chapter seventeen

Because the early bird gets the worm or whatever, Ami is at my door

before the sun is even fully up. She's clearly already gone to the gym, all

swinging ponytail and dewy complexion. She sets a bag with a set of clean

scrubs on the back of the couch, which means she's heading to the hospital

from here. If the bounce in her step is anything to go by, Dane hasn't said a

word about last night.

In comparison—and we are nothing if not consistently on-brand—I'm

tired, not yet caffeinated, and I'm sure it shows. I barely slept last night,

stressing over paying rent, what I need to say to Ami this morning, and

what will happen with Ethan when we finally talk about all of this. I have

no plans for today or tomorrow, which is a good thing considering I need to

call David and beg for a job.

Once I opened Ethan's texts from last night, I saw there were only two,

and they said, simply, Call me and Headed to bed but let's talk tomorrow.

Part of me is glad he didn't bother trying to apologize in texts because I'm

not a huge texter, and another part is mad he didn't even try. I know I need

some distance until I talk to Ami, but I've also grown so used to having

near constant contact with Ethan and I miss him. I want him to chase me a

little, since I'm not the one who messed up here.

Ami comes inside, embraces me tightly, and then bounds into the kitchen

for a glass of water. "Are you, like, totally freaking out?"

I'm sure she means the job situation, so when I say, "Um, yes," she

really has no idea the scope of my anxiety right now. I watch her take down

half the glass in a long gulp.

Coming up for air, she says, "Mom says David is going to hire you at

one of his restaurants? That's awesome! Oh my God, Ollie, I can come in

on the slow nights and it'll be just like when we were kids. I can help with

the job search, or your résumé, whatever."

Shrugging, I tell her, "That'd be great. I haven't had time to call him yet.

But I will."

Ami gives me a look that is half-amused, half-bewildered that I seem to

have forgotten how our family operates. "Tía Maria called Tío Omar, and

Tío Omar got in touch with David, and you're all set."

I laugh. "Oh my God."

She swallows, nodding. "Apparently he has a waitress position at

Camelia for you."

Huh. His nicest restaurant. I love my family. "Cool."

This makes Ami laugh in her disbelieving Oh, Olive way. " 'Cool'?"

"Sorry," I say. "I swear, I am so emotionally wrecked I can't even get it

up to be excited right now. I promise to do better when I talk to David

later."

She sets her glass down. "My poor Ollie. Is your stomach feeling

better?"

"My stomach?"

"Dane said you weren't feeling well."

Oh, I bet he did. And funny thing: as soon as she mentions Dane, my

stomach does roll over. "Right. Yeah, I'm okay."

Ami tilts her head for me to follow her as she carries her water into the

living room and sits on the couch, legs crossed in front of her. "Ethan ended

up leaving early, too." She must note the look of surprise on my face

because she raises a brow. "You didn't know?"

"I haven't talked to him since I left." I lower myself down beside her.

"Like at all?"

I take a breath. "I wanted to talk to you first."

She frowns, confused. "To me? Is this about how weird he was being?"

"No, I—What do you mean?"

"He was just really quiet, and about twenty minutes after I got there, he

said he was going to head out. Dane said he probably had the same bug you

had."

I clench my hands into fists, and then imagine what it would be like to

slam one of them into Dane's smug face. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you

about Dane."

"Dane?"

"Yeah. He . . ." I pause, trying to figure out where to begin. I have gone

through this conversation a thousand times, but I still don't have the right

words. "Do you remember when Ethan and I first met?"

Ami purses her lips together as she thinks back. "At some picnic or

something?"

"The State Fair. Pretty soon after you and Dane started dating.

Apparently Ethan thought I was cute, and when he mentioned to Dane that

he wanted to ask me out, Dane told him not to bother."

"Wait, Ethan wanted to ask you out? How did he go from that to hating

your guts, all in one day?"

"It's sort of a long story." I tell her about seeing Ethan, thinking he was

hot, how he was sort of flirty . . . and then his reaction when he saw me

eating. I explain that it was a misunderstanding, but I can tell she gets it—

we've both always struggled with our curvy genes, and objectively the

world treats thin women differently. "But I guess Ethan had asked Dane if it

was cool if he asked me out, and Dane basically said I wasn't very nice, and

not to bother. Since I thought Ethan was being a jerk about the food, I was

distant to him, and then he just assumed Dane was right, and that set our

entire dynamic into motion."

Ami laughs like this is a silly joke. "Dane wouldn't say that, honey. He's

always hated that you two couldn't get along. He was genuinely so happy

when he saw you two at the airport."

"Really?" I ask. "Or is he just saying that because it's what we all want

to hear?" I stand from the couch and move to sit on the coffee table in front

of her. I take her hand in mine. Our hands are similar in so many ways, but

Ami has a glittering diamond on her ring finger.

"I think . . ." I say, still focused on our entwined fingers. This is so hard

to say—even to the person I know best in the whole world. "I think Dane

wanted to keep me and Ethan apart because he didn't want Ethan to let it

slip that Dane was seeing other women when you were first together."

Ami jerks her hand away like she's been shocked. "Olive, that's not

funny. Why would you say that?"

"Listen to me. I don't know the exact dates, but Ethan said something in

Maui about you and Dane not being exclusive until right before the

engagement."

"Ethan said that? Why would he—"

"He assumed you knew. But you and Dane were exclusive the whole

time, right?"

"Of course we were!"

I already knew this, but I'm hit with a spike of vindication nonetheless. I

know my sister.

She stands and walks to the other side of the room. Ami is no longer

bouncy and postworkout-giddy. She's quiet, brow furrowed. My sister

fidgets when she's anxious, and right now she's tugging on her ring,

absently spinning it around her finger.

Being a twin means oftentimes feeling responsible for the other's

emotional well-being, and right now all I want is take it all back, pretend

I'm joking and travel back to a time when I knew none of this. But I can't. I

may never know what my ideal relationship looks like, but I do know that

Ami deserves to be enough for someone, to be loved completely. I have to

keep going.

