk Carly
told Ethan the predawn temperatures at the peak of the mountain are
frequently below freezing.
Despite our best intentions for an early bedtime, the man kept me up for
several hours with his hands, and mouth, and a shockingly large vocabulary
of dirty words; it feels like a thick sex fog hovers in my brain even when he
turns on the lights in the living room. With teeth brushed and kisses given,
Ethan brews coffee and I pack a bag with water, fruit, and granola bars.
"Wanna hear my mountain-climbing story?" I ask.
"Is bad luck involved?"
"You know it."
"Let's hear it."
"Summer after sophomore year in college," I begin, "Ami, Jules, Diego,
and I took a trip to Yosemite because Jules was on a fitness kick and wanted
to climb Half Dome."
"Uh-oh."
"Yes!" I sing. "It's a terrible story. So, Ami and Jules were in great
shape, but Diego and I were, let's say, more marathon couch potatoes than
runners. Of course, the hike itself is insane and I thought I was going to die
at least fifty times—which has nothing to do with luck, just laziness—but
then we start the final vertical ascent up the subdome. No one told me to
watch out where I put my hands. I reached into a crevice to get a grip and
grabbed a rattlesnake."
"What!"
"Yeah, bit by a fucking rattlesnake, and fell like fifteen feet."
Ethan gapes at me. "What did you do?"
"Well, Diego wasn't going to climb that last stretch, so he was there
standing over me, acting like his plan was to pee on my hand. Thankfully
the ranger came over and had some antivenin, and it was okay."
"See?" Ethan says. "That's lucky."
"To be bitten? To fall?"
He laughs incredulously. "Lucky that they had the antivenin. You didn't
die on Half Dome."
I shrug, dropping a couple of bananas in the backpack. "I see what
you're saying."
I can feel him still watching me.
"You don't really believe this, though, right?" Off my look, he adds,
"That you have some sort of chronically bad luck?"
"Absolutely. I've already shared a couple of winners, but just to keep it
recent: I lost my job the day after my roommate moved out. In June, I got
some car repairs done and a ticket when a hit-and-run shoved my brandnew
car into a no-parking zone. And this summer an old woman fell asleep
on my shoulder on the bus, and I only realized she was dead, and not
actually asleep, after I'd missed my stop."
His eyes go wide.
"I'm kidding about that last one. I don't even take the bus."
Ethan bends, cupping his hands over his knees. "I don't know what I
would actually do if someone died on me."
"I think the odds are pretty slim." Even half-asleep, I grin as I pour our
coffee into two paper cups and slide one in front of Ethan.
Straightening, he says, "I guess I'm suggesting that you give the idea of
luck too much power."
"You mean how positivity breeds positivity? Please don't tell me you
think you're the first one to mention this to me. I realize part of it is
outlook, but honestly—it's luck, too."
"Okay, but . . . my lucky penny is just a coin. It doesn't have any great
power, it's not magic, it's just something I found before a bunch of
awesome things happened. So now I associate it with those awesome
things." He lifts his chin to me. "I had my penny the night we ran into
Sophie. Logically, if everything was about luck, that wouldn't have
happened."
"Unless my bad luck countered your good luck."
His arms come around my waist, and he pulls me into the heat of his
chest. I'm still so unaccustomed to the ease of his affection that thrill passes
in a shiver down my spine.
"You're a menace," he says into the top of my head.
"It's just how I'm built," I tell him. "Ami and I are like photo negatives."
"It's not a bad thing." He tilts my chin, kissing me once, slowly. "We're
not supposed to be carbon copies of our siblings . . . even when we are
outwardly identical."
I think about all this as we move into the hallway. I've spent my entire
life being compared to Ami; it's nice having someone like me for me.
But, of course, this awareness—that he likes me the way I am—trips the
following one, and once we're in the elevator and headed to the lobby, the
thought bursts out of me, unattended. "I guess I'm a pretty firm one-eighty
from Sophie, too."
I immediately want to sift the words out of the air and shove them back
into my face.
"I guess, yeah," he says.
I want him to add, "But not in a bad way," again, or even "I'm glad," but
he just grins down at me, waiting for me to spew some more nonsense.
I will not indulge him. I bite my lips closed and glare up at him: he
knows exactly what he's doing. What a monster.
Ethan continues to smile down at me. "Are you jealous?"
"Should I be?" I ask, and then immediately amend, "I mean, we're just
having a vacation fling, aren't we?"
He lets surprise slowly—skeptically—take over his features. "Oh, is that
all this is?"
The way this lands feels like a boulder rolling down my spine. We're
only a couple of days away from hate and into tenderness—it's way too
soon to be talking about this in any serious way.
Or is it? I mean, technically we're in-laws now. It's not like we can leave
the island and never see each other again; at some point we're going to have
to deal with what we're doing . . . and what the fallout will be.
We step out of the elevator, pass through the lobby, and, in the darkness,
get into a cab; I still haven't answered him. This is one I need to sit with for
a little bit, and Ethan is apparently fine with that because he doesn't prompt
me again.
What's amazing is that even at four thirty in the morning there is traffic
headed up through the national park to the crater's peak; there are vans with
bicycles, hiking groups, and couples like us—we're a sort of couple—
planning to lay down a towel and huddle together in the morning chill.
It takes an hour to get through the traffic and to the top, where we
scrabble up a series of rocks to the peak. Even though the sky is still mostly
dark, the view is breathtaking. There are clusters of people standing
huddled together in the cold or sitting on the ground with blankets, but it's
oddly quiet, like everyone is respectful enough to keep their voices down
when they're about to witness a 360-degree sunrise.
Ethan spreads out a couple of beach towels we borrowed from the hotel
and beckons me down. He guides me to sit between his long, outstretched
legs and pulls me back against his chest. I can't imagine he's very
comfortable, but I am in heaven, so I give in to it and just let my guard
down for a long, quiet stretch.
I wish I knew what was happening, both between us and inside my heart.
It feels like the organ itself has gotten bigger, like it's demanding to be seen
and heard, reminding me that I am a warm-blooded female with wants and
needs that go beyond the basics. Being with Ethan increasingly feels like
spoiling myself with a perfect new pair of shoes or an extravagant dinner
out. I just remain unconvinced that I deserve this daily . . . or that it can last.
It's obvious to me that we've both fallen into quiet reflection about us,
and I'm not at all surprised when he says, "I asked you something earlier."
"I know."
We're just having a vacation fling, aren't we?
Oh, is that all this is?
He goes quiet again; obviously he doesn't have to repeat what he said.
But I don't feel entirely sure where my head is on this particular issue. "I'm
. . . thinking."
"Think out loud," he says. "With me."
My heart does this tight, twisting maneuver at the way he so easily asks
me for what he needs and knows I can give him: transparency.
"We didn't even like each other a week ago," I remind him.
His mouth comes to a gentle landing on the side of my neck. "I think we
should chalk all that up to a silly misunderstanding. Would it help if I
treated you to cheese curds when we got home?"
"Yes."
"You'd promise to share them with me?" He kisses me again.
"Only if you ask very nicely."
At this point, I can only attribute my own pre-Maui feelings about Ethan
to being reactionary and defensive. When someone doesn't like us, it's
natural to not like them in return, right? But the memory that Dane told him
I was always angry does bring up something Ethan has been hesitant to
discuss . . .
I know I tend to be the pessimist to Ami's optimist, but I'm not angry.
I'm not sharp. I am cautious and wary. The fact that Dane told Ethan that—
and that Dane happened to be sleeping with other women when he said it—
makes me particularly wary of Dane.