"All the trips they took? Dane let you think they were Ethan's idea, that

Ethan had planned them—"

"They were Ethan's idea. Like, objectively," she says. "Dane wouldn't

plan that kind of thing without talking to me first. Ethan planned stuff to get

over Sophie, and because he's single—or was"—she lets out a weird,

surprised snort—"he just assumed that Dane was free for all the holidays,

too."

"Most of these trips were before Sophie, or during." I watch her look for

more reasons to explain all this away, and say, "Look, I understand why

that's what Dane wanted you to think." I wait until she meets my eyes,

hoping she sees that I'm being sincere. "It looks better for him if Ethan is

the one who is constantly dragging Dane around the world on these crazy

adventures. But Ami, Ethan hates to fly. You should have seen him on the

plane to Maui—he could barely keep it together. He gets seasick, too. And

seriously, he's such a homebody—like me. I honestly can't imagine Ethan

planning a surfing trip to Nicaragua now—like, the idea makes me laugh.

Dane was using Ethan as an excuse to go do stuff and to see other women.

There's at least one other woman that Ethan mentioned."

"Where the fuck is your tinfoil hat, you psycho?" Ami growls. "I'm

supposed to believe that my husband is that manipulative? That he's been

cheating on me for what—three years? Do you really hate him that much?"

"I don't hate him, Ami—at least I didn't."

"Do you have any idea how ridiculous this all sounds? Do you have

anyone's word besides Ethan's to go by?"

"I do . . . because Dane hit on me last night. At the bar."

She blinks several times. "I'm sorry, what?"

I explain what happened, about Ethan going to the bathroom and Dane

suggesting we could all swing if the mood happened to strike. I watch as

my sister's face, so like my own, goes from confusion, to hurt, to something

bordering on rage.

"Holy shit, Olive." She gapes at me. "Why are you like this? Why are

you so cynical about everything?" She picks up her glass and walks to the

sink. Her face is so tight and bleak she looks sick again, and my stomach

lurches in guilt. "Why do you always want to see the worst in people?"

I don't even know what to say. I am struck completely mute. In the

silence, Ami turns on the water with an aggressive jerk and starts washing

out her glass. "Like, are you serious right now? Dane wouldn't hit on you.

You don't have to like him, but you don't get to always assume his

intentions are terrible, either."

I follow her into the kitchen, looking on as she rinses her glass before

filling it with soap and washing it all over again. "Sweetie, I promise you, I

don't want to think the worst of him—"

She slams the faucet off and whirls to face me. "Did you tell any of this

to Ethan?"

I nod slowly. "Right before I left. He followed me outside."

"And?"

"And . . ."

Her expression clears. "Is that why you haven't talked?"

"He wants to believe his brother is a good guy."

"Yeah. I know the feeling." The seconds tick by, and I don't know what

more I can say to convince her.

"I'm sorry, Ami. I don't know what else to say to make you believe me. I

never wanted—"

"Never wanted what? To ruin things between Dane and me? Between

you and Ethan? That lasted what?" She laughs sharply. "Two whole weeks?

You're always so happy to believe everything just happens to you. 'My life

has turned out the way it has because I'm so unlucky,' " she says,

mimicking me in a dramatically saccharine voice. " 'Bad things happen to

poor Olive, and good things happen to Ami because she's lucky, not

because she's earned them.' "

Her words carry the vague echo of Ethan's, and I'm suddenly angry.

"Wow." I take a step back. "You think I wanted this to happen?"

"I think it's easier for you to believe that when things don't go your way,

it's not because of something you did, it's because you're a pawn in some

cosmic game of chance. But, news flash, Olive: you end up unemployed

and alone because of the choices you make. You've always been this way."

She stares at me, clearly exasperated. "Why try when the universe has

already decided that you'll fail? Why put any effort into relationships when

you already know you're unlucky in love, and they'll end in disaster? Over

and over like a broken record. You never actually try."

My face is hot, and I stand there blinking, mouth open and ready to

respond but absolutely nothing comes out. Ami and I argue sometimes—

that's just what siblings do—but is this what she really thinks of me? She

thinks I don't try? She thinks I'm going to end up unemployed and alone,

and that view of me is only coming out now?

She grabs her things and moves toward the door. "I have to go to work,"

she says, fumbling to slip the strap over her shoulder. "Some of us actually

have things to do."

Ouch. I step forward, reaching out to stop her. "Ami, seriously. Don't

just leave in the middle of this."

"I can't be here. I have to think and I can't do that with you around. I

can't even look at you right now."

She pushes past me. The door opens and then slams shut again, and for

the first time since all this started, I cry.

chapter eighteen

The worst thing about crises is they can't be ignored. I can't just walk

back to bed and crawl under the covers and sleep for the next month,

because at eight in the morning, only an hour after Ami leaves, Tía Maria

texts me to let me know I have to go down to Camelia and talk to David

about a waitressing job.

David is ten years older than I am but has a boyish face and a playful

smile that helps distract me from the throbbing background impulse to pull

all my hair out and fall kicking and screaming to the floor. I've been in

Camelia about a hundred times, but seeing it from the perspective of an

employee is surreal. He shows me my uniform, where the schedule is taped

to the wall in the kitchen, how the flow of traffic moves through the

kitchen, and where the staff meets for dinner before the restaurant opens

each night.

I have years of waitressing under my belt—all of us do, many of them at

one of my cousin David's restaurants—but never at a place this classy. I'll

need to wear black pants and a starched white shirt, with the simple white

apron around my waist. I'll need to memorize the ever-changing menu. I'll

also need to have a training with the sommelier and pastry chef.

I admit to looking forward to these last two things very much.

David introduces me to the rest of the waitstaff—making sure to leave

out the part where I'm his baby cousin—as well as the chefs and sous chefs

and the bartender, who happens to be there doing inventory. My brain is

swimming with all the names and information, so I'm grateful when David

turns and tells me to be here tomorrow night for the staff meeting and

training, starting at four. I'll be shadowing a waiter named Peter, and when

David winks like Peter is cute, my stomach twists because I want to be with

my cute man, the one who won me over with his wit and laugh and—yes,

his biceps and collarbones. But I'm pissed at him, and maybe he's pissed at

me, and for the life of me I have no idea how this is going to shake down.