"I don't think we can have this conversation without also exploring the
possibility that Dane wanted to keep us away from each other."
I feel the way he stiffens when I say this, but he doesn't move away or
let me go. "Why would he do that, though?"
"My theory?" I say. "He let Ami believe he was monogamous, and you
knew he wasn't. If you and I started talking, it would eventually slip out
that he was seeing other people. Just like it did, here."
Behind me, Ethan shrugs, and I know him well enough now to imagine
the expression he's making: unconvinced, but unconcerned. "It probably
just felt weird to him," he says. "The idea of his big brother dating his
girlfriend's twin sister."
"If I agreed to go out with you," I add.
"Are you telling me you wouldn't have?" he counters. "I saw the thirst in
your eyes, too, Olivia."
"I mean, you're not horrible to look at."
"Neither are you."
These words are spoken into the sensitive skin behind my ear; the
particular Olive-and-Ethan brand of compliment blows through me, soft
and seductive. Ethan's reaction to me at the wedding gave no indication he
thought anything other than that I was a short green satin troll. "I'm still
rewiring that aspect of things."
"I always assumed my attraction was obvious. I wanted to translate your
frowns and find out what your problem with me was and then bend you
over the back of my couch."
All of my internal organs turn to goo at his words. I work to remain
upright, letting my head fall back into the crook of his neck.
"You still haven't answered my question," he reminds me quietly.
I bite back a smile at his persistence. "Is this just a fling?"
"Yeah," he says. "I'm fine with a fling, I guess, but I want to know so I
can figure out how to handle it once we're home."
"You mean whether or not you'll tell Dane?" I ask carefully.
"I mean whether I'll need some time to get over you."
This corkscrews an ache through my heart. I turn my head so that I can
meet his kiss as he bends to deliver it and let the feeling of relief and hunger
wash over me. I try to imagine seeing Ethan at Ami and Dane's house,
keeping my distance, and not wanting to touch him like this.
I can't. Even in my imagination it's impossible.
"I'm not entirely done with whatever this is," I admit. "Even if it is a
fling, it doesn't feel—"
"Don't say it."
"—flung." I grin up at him and he groans.
"That was almost as bad as your 'on the cuff' line at the wedding."
"I knew that would hold a special place in your memory."
Ethan bares his teeth on my neck, growling.
"So, I guess what I'm saying is," I begin, and then take a deep breath
like I'm about to jump off a cliff into a pool of dark water, "if you wanted to
keep seeing each other once we're home, I wouldn't be totally opposed."
His mouth moves up my neck, sucking. His hand slides beneath my
jacket and shirt, coming to a warm stop over my breastbone. "Yeah?"
"What do you think?"
"I think I like it." He kisses along my jaw to my mouth. "I think this
means I get to do this even after our fake honeymoon is over."
I arch into his palm, urging it over with my own hand until he's cupping
my breast. But with a frustrated growl, Ethan pulls his fingers back down to
my stomach. "I wish we'd had this conversation back at the room."
"Me too." Because we definitely can't fool around now: the sun isn't
visible yet, but it's off the horizon, lighting the sky a million shades of
orange, red, purple, and blue.
"Did we just decide something?" he asks.
I squeeze my eyes closed, grinning. "I think so."
"Good. Because I'm sort of crazy about you."
Holding my breath, I quietly admit, "I'm crazy about you, too."
I know, if I turned back to look at his face, he'd be smiling. I feel it in
the way the band of his arms tightens around me.
We watch together as the sky continues to transform every few seconds,
an unreal canvas changing constantly in front of us. It makes me feel like a
little girl again, and instead of imagining a castle in the sky, I'm living in it;
truly the only thing we can see all around us is this dramatic, painted sky.
The gathered audience falls into a unified silence, and my own spell is
broken only when the sun is high and bright and the mass of bodies begins
to shift in preparation to leave. I don't want to leave. I want to sit right here,
leaning against Ethan, for eternity.
"Excuse me," Ethan says to a woman in a passing group. "Would you
mind taking a photo of me and my girlfriend?"
Okay . . . maybe it's time to run back to the hotel room.
chapter fourteen
"Someone explain the physics to me of my suitcase weighing
approximately fifty pounds more when I leave than it did when I arrived," I
say. "All I've added to it are a couple of T-shirts and a few small pieces of
souvenir jewelry."
Ethan comes over to the side of the bed, pressing a large hand down on
my bag and helping me zip it closed, with effort. "I think it's the weight of
your questionable decision to buy Dane an I Got Lei'd in Maui T-shirt."
"You don't think he'll appreciate my dark humor?" I ask. "I mean, my
dilemma really is whether I give it to him before or after we tell him we're
sleeping together."
Shrugging, he pulls the suitcase off the bed and looks over at me. "He'll
either laugh or give you the pouty silent treatment."
"Frankly, I could deal with either of those options."
I'm shoving things into my carry-on, so it takes me a few seconds to
realize that Ethan hasn't immediately shot something back at me.
"I'm kidding, Ethan."
"Are you?"
I've been able to push this out of my thoughts for the majority of this
trip, but reality is poking at our blissful vacation bubble much sooner than
I'd like. "Is Dane going to become a thing between us?"
Ethan sits on the edge of the mattress and pulls me between his knees. "I
said it before . . . It's clear you don't really like him, and he's my brother."
"Ethan, he's fine."
"Fine. He's also your brother-in-law."
I step back, frustrated. "My brother-in-law who was essentially cheating
on my sister for two years."
Ethan closes his eyes, sighing. "There is no way—"
"If he was seeing Trinity with the Mango Butt two years ago, then he
was definitely cheating on Ami."
He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. "You can't just go in like a
bull in a china shop and throw all this at Ami as soon as we get home."
"Have some faith in my ability to be subtle," I say, and when he fights a
smile, I add, "I did not choose that bridesmaid dress, for the record."
"But you did choose the red bikini."
"Are you complaining?" I ask, grinning.
"Not at all." His smile fades. "Look, I know you and Ami and your
entire family are close in a way that Dane and I aren't—sure, we travel
together, but we don't really talk about this kind of stuff. I don't know if it's
our place to get into this. We don't even know if it's true."
"But for argument's sake, how would you feel if it was, and he was lying
to Ami for years?"
Ethan stands, and I have to tilt my head to look up at him. My first
instinct is to think he's annoyed with me, but he isn't, I guess: he takes my
face in his hands and bends to kiss me. "I'd be disappointed, of course. I
just have a really hard time thinking he'd do that."
As usual, my fuse for the Dane conversation has reached its fiery end.
Things are already bittersweet today—I don't want to leave the hotel, but
I'm excited to see where things go between us back home—and bringing in
the stress of Ami and Dane isn't going to make anything easier.
I hook a finger under the waistband of his shorts, feeling the warm skin
of his navel, tugging him even closer to me. With a smile of understanding,
his mouth comes back over mine, urgent now, like we've both just become
hyperaware of the brutal end to this fairy tale. The way he's touching me
with such familiarity gives me as strong a rush as the sensation of his kiss. I
love how smooth and full his lips feel. I love how he spreads his hands
when he's touching me, like he's trying to feel as much of my skin as he
can. We are already dressed and ready to go, but I don't protest for a single
second when he roughly pulls my shirt over my head and reaches back to
unhook my bra.
We fall back onto the mattress; he's careful to not land directly on top of
me, but I've already grown semi-addicted to the sensation of his weight, to
the heat and solidity and sheer size of him. The clothes we're planning to
wear on the plane land in a pile beside the bed and he comes over me,
hovering on straight arms propped near my shoulders. Ethan's gaze roams
across every inch of my face.