David must see some reaction in my face because he kisses the top of my

head and says, "I've got you, honey," and I nearly break down in his arms

because whether it's luck or generations of effort and attention ensuring it, I

have a truly amazing family.

It's only noon by the time I'm back home, and it's depressing to register

that I should be halfway into my second workday at Hamilton, meeting new

colleagues, setting up accounts. But I admit there is a tiny glimmer in the

back of my thoughts—it isn't relief, not exactly, but it's not altogether

different from relief, either. It's that I've accepted that it happened—I

messed up, I was fired because of it—and that I'm actually okay with it.

That, thanks to my family, I have a job that can carry me as long as I need it

to, and for the first time in my life I can take the time to figure out what I

want to do.

As soon as I finished grad school, I did a short postdoc and then

immediately entered the pharmaceutical industry, working as the liaison

between the research scientists and medical doctors. I loved being able to

translate the science to more clinical language, but I've never had a job that

felt like joy, either. Talking to Ethan about what he did made me feel like

Dilbert in comparison, and why should I spend my entire life doing

something that doesn't light me on fire like that?

This fresh reminder of Ethan makes me groan, and although I know he's

at work, I pull out my phone and send him a quick text.

I'll be home tonight if you want to

come over.

He replies within a few minutes.

I'll be there around seven.

I know he isn't the most emotionally effusive guy, but the tone of his last

three texts sends me into a weird panic spiral, like it's going to take more

than a conversation to fix whatever is going on with us, even though I

didn't do anything wrong. I have no idea what his perspective is on any of

this. Of course I hope that he believes me, and that he apologizes for last

night, but a tight lead ball in my stomach warns me that it might not go that

way.

Looking at my watch, I see that I have seven hours until Ethan gets here.

I clean, I grocery shop, I nap, I memorize the Camelia menu, I stress-bake .

. . and it only eats up five hours.

Time is inching along. This day is going to last a decade.

I can't call Ami and ramble about any of this, because I'm sure she's still

not speaking to me. How long is she going to keep this up? Is it possible

that she'll believe Dane indefinitely, and I'll have to eat my words even

though—again—I haven't done anything wrong here?

I put the menu down on my coffee table and sprawl on the carpet. The

possibility that this rift between me and Ami could become permanent

makes me light-headed. It would probably be a good idea for me to hang

out with someone for distraction, but Diego, Natalia, and Jules are all at

work, Mom will only worry if she knows what's going on, and calling

anyone else in my family will just result in fifteen people showing up on

my doorstep with sympathy dinner later when Ethan and I are trying to hash

things out.

Thankfully he doesn't make me wait. He comes over right at seven,

holding takeout from Tibet Kitchen that smells so much more appealing

than the pizza I'd ordered for us to share.

"Hey," he says, and gives a little smile. He ducks, like he's going to kiss

my lips, but then makes a detour at the last second, landing on my cheek

instead.

My heart drops.

I step back, letting him in, and it suddenly feels too warm in my

apartment; everything seems too small. I look everywhere but at his face,

because I know if I look at him and get the sense that things between us

really aren't okay, I'm not going to be able to keep myself together for the

conversation we need to have.

It's so weird. He follows me into the kitchen, we make up plates of food,

and then we sit on the floor in the living room, on opposite sides of the

coffee table, facing each other. The silence feels like a huge bubble around

me. For the past week, Ethan has practically lived here. Now it feels like

we're strangers all over again.

He pokes at his rice. "You've barely looked at me since I got here."

The response to this dries up in my throat: Because you kissed my cheek

when you walked in. You didn't pull me against you, or get lost in a long

kiss with me. I feel like I barely had you, and now you're already gone.

So instead of answering aloud, I look up at him for the first time and try

to smile. He registers the failed effort, and it clearly makes him sad. An

ache builds and expands in my throat until I'm honestly not sure I'll be able

to get words around it. I hate this somber dynamic more than I hate the fact

that we're fighting.

"This is so weird," I say. "It would be so much easier to be snarky with

each other."

He nods, poking at his food. "I don't have the energy to be snarky."

"Me either." I really just want to crawl across the floor and into his lap

and have him tease me about my bra being too small or how I couldn't stay

away from him long enough to finish my dinner, but it's like Dane and his

fratty face are just parked here in between us, keeping us from being

normal.

"I talked to Dane last night," he says right then, adding, "late. I went

over there late."

Ami didn't mention this. Did she even know that Ethan stopped by last

night?

"And?" I say quietly. I have no appetite and basically just push a piece of

beef around the plate.

"He was really surprised that that's how you took what he said," Ethan

says.

Acid fills my stomach. "What a shock."

Ethan drops his fork and leans back on both hands, staring at me. "Look,

what am I supposed to do? My girlfriend thinks my brother hit on her, and

he says he didn't. Does it matter who is right here? You're both offended."

At this, I am incredulous. "You're supposed to believe me. And it

absolutely matters who's right here."

"Olive, we've been together for like two weeks," he says helplessly.

It takes a few seconds for me to be able to unscramble the pile of words

that falls into my thoughts. "I'm lying because our relationship is new?"

Sighing, he reaches up, wiping one hand over his face.

"Ethan," I say quietly, "I know what I heard. He propositioned me. I

can't just pretend like he didn't."

"I just don't think he meant what you thought he did. I think you're

primed to think the worst of him."

I blink back down to my plate. It would be so easy to choose to make

peace with Ethan and Ami and just say, "You know what? You're probably

right," and just let it be, because after all this, of course I'm primed to think

the worst of Dane, and I could easily give him a wide berth for the rest of

time. But I can't do that. There are too many red flags—why am I the only

one who can see them? It's not because I am a pessimist or look for the

worst in people; I know that isn't true about me, not anymore. I fell for

Ethan on that island, after all. I'm excited about a job at Camelia so that I

have time to really think about what I want my life to look like. I'm trying

to fix all the parts of me that aren't working because I know I have a choice

in how my life goes—that it isn't all luck—but as soon as I try to be

proactive, it's like no one wants to let me.