"Hey, you," I say.
He grins. "Hey."
"Look at this. Somehow we ended up naked again."
A tanned shoulder lifts and drops. "I can see this being a regular
problem."
"Problem, perfection. Tomato, tomahto."
His flash of a laughing grin fades quickly, and the way his eyes search
my face looks like he's going to say something more. I wonder if he can
read my thoughts, how I'm silently begging him to not bring up Dane or
everything that could screw this up back home, and thankfully he doesn't.
He just carefully lowers over me, groaning quietly when my legs come up
along his sides.
He knows what I like already, I think, skirting my hands down his back
as he starts to move. He's been paying attention this entire time, hasn't he? I
wish I could go back in time and see him through these new eyes.
• • •
THRIFTY JET SEEMED HORRIFYINGLY LOW-BUDGET on the way here, but on the
flight home, the tight quarters are a convenient excuse to wrap my arm
around Ethan's and spend several hours huffing the lingering smell of the
ocean on his skin. Even he seems calmer on this flight: after being tense and
monosyllabic at takeoff, once we're in the air, he wraps a big hand around
my thigh and falls asleep resting his cheek against the crown of my head.
If, two weeks ago, someone had shown me a photograph of us right now,
I think I might have died of shock.
Would I have believed the look on my face—the giddy, sex-sated grin I
can't seem to wipe clean? Would I have trusted the calm, adoring way he
watches me? I haven't felt like this before—this type of intense, free-falling
happiness that doesn't carry with it any unease or uncertainty about me and
Ethan and what we're feeling. I've never adored someone with such heated
abandon, and something tells me he hasn't, either.
My uncertainty is all about what waits for us at home—specifically, what
sort of rift any drama between Dane and Ami will cause between us all.
So then I have to ask myself: Is it worth saying anything to my sister?
Should I let bygones be bygones? Should I take a novel approach and not
leap to the worst conclusion but have a little faith instead? I mean, maybe
she knows all this already, anyway, and they've worked through it. Maybe
finding out that I know Dane wasn't monogamous early on would only
embarrass her and make her constantly self-conscious or defensive when
I'm around them both.
I look up at Ethan, who's still asleep, and it hits me that just because I
think I know what's going on, it doesn't mean I really do. This guy right
here is the perfect example. I thought I knew exactly who he was, and I was
completely wrong. Is it possible there are sides to my twin I don't know at
all, too? I gently shake him awake, and he inhales, stretching, before
looking down at me. It's like a punch to the chest how much I like his face.
"Hey," he says, voice gravelly. "What's up? You okay?"
"I like your face," I tell him.
"I'm glad you wanted to tell me that this very moment."
"And," I say, smiling nervously, "I know we don't like this topic, but I
wanted to let you know that I've decided to not say anything to Ami about
Dane. I'm not even going to ask her whether she knew."
Ethan's face relaxes, and he leans forward, kissing my forehead. "Okay,
cool."
"Things are going so great for all of us right now—"
"I mean, yes," he cuts in with a laugh, "except for the ciguatera toxin
that caused them to miss their honeymoon."
"Except for that." I wave a faux-casual hand. "Anyway, things are going
well, and I should just let the past be in the past."
"Totally." He kisses me once and leans back, smiling with his eyes
closed.
"I just wanted to let you know."
"I'm glad you did."
"Okay, go back to sleep."
"I will."
• • •
THE PLAN: ONCE WE LAND, we'll grab our bags, share a cab back to
Minneapolis, and each spend the night at our respective home. We've
already agreed the cab will drop me off at my apartment building in
Dinkytown—so he can see me get in safely—before taking him to Loring
Park. I'm sure it will be weird to sleep alone, but we agreed to meet up for
breakfast, at which point I am positive that I will maul him instead of doing
what we'd planned to do: figure out how and when to tell Ami and Dane
about us.
Everything about this end of the trip stands out for how starkly different
it is from the beginning. We aren't uncomfortable. We're holding hands,
walking through the airport terminal, bickering lightly about which one of
us is going to give in first and show up at the other's doorstep.
He bends at the luggage carousel, planting a kiss on my mouth. "You
could just come over now and save yourself the trip later."
"Or you could."
"But my bed is really great," he argues. "It's big, firm but not hard . . ."
I immediately see where all our future problems lie: we are both
stubborn homebodies. "Yeah, but I want to get in my own bathtub and use
every single bath product I own and have missed for these past ten days."
Ethan kisses me again and pulls back to say more, but his eyes flitter
over my shoulder and his entire demeanor changes. "Holy shit."
The words sound echoey, from a distance, multiplied. I turn to see what
he's gaping at and my stomach absolutely plummets: Ami and Dane are
standing only a few yards away, holding a WELCOME HOME FROM
OUR HONEYMOON! sign. Now I understand what I've heard; Ami and
Ethan spoke the same words, at the same time.
There is a riot in my brain: just my luck. I'm temporarily unable to
decide what to process first: the fact that my sister is here, that she saw me
kissing Ethan, that Dane saw me kissing Ethan, or the reality that—even
eleven days after they were knocked down by a toxin—they both still look
positively horrible. I think Ami has lost over ten pounds, and Dane has
likely lost more. The gray sheen to Ami's complexion hasn't entirely gone
away, and her clothes sag on her frame.
And here we are, tanned, rested, and making out in baggage claim.
"What am I seeing?" Ami says, dropping her half of the sign in shock.
I'm sure I'll examine my reaction later, but given that I can't tell whether
she's excited or angry right now, I let go of Ethan's hand and take a step
away from him. I wonder how it looks to her: I left for her honeymoon, paid
almost nothing, suffered not at all, and came home kissing the man I was
supposed to hate—and never once mentioned any of this to her on the
phone or in texts. "Nothing, we were just saying goodbye."
"Were you kissing?" she asks, brown eyes saucer-wide.
Ethan tosses out a confident "Yes" just as I state an emphatic "No."
He looks down at me, smirking at how easily that lie came out of me. I
can tell he is more proud of my smoothness than he is annoyed by my
answer.
"Okay, yes," I amend. "We were kissing. But we didn't know you were
going to be here. We were going to tell you guys tomorrow."
"Tell us what, exactly?" Ami asks.
Ethan takes this one readily and slides his arm around my shoulder,
pulling me close. "That we're together."
For the first time, I get a good look at Dane. He's staring directly at
Ethan, his eyes narrowed like he's trying to beam words into his brother's
cranium. I try to tamp down my reaction, knowing it's probably just my
own read on the situation, but his glare looks a lot like What did you tell
her?
"It's cool," Ethan says calmly, and my resolution to mind my own
beeswax returns, heightened by the potent mix of adrenaline in my blood.
"Everything is very cool," I say, too loudly, and give Dane a dramatic,
and probably ill-advised, wink. "Super cool."
I am a maniac.
He bursts out laughing and finally breaks the ice, stepping forward to
hug me first, and then his brother. Ami continues to stare at me in shock,
and then slowly shuffles over. She feels like a skeleton in my arms.
"Dude, are you two really a thing now?" Dane asks his brother.
"We are," Ethan tells him.
"I think I can approve it at this point," Dane says, smiling and nodding at
each of us like a benevolent boss.
"Um," I say, "that's . . . good?"
Ami still has not relaxed her expression one bit. "How did this even
happen?"
I shrug, wincing. "I hated him until I didn't?"
"That's actually a very accurate synopsis." Ethan slides an arm around
my shoulders again.
My sister shakes her head slowly, gaping at the two of us in turn. "I don't
know whether to be happy or horrified. Is this the apocalypse? Is that
what's happening?"
"We could totally trade twins sometime," Dane says to Ethan, and then
erupts into a fratty laugh.
My smile droops. "That would . . ." I shake my head emphatically. "No
thank you."
"Oh my God, shut up, honey," Ami says, laughing and hitting his
shoulder. "You are so gross."
Everyone laughs except me, and I realize it too late, so my ha-ha-ha
comes out like a pull-string toy.
But I think that's my problem with Dane, in a nutshell: he's gross. And
unfortunately, my sister loves him, I've been hooking up with his brother,
and not five minutes ago I gave Dane the all-clear wink. I made my
decision; I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to put on my big-girl pants and
deal.
chapter fifteen
I wanted to stay in Maui. I wanted to stay in bed with Ethan for weeks, and
listen to the ocean while I fell asleep. But even so, the moment I'm back in
my apartment, I want to kiss every piece of my furniture and touch every
single thing I've missed for the past ten days. My couch has never looked
so inviting. My television is way better than the one we had in the suite. My
bed is fluffy and clean, and I can't wait until it's dark enough to justify
taking a running leap into my pillows. I am a homebody, through and
through, and there's nothing like being home.
This feeling lasts about thirty minutes. Because after I've unpacked, I
check my fridge and realize there's nothing in there, so if I want to eat, I
have to either order crappy delivery food, or put my pants back on and
leave the house.
I sprawl in the middle of the living room on my fluffy faux-fur rug and
groan at the ceiling. If I'd gone to Ethan's, I could have made him go get
me food.
The doorbell rings. I ignore it because my family would just waltz right
in like they own the place, and nine times out of ten it's my upstairs
neighbor Jack, a fiftysomething guy who pays way too close attention to my
comings and goings. But then it rings again, which a few seconds later is
followed by a knock. Jack never rings twice, and he never knocks.
Standing, I peek through the peephole and see a chiseled jaw, a long,
muscular neck. I've missed that neck. Ethan! My heart reacts before my
brain does—leaping happily into my throat—and so when I pull the door
open with a grin, it takes a beat to remember that I'm not wearing pants.
Ethan smiles at me and then his eyes drop to my lower half and he
makes the same seductive expression I know I'm directing at the bag of
food he's carrying.
"You missed me," I say, taking the Chinese takeout from his hand.
"You're pantsless."
I smirk at him over my shoulder. "You should probably get used to it. I
mostly behaved myself at the hotel, but ninety-nine percent of the time I'm
home I'm in my underwear."
He raises a brow and tilts his head toward the hallway I'm sure he's
guessed leads to my bedroom. I get it—in a movie we would be crashing
against the wall, passionately pinballing our way down the hall toward the
bed because we missed each other so much after an hour apart, but in truth,
that airport run-in was stressful as hell, I am starving, and this takeout
smells amazing.
"Garlic chicken first, sex second."
I get all fluttery inside—and I am not normally a swooner—when he
smiles at the way I'm diving into the food he brought. He kisses my
forehead and then turns, easily finding my silverware drawer and grabbing
us both some chopsticks. We stand in the kitchen, eating chicken out of the
containers. Something inside me uncoils because I was happy to be home,
but now I'm giddy. I feel more myself with him than without, and that
happened so fast, it's dizzying.
"My fridge was empty," he tells me. "Figured yours was, too, and it was
only a matter of time before you came to my door because you were so
lonely."
I shove a mouthful of noodles in my mouth and speak around them:
"Yeah, that sounds like me."
"So needy," he agrees, laughing.
I watch him tuck into the Mongolian beef and give myself a few quiet
seconds to stare at the face I've missed for the past hour. "I like that you
just showed up," I tell him.
"Good." He chews and swallows. "I was pretty sure you would, but there
was a twenty percent chance you'd be like, 'Get the hell out of my
apartment, I need to do a fancy bath tonight.' "
"Oh, I definitely want a fancy bath."
"But after the food and sex."
I nod. "Right."
"I'll snoop around your apartment while you're doing that. I'm not a
bath guy."
This makes me laugh. "Do you think this feels so easy because we hated
each other first?" I ask.
He shrugs, digging into the container for a giant piece of beef.
"We're a week in," I say, "and I'm pantsless and eating greasy food in
front of you."
"I mean, I saw you in that bridesmaid dress. Everything else is an
improvement."
"I take it back," I tell him. "I still hate you."
Ethan comes over, bends and kisses my nose. "Sure."
The mood shifts. So many times I've gone from uneasy to angry with
him, but now it's from happy to heated. He slides the food onto the counter
behind me, cupping my face.
When he's only an inch away, I whisper, "I just realized you and I shared
a container of food and it didn't gross you out."
He kisses me and then rolls his eyes, moving his mouth to my cheek, my
jaw, my neck. "I told you, I don't mind sharing. It's"—kiss—"about"—kiss
—"buffets. And. I. Was. Right."
"Well, I'm forever grateful that you're such a weirdo."
Ethan nods, kissing my jaw. "That was the best honeymoon I've ever
been on."
I pull his mouth back to mine and then hop up on him, relieved that he
anticipates he'll need to catch me, and lift my chin toward the bedroom.
"That way."
• • •
ONCE ETHAN AND I DISCOVER that we live only two miles apart, you'd think
we'd find a way to alternate between apartments at night. You'd be wrong.
Clearly I am terrible at compromise, because from Wednesday night when
we return home, to Monday morning when I begin my new job, Ethan
spends every night at my place.
He doesn't leave things here (except a toothbrush), but he does learn that
I have to hit my alarm four times before getting out of bed to go to the gym,
that I don't use my favorite spoon for anything as menial as stirring coffee,
that my family can and will show up at the most inopportune moment, and
that I require him to turn on the television or play some music every time I
use the restroom.
Because I am a lady, obviously.
But with this familiarity comes the awareness of how fast everything is
moving. By the time we're closing in on two weeks together—which in the
grand scheme of life is nothing—it feels to me like Ethan has been my
boyfriend since the moment I met him at the State Fair years ago.
Things are easy, and fun, and effortless. This isn't how new relationships
are supposed to be: they are supposed to be stressful, and exhausting, and
uncertain.
The morning before I go to work at Hamilton Biosciences for the first
time is not the time to be having an existential crisis about moving too fast
with my new boyfriend, but my brain didn't get the memo.
In a new suit, cute-but-comfortable heels, and with my hair blow-dried
to a silky sheet down my back, I look over at Ethan at my small dining
room table. "You haven't said anything about how I look this morning."
"I said it with my eyes when you stepped out of the bedroom, you just
weren't looking." He takes a bite of toast and speaks around it. "You look
beautiful, and professional, and intelligent." Pausing, to swallow, he adds,
"But I also like the island-scrappy version of you."
I scrape some butter across my toast, then set the knife down with a
clatter. "Do you think we're moving too fast?"
Ethan sips his coffee, blue eyes now focused on the scrolling news on his
phone. He's not even fazed by this question. "Probably."
"Does that worry you?"
"No."
"Not even a little?"
He looks back up at me. "Do you want me to stay at my place tonight?"
"God no," I say, in a complete knee-jerk response. He smiles, smug, and
looks back down. "But maybe?" I say. "Should you?"
"I don't think there are rules to this."
I gulp my scalding coffee and then roar in pain. "Ow!" I stare at him,
placid as ever, back to being nose-deep in the Washington Post mobile app.