And why isn't Dane here with Ethan, trying to make things right with

me? Actually, I know why: He is so sure that no one will believe me, that

everyone will think, Oh, Olive is just being Olive. Just believing the worst

about everyone. My opinions are so inconsequential because in their eyes

I'm always going to be the pessimist.

"Have you talked to Ami?" he asks.

I feel the way heat crawls up my neck and across my face. The fact that

my twin is on Ethan and Dane's side here is truly killing me. I can't even

admit it out loud, so I just nod.

"You told her about him dating other people before they were

exclusive?" he asks. I nod again. "And about yesterday?"

"Yeah."

"I thought you weren't going to say anything to her," he says,

exasperated.

I gape at him. "And I thought Dane wouldn't hit on his wife's sister. I

guess we've both disappointed you."

He stares at me for a long beat. "How did Ami take it?"

My silence clues him in that Ami didn't believe me, either. "She didn't

know about the other women, Ethan. She thinks Dane has been committed

since day one."

Ethan looks at me pityingly and it makes me want to scream. "So you're

not going to be able to move past this?" he asks.

My jaw actually drops. "Which part? My sister's husband cheating on

her before they were married, your brother hitting on me, or my boyfriend

not believing me about any of it?"

His gaze turns back to me, and he looks apologetic but unwavering.

"Again: I don't believe his intent was what you think it was. I don't think

he'd hit on you."

I let him hear the shock in my voice. "Then you're right," I say. "I'll

have a hard time moving past this."

When he leans forward, I think he's going to dig into his plate, but

instead he pushes to stand. "I really like you," he says quietly. He closes his

eyes and drags a hand through his hair. "I am crazy about you, actually."

My heart twists, painfully. "Then take a step back and look at this

situation from a different angle," I plead. "What do I have to gain from

lying about Dane?"

We've had so many disagreements, and they all seem so hilariously

minor in hindsight. The cheese curds, the airplane, the Hamiltons, Sophie,

the Skittle dress. I get it now—that all of those were opportunities for us to

have contact with each other. This is the first time we've been at a true

impasse and I know what he's going to say before he even gets the words

out.

"I think we should probably break up, Olive. I'm sorry."

chapter nineteen

It's the quiet before the dinner rush, and I'm doing the final check of my

section. Natalia is the fourth family member this week to just happen to

stop by Camelia at exactly four o'clock. She said she wanted to say hi to

David because she hasn't seen him in forever, but I know that's bullshit

because Diego—who came by yesterday to hassle me using a similarly

flimsy story—said both David and Natalia were at Tía María's less than a

week ago.

As much as the size and presence of my family can feel oppressive at

times, it's the greatest comfort I have right now. Even if I pretend to be

annoyed that they're constantly checking up on me, they all see through it.

Because if it were any of them struggling—and it has been, many times—I

would find a reason to drop by at four o'clock wherever they work, too.

"Mama, when we're sad, we eat," Natalia says, following me with a

plate of food as I adjust the placement of two wineglasses on a table.

"I know," I tell her. "But I swear, I can't eat anymore."

"You're starting to look like a bobble-headed Selena Gomez." She

pinches my waist. "I don't like it."

The family knows Ethan broke up with me, and that Ami and I are

"arguing" (although there's nothing active about it; I called her a few times

after our big blow-up, and two weeks later she has yet to return any of my

calls). In the past ten days, I've been bombarded with well-meaning texts

and my fridge is completely packed with food that Mom brings daily from

Tío Omar, Ximena, Natalia, Cami, Miguel, Tío Hugo, Stephanie, Tina—

almost as if they've made a Feed Olive calendar. My family feeds people;

it's what they do. Apparently my missing Sunday dinner for two weeks in a

row—because of work—has gotten the entire family on high alert, and it's

driving them all crazy not knowing what's going on. I can't blame them; if

Jules, or Natalia, or Diego went into hiding, I'd be out of my mind worried.

But it isn't my story to share; I wouldn't know how to tell them what is

happening, and according to Tío Hugo, who came by yesterday to "Um, get

a business card for an insurance agent from David," Ami won't talk about

it, either.

"I saw Ami yesterday," Natalia says now, and then pauses long enough

for me to stop fussing with the table settings and look up at her.

"How is she?" I can't help the tight lean to my words. I miss my sister so

much, and it's wrecking me that she isn't speaking to me. It's like missing a

limb. Every day I get so close to caving, to saying, 'You're probably right,

Dane didn't do anything wrong," but the words just won't come out, even

when I test the lie out in front of the mirror. It sticks in my throat, and I get

hot and tight all over and feel like I'm going to cry. Nothing all that terrible

even happened to me—other than losing my job, my sister, and my

boyfriend in a twenty-four-hour period—but I still feel a kind of burning

anger toward Dane, as if he slapped me with his own hand.

Natalia shrugs and picks a piece of lint off my collar. "She seemed

stressed. She was asking me about someone named Trinity."

"Trinity?" I repeat, digging around in my thoughts to figure out why the

name sounds familiar.

"Apparently Dane had a few texts from her, and Ami saw them on his

phone."

I cover my mouth. "Like sexy texts?" I am both devastated and hopeful

if this is true: I want Ami to believe me, but I'd rather be wrong about all of

it than have her go through that pain.

"I guess she just asked if he wanted to hang out, and Dane was like

'Nah, I'm busy' but Ami was pissed that he was texting a woman at all."

"Oh my God, I think Trinity was the girl with the mango butt tattoo."

Natalia grins. "I think I read that book."

This makes me laugh, and the sensation is like clearing away cobwebs

from a dark corner of a room. "Ethan mentioned someone named Trinity.

She—"

I stop. I haven't told anyone in my family about what Ethan told me. I

could try to blow Dane's entire cover story if I wanted, but what good

would that do? I don't have any proof that he was seeing other women

before he married Ami. I don't have any proof that he propositioned me in

the bar. I just have my reputation as a pessimist, and I don't want my entire

family looking at me the way Ethan did when he registered that even my

twin sister thinks I'm making this all up.