"Why are you not freaking out a little?"
"Because I'm not starting a new job today and looking for reasons to
explain my stress about it." He puts his phone down and folds his arms on
the table. "You're going to be great, you know."
I grunt, unconvinced. Ethan is more intuitive than I ever gave him credit
for.
"Maybe we should get together with Ami and Dane for drinks later," he
suggests. "You know, to process your first day, to make sure everyone is
okay with this current situation. I feel like I've been hogging you."
"Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"Being so emotionally balanced!"
He pauses and a slow grin takes over his face. "Okay?"
I grab my coat and purse and make for the door, fighting a grin because I
know he's laughing at me behind my back. And I'm totally okay with it.
• • •
I AM REMINDED HOW SMALL Hamilton Biosciences actually is when I step into
the lobby, where a woman named Pam has been working the desk for thirtythree
years. Kasey, the HR representative I interviewed with a couple of
months ago, greets me and beckons me to follow. If we turned left, we'd
end up in the office suite of the legal team of three. But we take a right
down the hall that leads us to the mirror-image suite that houses the HR
department of two.
"Research is just across the courtyard," Kasey says, "but all of the
medical affairs folks—if you remember!—are upstairs in this building."
"That's right!" I adopt her upbeat tone, following her into her office.
"We'll just have a few forms to get you rolling, and then you can head
upstairs to meet with the rest of your team."
My heart takes off at a gallop as the reality of this sets in. I've been in a
blissed-out la-la land for the past couple of weeks, but real life is back, front
and center. For now, I'll only have one direct report working under me, but
from what Kasey and Mr. Hamilton told me when I was here last, there
should be lots of opportunities for growth.
"You'll have some manager training," Kasey is saying, rounding her
desk, "which I believe is this Thursday. Gives you a little time to get in, get
settled."
"Great."
I smooth my hands down my skirt and try to swallow down my nerves
while she opens up some files on her computer, while she bends and
retrieves a folder from a cabinet near her knee, while she opens it and pulls
out some forms. I see my name at the top of all of them. Anxiety slowly
gives way to thrill.
I have a job! A job that is solid, and secure, and—let's be honest—will
probably be boring sometimes but will pay the bills. It's what I went to
school for. It's perfect.
Elation fills my chest, making me feel buoyant.
Kasey organizes a stack of paperwork for me, and I begin signing. It's
the usual: I won't sell company secrets, won't commit various forms of
harassment, won't use alcohol or drugs on the premises, won't lie, cheat, or
steal.
I'm deep into the stack when Mr. Hamilton himself peeks his head into
her office. "I see our Olive is back on the continent!"
"Hey, Mr. Hamilton."
He winks, and asks, "How's Ethan doing?"
I glance quickly to Kasey and back. "Um, he's great."
"Olive just got married!" he says. "We ran into each other on her
honeymoon in Maui."
Kasey gasps. "Oh, my God! I thought you were with a sick relative! I am
so glad I misunderstood!" My stomach seems to melt away; I had
completely forgotten about telling Kasey this stupid lie in the airport. She
doesn't seem to notice anything off and barrels on: "We should have a
party!"
"Oh, no," I say, "please don't." Insert awkward laugh. "We are all
partied out."
"But for sure he should join the spouses club!" she says, already nodding
vigorously at Mr. Hamilton.
I know Mrs. Hamilton founded the club, but my God, Kasey, take it
down a notch or two.
Mr. Hamilton winks at me. "I know Molly put on the hard sell, but it is a
fun group."
This is going too far already. I'm so bad at lying that I've forgotten lies
I've already told. Ethan and I aren't going to be able to keep this up for very
long at such a close-knit company. I have a sinking feeling inside, but feel a
tiny twinge of relief knowing that I'm going to put this lie to rest at last.
"I'm sure the spouses club is amazing." I pause, and I know I could
leave it at that, but I've just signed all these forms and really want to make a
fresh start here. "Ethan and I aren't actually married. It's sort of a funny
story, Mr. Hamilton, and I hope it's okay if I come by later and tell you
about it."
I'd wanted to keep it simple, but I can tell I should have built up my
version a little bit. This just sounds . . . bad.
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—"
"I don't think you're a bad person, Olive, and honestly—under any other
circumstance, I think I'd really like you." He inhales slowly, shaking his
head. "But this is a weird situation for me. To think we were together for
hours and you were fooling us. That's weird."
And I have no idea what to say. My stomach feels like a concrete block
now, sinking inside me.
He slides a folder closer to him and opens it. My HR folder. "You signed
a morality clause in the employment contract," he says, looking down at the
papers before turning his face back up to me. "And I'm truly sorry, Olive,
but given the oddness of this situation and my overall discomfort with
dishonesty, I'm going to have to let you go."
• • •
I DROP MY HEAD ONTO the bar table and groan. "Is this really happening?"
Ethan rubs my back and wisely stays quiet. There is literally nothing that
can turn this day around, not even the best cocktails in the Twin Cities or
the best pep talk from a new boyfriend.
"I should go home," I say. "With my luck, the bar will catch fire and fall
into a black hole."
"Stop." He pushes the basket of peanuts and my martini closer and
smiles. "Stay. It'll make you feel better to see Ami."
He's right. After I left Hamilton with my tail between my legs, half of
me wanted to go home and burrow in my bed for a week, and half of me
wanted to pull Ethan on one side and Ami on the other and have them hold
me up for the rest of the night.
And now that I'm here, I actually need to see my sister's indignant rage
over my getting fired on my first day—even if it isn't entirely fair, and a
large part of me doesn't blame Mr. Hamilton at all. But it will make me feel
a million times better.
Straightening beside me, Ethan looks toward the door and I follow his
attention. Dane has just arrived, but there's no Ami with him, which is
weird since they usually commute together.
"What's up, party people?" he booms across the room. A few heads turn,
which is just how Dane likes it.
Ugh. I push down the snarky voice in my head.
Ethan stands to greet him with a bro hug, and I give Dane a limp wave.
He flops down onto a barstool, shouts for an IPA, and then turns to us,
grinning. "Man, you guys are so tan. I'm trying not to hate you."
Ethan looks down at his arms like they're new. "Huh, yeah, I guess."
"Well, if it makes you feel any better," I say, and then affect a stuffy
British accent, "I've been sacked." I'm trying—and failing—to bring some
levity to my mood, but Dane misinterprets my meaning and goes in for an
immediate high-five.
"Yeah you have!" Dane shouts, hand outstretched.
I don't want to leave the poor man hanging, so I tap a finger to the
middle of his palm and shake my head. "Like, fired," I clarify, and Ethan
follows it up with a quiet "Not sexy."
Dane's mouth pinches into a weird little butthole and he lets out a
sympathetic "Oooh, that sucks."
He's not even doing anything douchey right now, but I swear his
perfectly manicured beard and his fake glasses that he doesn't even need
and his trendy pink dress shirt just make me want to toss my martini in his
face.
But that reaction is just so . . . Olive, isn't it? I'm back in town for only a
few days and I'm already in A Mood? Lord.
"I'm so grumpy," I say out loud, and Dane laughs like I know, right? but
Ethan leans in.
"To be fair, you did just lose your job," he says quietly, and I smile
grimly at him. "Of course you're grumpy."
Dane stares at us. "It's gonna be hard to get used to seeing you guys
together."
"I bet," I say with semi-intentional meaning, and meet his eyes.
"I'm sure you had a lot to talk about on the island." He winks at me, and
then adds breezily, "Having hated each other's guts beforehand."