"She what?" Natalia presses when I've fallen quiet.

"Never mind."

"Okay," she says, fired up now, "what is going on? You and your sister

are being so weird lately, and—"

I shake my head, feeling the tears pressing in from the back of my eyes. I

can't do this before my shift. "I can't, Nat. I just need you to be there for

Ami, okay?"

She nods without hesitation.

"I don't know who Trinity is," I say, and take a deep breath, "but I don't

trust Dane at all anymore."

• • •

AFTER MIDNIGHT, I DRAG MY bag from my locker in the back room and sling it

over my shoulder. I don't even bother to look at my phone. Ami isn't

texting, Ethan isn't calling, and there's nothing I can say in reply to the

forty other messages on my screen every time I look.

But halfway to my car, it chimes. It's a brief flurry of bells and rotors

and change falling: the sound of a jackpot. Ami's text tone.

It's ten below outside, and I'm in a black skirt and thin white buttondown,

but I stop where I am anyway and pull my phone from my bag. Ami

has sent me a screencap of Dane's text list, and there are the usual suspects

—Ami and Ethan and some of Dane's friends—but there are also names

like Cassie and Trinity and Julia. Ami's text says,

Is this what you were talking about?

I don't know how to answer. Of course my gut tells me that those are all

women Dane has slept with, but how would I know? They could be work

colleagues. I bite my lip, typing with frigid fingers.

I have no idea who they are.

I don't have a list of names. If I did, I

would have shown it to you.

I wait for her to start typing again, but she doesn't, and I'm freezing, so I

climb into my car and crank the heat as high as it will go.

But about three blocks from my apartment complex, my phone chimes

again, and I pull over with a sharp jerk of my steering wheel.

Dane left his phone here yesterday.

I spent like two hours trying to guess

his passcode, and it's fucking "1111."

I bite back a laugh and stare at the screen hungrily: she's still typing.

I sent myself all the screenshots.

All the messages from these women

are asking the same thing—whether

Dane wants to hang out. Is that code

for a booty call?

I blink at the screen. Is she serious?

Ami, you know what I think already.

Ollie what if you were right?

What if he's cheating on me?

What if he's been cheating on me this

whole time?

A fracture forms right down the middle of my heart. Half of it belongs to

my sister, for what she's about to go through; the other half will always

keep beating for myself even when no one else will.

I'm sorry Ami. I wish I knew what to

say.

Should I answer one of the texts?

I stare at the screen for a beat.

On his phone?

As Dane?

Yes.

I mean, you could.

If you don't think you'll get an honest

answer from him.

I wait. My heart is in my throat, clawing its way up.

I'm scared.

I don't want to be right about this.

I know, honey.

For what it's worth, I don't either.

I'm going to do it tonight.

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and let it out slowly. Somehow,

being believed at last doesn't feel nearly as good as I'd hoped it would.

I'm here if you need me.

• • •

ALTHOUGH I'D HAD TWO MONTHS of unemployment not too long ago, I spent

most of that time hunting for jobs or helping Ami prepare for the wedding,

so now, keeping busy during the day has become so much more important.

Because if I don't, I think about Ethan. Or Ami.

I don't hear from her the entire next day, and there's a knot in my

stomach the size of Texas. I want to know how things went with Dane last

night. I want to know whether she's replied to the texts or confronted him,

and what happened. I feel protective, and worried for her, but there's

literally nothing I can do, and I can't call Ethan, either, because we all know

he's on the Dane Train until the end of the tracks.

Given that I'm off tonight, getting out of my apartment—and my head—

becomes a priority. I dread going to the gym, but whenever I get in front of

the punching bag, I'm amazed how much better I feel. I've started walking

dogs at the local Humane Society and have a new golden retriever buddy

named Skipper that I'm considering bringing home for Mom as a surprise—

whether it would be a good surprise or a bad one I'm not sure, which is why

I'm still considering it. I help a few of my neighbors shovel their walkways,

go to a talk on art and medicine at the Walker Art Center, and meet Diego

for a late lunch.

He hasn't heard from Ami today, either.

It's strange to realize that as soon as I got off the career treadmill, my life

suddenly started to feel like mine again. I feel like I can look up for the first

time in a decade. I can breathe. There's a reason Ethan didn't know much

about my job: I never talked about it. It was what I did, not who I was. And

even though many of my breaths ache—because I miss Ethan, I do, I miss

him so much it hurts—not having the weight of a corporate job on my

shoulders is an unbelievable relief. I never knew I was this person. I feel

more myself than I've ever been.

Ami calls at five, when I've just walked in my front door and am making

a beeline for the lint roller; Skipper is a shedder, even in early February. I

haven't heard her voice in two weeks, and I can hear the way my own

shakes when I answer.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Ollie."

I leave a long, quiet pause. "Hey, Ami."

Her voice comes out thick and strangled. "I'm really sorry."

I have to swallow a few times to get past the clog of emotions in my

throat. "Are you okay?"

"No," she says, and then, "but yes. Do you want to come over tonight? I

made lasagna."

I chew my lip for a few beats. "Is Dane going to be there?"

"He'll be here later," she admits. "Please Ollie? I really want you to be

here tonight."

There's something about the way she's said it that makes me feel like it's

more than just sister-reconnecting time. "Okay, I'll be over in twenty."

• • •

I LOOK AT MYSELF IN the mirror every day, so it shouldn't be so jarring to see

Ami standing on her porch waiting for me, but it is. We've never gone two

weeks without seeing each other—even in college. I was at the U, she was

at St. Thomas, and even in the busiest week, we still saw each other at

dinner on Sundays.

I wrap my arms around her as tight as they'll go and squeeze even tighter

when I can tell she's crying. It feels like that first inhale after holding my

breath as long as I can.

"I missed you," she says through a sob into my shoulder.

"I missed you more."

"This sucks," she says.

"I know." I pull back, wiping her face. "How are you?"