I wonder if Ethan is having the same thought I am—that this is a superweird
thing to say, but exactly the thing that someone who is afraid of being
busted would say.
"We did," Ethan says, "but it's all good."
"You didn't have to tell Ethan that I'm angry all the time," I say, unable
to help myself.
Dane waves this off. "Eh, with you, it's a safe bet. You hate everyone."
This tilts inside me, ringing untrue. For the life of me, I can't think of a
single person I hate right now. Except maybe myself, for lying to Mr.
Hamilton and ending up in this place, where I'm not sure I'll be able to pay
my rent in a month . . . again.
Ethan puts his hand over mine, a silent Let it go. And truly, with Dane
right now—or ever—arguing hardly seems worth it.
"Where's Ami?" I ask, and Dane shrugs, peeking back over his shoulder
at the door. She's fifteen minutes late, and it's disorienting. My sister is the
prompt one; Dane is the late one and he's already flagging down the
bartender for a second beer.
"So, was this the job offer you got in the airport?" Dane asks once she's
gone.
I nod.
"Was it, like, your dream job?"
"No," I say, "but I knew I'd be good at it." I lift the toothpick and swirl
the olive in my martini glass. "The best part? I was fired because I saw my
new boss in Maui, and we lied to him about being married."
A laugh bursts out of Dane's mouth before he can contain it. He seems to
realize I'm being sincere. "Wait. Seriously?"
"Yes, and the wife, Molly, really loved Ethan and invited him to the
spouses club and all of that stuff. I think Mr. Hamilton felt uncomfortable
trusting me knowing that I'd completely lied my face off for an entire meal
with him, and I can't say I blame him."
Dane looks like he has more laughs in him but is wisely keeping them
contained. "Why didn't you just tell him you were taking your sister's
vacation?"
"That, Dane, is the question of the hour."
He lets out a long, low whistle.
"We can talk about anything else, by the way," I say. "Please."
Dane deftly changes the topic to himself, his workday, how much better
he's feeling. How he's gone down a pants size. He has some pretty
entertaining stories about explosive diarrhea in public restrooms, but for the
most part it just feels like the Dane Show.
The moment Dane pauses to toss a few peanuts in his mouth, Ethan
excuses himself to use the men's room, and Dane waves to the bartender for
a third beer. Once she leaves again, he turns back to me. "It's wild how
much you and Ami look alike," he says.
"Identical, they say." I pick up a straw wrapper and roll it into a tight
spiral, feeling oddly uncomfortable sitting here with just Dane. What's odd
is how I used to see the family resemblance in Ethan and Dane, but in this
moment, they look nothing alike at all. Is it because I know Ethan
intimately now, or is it because he is a good human and his brother seems
rotten from the inside?
It's especially uncomfortable because he's still looking at me. Even
though I'm not meeting his eyes, I can feel his focus on the side of my face.
"I bet Ethan told you all kinds of stories."
And oh. My mind is immediately buzzing. Is he talking about what I
think he's talking about?
"About himself?" I deflect.
"About all of us, the whole fam."
Dane and Ethan's parents are two of the most milquetoast people I've
ever met in my life—the epitome of Minnesota nice, but also exceedingly
dull—so I think both Dane and I know that Ethan wouldn't share many
adventures about the whole fam. Is it my eternal skeptical filter here that's
making me think he's talking about the brother trips being Dane's ideas and,
of course, all of his pre-engagement girlfriends?
I look at him over the lip of my martini glass. I am so conflicted. I told
Ethan—and myself—that I would let this one go. That Ami is a smart
woman and knows what she's getting into. That I am always the buzzkill
pessimist.
Dane gets one last freebie, and that's it.
"We all have stories, Dane," I tell him evenly. "You and Ethan have
yours. Ami and I have ours. We all have them."
He pops a couple of peanuts into his mouth and grins at me as he chews,
mouth open, like he's just outsmarted me. As irritating as he's being, I can
tell he's genuinely relieved. If it were anyone else smiling at me like this,
I'd feel honored to be so clearly welcomed into the inner circle with just a
shift in an expression. But with Dane, it makes me feel slimy, like I'm not
supporting my sister by supporting her husband, like I'm betraying her.
"So you like my big brother, huh?" he asks.
The husky quiet of his voice makes me uneasy. "He's all right, I guess,"
I joke.
"He's pretty great," he says, and then adds, "even if he isn't me."
"I mean," I say, forcing a dorky grin, "who is? Am I right?"
Dane thanks the bartender when she delivers the fresh beer and then
takes a foamy sip, still studying me. "You ever want to mix it up, you let me
know."
My eyes fly to his face, and I feel the way the blood leaves my
complexion in a whoosh. There is no way I'm misinterpreting his meaning.
"I'm sorry. What?"
"Just a night of fun," he says, breezily, like he hasn't just offered to cheat
on his wife with her twin sister.
I tap my chin with a finger, feeling my neck heat, my face flush. It's a
struggle to keep my voice even. "You know, I think I'll take an emphatic
pass on sleeping with my brother-in-law."
He shrugs like it makes no difference to him—and silently confirming
that his vague words meant exactly what I thought they meant—but then his
eyes are caught on something over my shoulder. I assume Ethan is walking
back, because Dane smiles, tilting his chin. "Yeah," he says as Ethan
approaches, "I guess he's all right."
I gape at how casually he returns to our earlier conversation.
"Were you two talking about me?" Ethan asks, lowering onto the stool
beside me and pressing his smile to my cheek.
"We were," Dane says. I look at him. There's not even a warning in his
expression, not even any fear that I'll say something to Ethan about what
just happened. By telling him that we all have stories, by implying that I'm
not going to press into his past, have I indicated that I'm okay being
eternally complicit somehow?
Dane peeks down at his phone when it vibrates on the bar top next to
him. "Oh, Ami is running about an hour late."
I stand, abruptly, robotically. "You know, that's okay. I'm not the best
company tonight. Rain check, guys?"
Dane nods easily, but Ethan looks concerned, reaching out with a hand to
stop me. "Hey, hey. You okay?"
"Yeah." I run a shaking hand through my hair, looking past him. I feel
jittery and gross and somehow like I've done something unfaithful—to
Ethan and my sister. I need to get away from Dane and get some air. "I
think I just want to go home and wallow for a bit. You know me."
He nods like he does know and releases me with a sympathetic smile.
But I suddenly feel like I don't know anything. I am thunderstruck.
That's not entirely true. I know some things. For example, I know I lost
my job today. And I know that my sister's husband cheated on her before
and is apparently happy to cheat on her again. With her twin. I need to get
some clarity and figure out how the hell I'm going to tell Ami about all of
this.
chapter sixteen
I'm halfway to my car when I hear Ethan's voice calling out to me across
the parking lot. Turning, I watch as he carefully makes his way through the
slush and the ice and comes to a stop in front of me.
He didn't bother to put on his coat before following me outside and
shivers against the cold. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm not great, honestly, but I'll be fine." I think.
"Do you want me to come back to your place with you?"
"No." I wince, hoping he knows this came out more abruptly than I
intended. Attempting to tamp down my anger, I take a deep breath and give
him a very wobbly smile; this isn't his fault. I need to talk to Ami. I need to
think and make some sense of how Dane had the balls to say something like
that to me with his brother just feet away. I need to figure out what the hell
I'm going to do for a job, immediately. I scrape the toe of my boot against a
patch of ice. "I think I just need to go home and freak out a little on my
own."
Ethan tilts his head, gaze roaming my face deliberately. "Okay. But if
you need me to come over, just text."