"I'm . . ." She trails off, and then we sort of stand there, grinning at each

other through the telepathy because the answer is obvious: My wedding was

ruined by ciguatera toxin, I missed my honeymoon, and now my husband

may be cheating on me. "I'm alive."

"Is he home?"

"Work." She straightens, taking a deep breath and pulling herself

together. "He'll be home around seven."

She turns and leads me inside. I love their house—it's so open and

bright, and I'm grateful that Ami has such a strong decorating sense

because I assume if it was left up to Dane, the decor would be a lot of

Vikings purple, dart boards, and maybe some hipster leather couches and a

craft cocktail cart that he'd never use.

Ami moves to the kitchen, pouring us each a big glass of wine.

I laugh when she hands mine to me. "Oh, so it's that kind of night."

She nods, smiling even though I can tell there's nothing happy

happening in her body right now. "You have no idea."

I still feel like I have to tiptoe around the topic, but I can't help but ask,

"Did you take his phone last night? What's the latest?"

"Yeah. I took his phone." Ami takes a long drink and then looks at me

over the rim of her glass. "I'll tell you all about it later." She tilts her head,

indicating that I should follow her into the family room, where she's already

got our plates of lasagna set up on two TV trays.

"Well, this looks comfy," I tell her.

She curtsies, flops down onto the couch, and hits play on The Big Sick.

We missed it in the theater and kept meaning to watch it, so there's a sweet

little ache that rises in my throat knowing that she waited to see it with me.

The lasagna is perfect, the movie is wonderful, and I almost forget that

Dane lives here. But then an hour into the movie, the front door opens.

Ami's entire demeanor shifts. She sits up, hands on her thighs, and takes a

deep breath.

"You okay?" I whisper. Am I here for moral support while she confronts

her husband? I can't decide whether that will be fantastic or excruciating or

both.

I hear Dane drop his keys on the counter, shuffle through the mail, and

then call out, "Hey, babe."

"Hey, honey," she calls back, brightly, falsely, and it is so incongruous

with the bleak way she looks at me.

My stomach drops in a weird burst of anticipatory stress, and then Dane

is there in the doorway. He sounds surprised and displeased. "Oh. Hey,

Olive."

I don't bother turning around. "Go to hell, Dane."

Ami chokes on her wine and then looks at me, eyes shining with

amusement and tension. "Honey, there's lasagna in the oven if you want

some."

I can feel him still looking at the back of my head—I know he is—but he

just stands behind me for a few more seconds before saying quietly, "Okay,

I'll grab some and leave you two to it."

"Thanks, hon!" Ami calls out.

She glances at her watch and then reaches for the remote, turning the

volume down. "I'm so nervous, I'm nauseated."

"Ami," I say, leaning in, "what's going on?"

"I texted them," she says, and my jaw drops. "I'm screaming inside." I

see it, too—the tightness around her eyes, the way I can tell she's holding

back tears. "I had to do it this way."

"Do what exactly, Ami?" I ask.

But before she can answer, the doorbell rings.

Ami's attention shoots over my shoulder, toward the door leading to the

kitchen, and we listen as Dane walks across the tile entryway to answer it.

Slowly, so slowly I can see she's shaking, Ami stands.

"Come on," she says quietly to me, and then she calls out to Dane with a

calm clarity I can't believe, "Who's at the door?"

I follow Ami out just as Dane is frantically trying to guide a woman back

outside, and my blood pressure drops.

Did she text the women as Dane, and invite them here?

"Who is it, honey?" Ami repeats, innocently.

The woman pushes past Dane. "Who's that?"

"I'm his wife, Ami." Ami stretches out her hand. "Which one are you?"

"Which one am I?" the woman repeats, too thunderstruck to return

Ami's handshake. She glances at Dane, and her face pales, too. "I'm

Cassie."

Dane turns, ashen, and stares at my sister. "Babe."

For once, I see Ami's jaw twitch at the pet name, and I want to shoot a

rocket of joy into the sky because I knew she hated it and just pretended to

like it! Twin powers for the win!

"Excuse me, Dane," Ami says sweetly, "I'm in the middle of introducing

myself to one of your girlfriends."

I can see the panic in his eyes. "Babe, this totally isn't what you think."

"What do I think it is, babe?" she asks, eyes wide with faux-curiosity.

Another car pulls into the driveway, and a woman slowly emerges,

taking in the scene in front of her. She looks like she just got off work: she's

wearing nurse's scrubs and her hair is in a bun. It occurs to me that this is

not how you dress for someone you're trying to impress; it's how you dress

for someone you've known for a long time and are comfortable around.

I can't help but glare at Dane. What a complete dirtbag.

Ami looks at me over her shoulder and says to me, "That must be

Trinity."

Oh my God. My sister is currently blowing up Dane's game, and she

doesn't even need a checklist to do it. This is nuclear-level madness.

Dane pulls Ami aside, leaning down to meet her eyes. "Hey. What are

you doing, hon?"

"I thought I should meet them." Her chin shakes, and it's painful to

watch. "I saw the messages on your phone."

"I haven't—" he starts.

"Yeah," Cassie says quietly. "You have. Last week." She looks at Ami,

then at me. "I didn't know he was married. I swear I had no idea."

She turns and makes her way back to her car, passing the other woman,

who's stopped several yards away. I can tell from Trinity's expression that

she's figured out what's happening here.

"You're married," she says flatly, from a distance.

"He's married," Ami confirms.

Trinity looks back at Dane when he sits down on the doorstep and puts

his face in his hands. "Dane," she says. "This is so fucked up."

He nods. "I'm sorry."

To her credit, Trinity looks directly at Ami. "We haven't been together in

a while, if that helps."

"What's 'a while'?" Ami asks.

Trinity lifts a shoulder, drops it. "Five months or so."

Ami nods, breathing deep and fast, struggling to not cry.

"Ami," I say, "go inside. Lie down. I'll be in in a second."

She turns and quickly dodges Dane's outstretched hand as she passes. A

car door slams down at the street and my heart lurches—how many more

women are going to show up tonight?

But it isn't another woman. It's Ethan. He's coming from work, wearing

fitted gray pants and a blue dress shirt, looking good enough to climb.

I'm shell-shocked by what's happening and trying to keep my shit

together so I can be strong for Ami, but I still feel like I've been turned

inside out at the sight of him.

"Oh," Ami says from the door, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I

invited Ethan, too, Ollie. I think he owes you an apology." And then she

quietly closes the front door behind her.

Trinity meets my eyes and gives me a dry smile. "Good luck with this."

Looking down at Dane, she says, "I thought it was weird that you texted me

to come over after disappearing months ago." She gnaws her lip, looking

more disgusted than upset. "I hope she leaves you." With that, she climbs

into her car and pulls out of the driveway.

Ethan has stopped a few feet away to watch this interaction, his brows

furrowed in recognition. He turns his attention to me. "Olive? What's going

on here?"

"I think you know what's going on here."

Dane looks up, eyes red and swollen. Apparently he'd been crying

behind that hand. "Ami invited them here, I guess." He lifts his hands,

defeated. "Holy shit, I can't believe what just happened."

Ethan looks at me again and then back to his brother. "But you weren't

still . . . ? "

"Only a couple times with Cassie," Dane says.

"And Trinity about five months ago," I add helpfully. This moment is in

no way about me and Ethan, but I can't help giving him my best I told you

so face.

Dane groans. "I'm such an idiot."

I can see when Ethan realizes what he's hearing. It's like an invisible fist

punches him in the chest, and he takes a step back before looking up at me

with the clarity he should have had two weeks ago.

God, it should be satisfying, but it isn't. Nothing about this feels good.

"Olive," he says quietly, voice thick with apology.

"Don't," I say. I have a sister inside who needs me and have zero time

for him or his worthless brother. "Take Dane with you when you go."

Turning, I walk back into the house and don't even look back at Ethan as

I close the door behind me.

chapter twenty

It's a few hours before I get—and ignore—a call from Ethan. I can only

assume he's been busy dealing with Dane, but I am also dealing with Dane,

just less directly: I am packing up all of his clothes. And I can feel the

intensity of Ami's desire to get him out of the house because for maybe the

first time in her life, it doesn't even occur to her to look for a coupon before

she sends me off to buy a giant stack of boxes at Menards.

I didn't want to leave her alone while I ran out, so I called Mom, who

brought Natalia, Jules, Diego, and Stephanie, who apparently texted Tío

Omar and his daughter Tina to bring more wine. Tina and Tío Omar also

brought cookies—along with a whole carload of cousins—so, faster than

you can say Good riddance, dirtbag, there are twenty-two of us working on

packing up every personal trace of Dane Thomas and putting each box in

the garage.

Exhausted but accomplished, we all land on whatever empty, flat surface

we can find in the living room, and it already feels like we have jobs: mine

is to cuddle Ami, Natalia's is to keep her wineglass full, Mom's is to rub her

feet, Tío Omar's is to refresh the plate of cookies every now and then, Jules

and Diego are handling the music, Tina is pacing the room, detailing

precisely how she's going to castrate Dane, and everyone else is cooking

enough food for the next month.

"Are you going to divorce him?" Steph asks, carefully, and everyone

waits for Mom to gasp . . . but she doesn't.

Ami nods, her face in her wineglass, and Mom pipes up, "Of course

she's going to divorce him."

We all stare at her, stunned, and finally she sighs in exasperation. "Ya

basta! You think my daughter is dumb enough to get tangled up in the same

stupid game her parents have been playing for two decades?"

Ami and I look at each other, and then burst out laughing. After a heavy

beat of incredulous silence, the entire room follows suit, and finally even

Mom is laughing, too.

In my pocket, my phone rings again. I peek but don't get it hidden again

fast enough because Ami catches a peek at my contact photo for Ethan on

the screen before I can decline the call.

Tipsy now, she leans into me. "Aw, that was a good picture. Where did

you take that?"

It's honestly a little painful to recall that day, when Ethan and I rented

the hideous lime-green Mustang and drove along the Maui coastline,

becoming friends for the first time. He kissed me that night. "That was at

the Nakalele blowhole," I tell her.

"Was it pretty?"

"It was," I say quietly. "Unbelievable, really. The entire trip was. Thank

you, by the way."

Ami squeezes her eyes closed. "I am so glad Dane and I didn't go."

Staring at her, I ask, "Seriously?"

"Why would I regret missing it now? We would have had even more

good memories ruined. I should have known it was a bad omen when

literally everyone but you and Ethan got sick at the wedding." She turns her

glassy eyes up to me. "It was a sign from the universe—"

"Dios," Mom interjects.

Diego holds up a finger. "Beyoncé."

"—that you and Ethan are the ones who should be together," Ami slurs.

"Not me and Dane."

"I agree," Mom says.

"So do I," Tío Omar calls from the kitchen.

I hold up my hands to stop them all. "I don't think Ethan and I are going

to happen, guys."

My phone rings again, and Ami stares right at me, eyes suddenly clear.

"He's always been the good brother, hasn't he?"

"He's been the good brother," I agree, "but not the best boyfriend or the

best brother-in-law." I lean forward, kissing her nose. "You, on the other

hand, are the best wife, sister, and daughter. And you are very loved."

"I agree," Mom says again.

"So do I," Diego says, lying across our laps.

"So do I," a chorus calls from the kitchen.

• • •

THE GOOD BROTHER CONTINUES TO call me a few times a day for the next

several days, and then transitions to texts that say simply,

I'm sorry.

Olive, please call.

I feel like such an enormous jerk.

When I don't respond to any of them, he seems to take the hint and stops

trying to get in touch with me, but I'm not sure if that's better or worse. At

least when he was calling and texting I knew he was thinking about me.

Now he might be focused on moving on, and I'm so conflicted over how

that makes me feel.

On the one hand, screw him for not having my back, for enabling his

brother to be a terrible boyfriend/husband, for being obstinately obtuse

about a serial cheater. But on the other hand, what would I do in the same

situation to protect Ami? Would it be hard to see her as sketchy the same

way it was hard for Ethan to see Dane?