"I will." I pull my lips between my teeth, resisting the urge to tell him to
come with me and be my sounding board. But I know that won't work. "I'll
be terrible company tonight, but it's still going to be weird sleeping alone in
my own bed. You've ruined me."
I can tell he likes this. He takes a step forward and bends to kiss me,
deepening it gently, a tiny, sweet taste. When he pulls back, he runs a finger
across my forehead. He's so sweet. It's started snowing again and the flakes
flutter down to land on his shoulders, the back of his hand, the tips of his
lashes. "You left really suddenly," he says, and I'm not surprised that he
can't let it go. I'm acting like a maniac. "What happened when I was in the
bathroom?"
I take a deep breath and slowly blow it out. "Dane said something kind
of shitty."
Ethan leans the tiniest bit away from me. It's such a subtle gesture, I
wonder if he even notices that he did it. "What did he say?"
"Why don't we talk about this later?" I ask. "It's freezing."
"You can't just say something like that and then call a rain check." He
reaches for my hand, but doesn't squeeze it in his. "What happened?"
I tuck my chin into my coat, wishing I could disappear into it entirely,
like a portable blanket fort. "He hit on me."
A blast of wind whips across the front of the building, ruffling the front
of Ethan's hair. He's looking at me so intently he doesn't even wince at the
cold.
"What do you mean, like . . ." He frowns. "Like, touched you?"
"No." I shake my head. "He suggested Ami and I trade brothers for a
little fun." I have the urge to laugh, because saying it out loud makes it
sound completely ridiculous. Who the hell does that? Who hits on his
brother's girlfriend, who is also his wife's sister? When Ethan doesn't say
anything, I repeat it more slowly. "He wanted me to let him know if we ever
wanted to mix it up, Ethan."
A beat of silence.
Two.
And then Ethan's expression turns quizzical. " 'Mix it up' doesn't
necessarily mean, like, trade partners."
Stay calm, Olive. I give him a meaningful stare and count to ten in my
head. "Yeah. It does."
His expression straightens again, and a hint of protectiveness creeps into
his voice. "Okay, granted his sense of humor isn't always appropriate, but
Dane wouldn't—"
"I realize this is shocking on a number of levels, but I do know what
someone hitting on me looks like."
He steps away, clearly frustrated. With me. "I know Dane is immature
sometimes and sort of self-centered, but he wouldn't do that."
"Just like he wouldn't lie to Ami for God knows how long while he
banged whoever he wanted?"
Ethan's face has turned a deep red. "I thought we agreed that we don't
know the situation there. It's possible Ami already knows."
"Well, have you asked him?"
"Why would I?" he says, hands waving in front of him like what I'm
suggesting isn't just unnecessary, it's preposterous. "Olive. We agreed to let
that go."
"That was before he propositioned me while you were in the bathroom!"
I stare at him, willing him to have some kind of reaction to this, but he's
just closed up on me, his face unreadable. "Have you considered that
you've put him on some kind of pedestal—though for the life of me, I can't
understand why—and are incapable of seeing he's a total sleaze?"
Ethan flinches, and now I feel bad. Dane is his brother. My instinct is to
apologize, but the words are stuck in my throat, blocked by the enormous
relief of finally saying what I think.
"Have you considered you're seeing what you want to see?"
I straighten. "What is that supposed to mean? That I want Dane to hit on
me?"
He's shaking and I'm not sure if it's from cold or anger. "It means that
maybe you're pissed off about losing your job, and you're in the habit of
being bitter about everything Ami has that you don't, and you're not
objective about any of this."
This feels like a physical punch to my stomach, and I take an instinctive
step back.
Flames. On the side of my face . . .
His shoulders fall immediately. "Shit. I didn't mean—"
"Yes, you did." I turn around and keep walking to my car. His footsteps
across the salted sidewalk follow.
"Olive, wait. Come on. Don't just walk away."
I pull out my keys and fling open the door with so much force, the
hinges groan in protest.
"Olive! Just—"
I slam the door and with shaking hands and numb fingers, jam my key
into the ignition. His words are drowned out by the sound of the engine
struggling to turn over. Finally it catches, and I shift into reverse, backing
up. He walks alongside me; hand on the roof of the car as he pleads for my
attention. It's so cold I can see my breath in front of my face, but I don't
feel a thing. My ears are full of static.
He watches me leave, and in my rearview mirror I see him grow smaller
and smaller. We have never been so far from that mountaintop in Maui.
• • •
THE DRIVE HOME IS A blur. I alternate between being mad at myself for all of
this, terrified about my future income, furious at Dane, sad and
disappointed over Ethan, and absolutely heartbroken for Ami. It's not
enough to hope that Dane will turn over a new leaf now that he's married—
he is a bad guy, and my sister has no idea.
I try not to be dramatic and overthink what Ethan said. I try to give him
the benefit of the doubt and imagine how I'd feel if someone accused Ami
of doing this. I don't even have to think about it: I'd do anything for my
sister. And that's when it hits me. I remember Dane's smiling face at the
airport, and my shock today that he would hit on me with his own brother
just a few feet away. Dane's confidence in both cases isn't about me or my
ability to keep his secret. It was about Ethan and his inability to believe his
brother would intentionally do anything bad. Ethan is his ride-or-die.
I consider going to Ami's to wait for her, but if Ami was planning to
meet us all at the restaurant, she won't be there anyway. They'd come home
together later, too. I certainly don't want to be there when Dane gets back.
I didn't think it was possible, but my mood plummets even more when I
pull into my parking lot. Not only is my mom's car there (and parked in my
covered space), but so are Diego's and my cousin Natalia's, which means
Tía María is probably here, too. Of course.
With my car parked on the other side of the complex, I trudge through
the slush and up the stairs to my apartment. I can already hear Tía María's
braying laugh—she is my mother's sister and the one closest to her in age,
but the two of them could not be more different: Mom is polished and
fussy; Tía Maria is casual and laughs constantly. And whereas Mom has
only me and Ami (apparently having twins was plenty for her), Tía Maria
has seven kids, each neatly spaced eighteen months apart. It wasn't until I
was in the fifth grade that I realized not everyone has nineteen first cousins.
Although our nuclear family is relatively small compared to the rest of
the Torres and Gonzales crew, a stranger would never know that only four
of us lived in our house when I was growing up because at least two other
people were always there. Birthdays were enormous affairs, Sunday dinners
routinely had thirty people at the table, and there was never any place to
sulk alone. Apparently not much has changed.
"I'm pretty sure she's a lesbian," Tía María is saying as I close the door
behind me. She looks up at the sound and points to Natalia. "Tell her,
Olive."
I unwind my scarf from around my neck and stomp the snow from my
boots. After the slushy walk through the parking lot, my patience is already
thin. "Who are we talking about?"
Tía Maria is standing at the kitchen counter, chopping tomatoes.
"Ximena."
Ximena, the youngest daughter of Mom and Tía Maria's oldest brother,
Tío Omar. "She's not a lesbian," I say. "She's dating that guy, what's his
name?"
I look at Natalia, who tells them, "Boston."
I snap, pointing. "That's right. God, what a terrible name."
"It's what you name your dog," Natalia agrees, "not your kid."
I shrug off my coat and toss it over the back of the couch. Mom
immediately steps away from the dough she's rolling and crosses the room
to pointedly hang it up. Stopping in front of me, she pushes my damp hair
off my forehead.
"You look terrible, mija." She turns my face from side to side. "Eat
something." Kissing my cheek, she heads back into the kitchen.
I follow, smiling gratefully when Natalia sets a cup of tea down in front
of me. For as much as I complain about my family always being in my
business . . . having them here is admittedly pretty great. But this also
means I can't avoid telling Mom that I was fired.
"A haircut doesn't mean someone's gay, Mom," Natalia says.
Tía María looks up at her incredulously. "Have you seen it? It's all short
on the sides and blue on top. She did it right after"—she drops her voice to
a whisper—"the wedding."
Both Mom and Tía Maria make the sign of the cross.
"Why would you even care if she's gay?" Natalia motions to where
Diego is watching TV on my couch. "Diego is gay, and you don't care
about that."
At the sound of his name he turns to face us.
"Diego came out of the womb gay," Tía Maria says, and then turns to
him. "I swear you had copies of Vogue under your mattress, instead of dirty
magazines."
"Nobody gets porn from magazines anymore, Mom," Natalia says.
Tía Maria ignores her. "I don't care if she's gay. I just think we should all
know so we can find her a nice girl."
"She's not gay!" Diego says.
"Then why did I find a dildo in her sock drawer?" Tía Maria asks the
room.
Diego groans and pulls a pillow over his face. "Here we go."
Natalia turns to face her mother. "She's thirty-three. What were you
doing in her sock drawer?"
Tía María shrugs as if this information is irrelevant to the story.
"Organizing. It was purple and huge with a little"—she moves her finger in
front of her to indicate what she means—"wiggly thing on one side."
Natalia presses her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh, and I take a sip of
my tea. It tastes like sadness and hot water.
My mom stops chopping and sets down her knife. "Why does that mean
she's a lesbian?"
Tía Maria blinks at her. "Because lesbians use those strap-on things."
"Mom, stop," Natalia says. "Lots of people have vibrators. I have a
whole box full of them." She waves in my direction. "You should see
Olive's collection."
"Thanks, Nat."
My mom picks up a glass of wine and takes a large gulp. "It seems smart
to be a lesbian right now. Men are awful."
She is not wrong.
I lean a casual hip against the counter. "So. Why are you guys cooking at
my apartment?" I ask. "And when are you going home?"
Natalia turns off the stove and moves her pot to an empty burner. "Your
dad needed some stuff at the house." That's it, that's her entire answer, and
in this family, it's plenty: Dad rarely goes to the house—he lives alone in a
condo near Lake Harriet—but when he does visit, my mom evacuates the
premises immediately. The rare times she feels spunky enough to stick
around, she'll commit some pretty petty sabotage. Once, she pulled out his
collection of vinyl records and used them as trivets and coasters. Another
time, when he stopped by before a weeklong business trip, she put a whole
fresh trout under one of the seats in his car and he didn't find it until he got
home. It was in August.
"I wish I'd been born a lesbian," Mom says.
"Then you wouldn't have me," I counter.
She pats my cheek. "That's okay."
I meet Natalia's eyes over the top of my mug and fight the laugh that is
bubbling up inside me. I worry that if it escapes, it could turn into hysterical
cackles that would immediately transition into choking sobs.
"What's with you?" Tía Maria asks, and it takes me a moment to realize
she's talking to me.
"She's probably tired from her new boyfriend," Natalia sings and does a
little sexy dance back over to the stove. "I'm surprised he wasn't with you.
We only came in because his car wasn't out front. God knows what we'll
see."
They all spin out of control about me and Ethan for a few minutes—
Finally! Se te va pasó al tren!
So perfect, so funny because they hated each other!
Twins dating brothers: is that even legal?—
before I'm able to get them back into orbit. Diego walks into the kitchen
and burns himself sneaking something from the frying pan.
"I'm not sure we're still a thing," I warn them. "Maybe we are. We had a
fight. I don't even know."
Everyone gasps and a small, dissociated piece of me wants to laugh. It's
not like Ethan and I have been together for years. My family just gets so
immediately invested. But then again, so did I.
I can't think about things with us being over. It pushes a spike of pain
through me.
And wow did I kill the mood. I debate for about three seconds whether
I'm going to bother telling them that I also lost my job, but I know I am. If Dane tells Ami, and then Ami talks to one of my cousins and Mom finds out that I got fired and didn't tell her, she will call all of her siblings and before I know it, I will have forty text messages from my aunts and uncles all demanding that I call my mother immediately. Facing it now is going to be terrible, but it's still infinitely easier than the alternative.
"Also," I say, wincing, "I lost my job."
Silence swallows us all. Slowly, very slowly, Mom puts down her glass
of wine, and Tía Maria picks it up. "You lost your job?" Cautious relief
takes over her face when she says, "You mean the Butake job."
"No, Mami, the one I started today."
Everyone gasps, and Diego comes up, wrapping his arms around me.
"No," he whispers. "Seriously?"
I nod. "Seriously."
Tía Maria takes my hand and then glances at Mom and Natalia, eyes
wide. Her expression screams, It is taking everything in me to not call
everyone in the family right now.
But Mom's focus on me remains intense; it's the protective mama-bear
expression that tells me she's ready to battle. "Who fired my daughter on her first day of work?"
"The founder of the company, actually." And before she can unleash a
tirade about the grave injustice of all this, I explain what happened. She sits down on a barstool and shakes her head.
"This isn't fair. You were in an impossible situation."
I shrug. "I mean, it's actually totally fair. I got a free vacation. I didn't
have to lie about it. It's just my luck he showed up, and I got caught."
Natalia rounds the counter to hug me, and I'm swallowing every few
seconds just to keep from crying, because the last thing I want is for Mom to worry about me, when—although she doesn't know it—she's going to need to save all her maternal sympathy for Ami.
"Call your father," Mom says. "Have him give you some money."
"Mami, I'm not going to ask Dad for money."
But Mom is already looking at Natalia, who picks up her phone to text
my father on my behalf.
"Let me talk to David," Tía Maria says, referring to Tío Omar and Tía
Sylvia's oldest son, the owner of a pair of popular restaurants in the Cities.
"I bet he has a position for you."
There are some benefits to having an enormous family: you're never on
your own to solve a problem. I don't even care if David would have me
washing dishes—the prospect of a job is such a huge relief I feel like I'm
melting. "Thank you, Tía."
Mom gives her sister a look. "Olive has a PhD in biology. You want her
to be a waitress?"
Tía Maria throws her hands up. "You're going to look down your nose at
a job? Where's her rent going to come from?"
"No one in this family is too good for any job that helps us pay our
bills." I step between them, kissing Tía Maria's cheek and then Mom's. "I appreciate any help I can get." After Butake, I applied for all the local jobs I'm qualified for anyway, and only Hamilton offered me a position. Right now I'm so exhausted I'm not feeling picky. "Tell David I'll call him
tomorrow, okay?"
At this point in the day, I'm running on fumes. With at least one stress
settled—the prospect of a job—my body deflates and all at once I feel like I could fall asleep standing. Although the food they're making smells amazing, I know I'll have a fridge full of it tomorrow and am not at all hungry right now. I throw a mumbled "Good night" to them and no one argues when I shuffle down the hall to my bedroom.
Flopping on my bed, I look at my phone. I have a couple of texts from
Ethan I'll read tomorrow, but I open my messages with Ami. She texted me about an hour ago.
Holy shit, Ollie! Dane told me about
your job!
I just tried to call you!
I'll call you tomorrow.
Okay, sweetie. Love you
Love you too
Dreading the conversation that I'm going to have with my sister tomorrow, I drop my phone onto my bedside table and pull the comforter over my head without bothering to get undressed. I close my eyes and fall into a restless sleep to the sounds of my family in the next room.