On top of that, Ethan was so perfect in all other respects: witty, playful,

infatuated, and stellar in bed—it honestly feels so crappy to lose my

boyfriend because we disagreed with a fight that didn't even involve us,

really, rather than because we weren't a good fit.

We were a great fit. Our ending—by contrast—still seems so jagged and

unfinished.

About a week after Dane leaves, I move out of my apartment and into

Ami's house. Ami doesn't particularly want to be alone, and it works for

me, too: I like the idea of saving to buy a place of my own or having some

extra in the bank for an adventure once I figure out what kind of adventure I

want to have. I see all these choices unrolling in front of me—career, travel,

friends, geography—and despite things being insane and hard and messy, I

don't think I've ever liked myself more than I do now. It's the strangest

feeling to be proud simply because I'm taking care of me and mine. Is this

what it's like to grow up?

Ami is so oddly, constitutionally solid that once Dane picks up his stuff

from the garage and officially moves out, she seems mostly fine. It's almost

as if the knowledge that he is trash is enough for her to get over him. The

divorce doesn't seem like a wild good time, but she plugs ahead through her

Divorce Checklist with the same calm determination with which she sent in

the thousand sweepstakes entries to win the honeymoon.

"I'm going to have dinner with Ethan tomorrow," she says out of the

blue while I make us pancakes for dinner.

I flip one badly, and it folds in half, batter oozing onto the lip of the pan.

"Why would you do that?"

"Because he asked me," she says, like it's obvious, "and I can tell he

feels bad. I don't want to punish him for Dane's sins."

I frown at her. "That's big of you, but you know you could still punish

Ethan for Ethan's sins."

"He didn't hurt me." Ami stands to refill her glass of water. "He hurt

you, and I'm sure he wants to own that, too, but that's between the two of

you, and you have to answer his calls first."

"I don't have to do anything where Ethan Thomas is concerned."

Ami's silence leaves my words to echo back to me, and I realize how

they sound. So unforgiving but . . . familiar. I haven't felt like that version

of myself in so long, and I don't like it.

"Well," I amend, "tell me how dinner goes, and I'll decide if he deserves

a phone call."

• • •

FROM WHAT I CAN TELL, Ami and Ethan had a great time at dinner. He

showed her photos from our Maui trip, ate a sufficient amount of the blame

for Dane's past behavior, and generally charmed her senseless.

"Yeah, he's really good at being charming over dinner," I tell her,

aggressively unloading the dishwasher. "Remember the Hamiltons in

Maui?"

"He told me about that," Ami says, and laughs. "Something about being

invited to a club where they look at labia in mirrors." She drinks from her

wineglass. "I didn't ask for clarification. He misses you."

I try to pretend like this doesn't absolutely thrill me, but I'm sure my

sister sees straight through that nonsense.

"Do you miss him?" she asks.

"Yes." There's no purpose in lying. "A lot. But I opened my heart to

him, and he pinched it." I close the dishwasher and lean against the counter

to face her. "I'm not sure if I'm the kind of person who can open back up

again."

"I think you are."

"But if I'm not," I say, "then I think that means I'm smart, right?"

Ami smiles at me, but it's her new, restrained smile and it wrecks me a

little. Dane killed something in her, some optimistic, innocent light, and it

makes me want to scream. And then the irony hits me: I don't want to let

Ethan make me cynical again. I like my new optimistic and innocent light.

"I want you to know I'm proud of you," she says. "I see all the changes

you're making."

My life feels like mine again, but I didn't know I needed her to

acknowledge it. I take her hand, giving it a little squeeze. "Thank you."

"We're both growing up. Holding some people accountable for their

choices, letting other people make amends for theirs . . ." She lets the

sentence trail off and gives me a little grin. Very subtle, Ami.

"Wouldn't it be weird for you if Ethan and I got back together?" I ask.

She shakes her head and quickly swallows another sip of wine before

saying, "No, actually, it would make me feel like everything that happened

in the past three years happened for a reason." Ami blinks away, almost like

she doesn't want to admit this next part but can't help herself. "I'm always

going to want there to be a reason for it."

I know now that it's a waste of my time looking for reasons, or fate, or

luck. But I've definitely come to embrace choices in the past month or so,

and I'm going to have to figure out which one I'll make where Ethan is

concerned—do I forgive him, or do I walk away?

• • •

THE NIGHT THAT A CHOICE is put directly in front of me, the unexpected and

terrible happens: I am happily working a dinner shift when Charlie and

Molly Hamilton are seated in my section.

I can't blame the hostess, Shellie, because how would she know that this

is perhaps the most awkward dining party she could give me? But the

moment I approach the table and they look up, we all fall into a corpse-level

silence.

"Oh," I say. "Hi."

Mr. Hamilton does a double take over the top of his menu. "Olive?"

I enjoy waitressing so much more than I ever expected, but I admit I

don't enjoy the tiny wince that snags his shoulder when he registers that I'm

not just coming up to his table to say hello, but I am in fact here to serve his

dinner. This is going to be awkward for all of us.

"Mr. Hamilton, Mrs. Hamilton, good to see you." I smile, nodding to

each of them. Inside, I am screaming like a woman being chased with a

chainsaw in a horror movie. "I'm supposed to be serving you this evening,

but I expect that we would all feel more comfortable if you were put in

someone else's section?"

Mr. Hamilton gives me an easy, generous grin. "I'm okay with this if you

are, Olive."

Ah, but there's the kicker: I am not.

Molly looks at him, brows pulled low. "I think she's trying to say she

would be more comfortable not having to serve the man who fired her on

her first day of work."

My eyes go wide. Is Molly Hamilton on Team Olive here?

I smile again at her, then him, struggling to keep a bit of professional

distance. "It will just take a moment to get you set up. We've got a beautiful

table right by the window for you."

With pinpricks all down my neck—and Molly's hissed "Are you pleased

with yourself now, Charles? You are still trying to fill that position!"

echoing in my ear—I hustle over to Shellie, tell her the situation, and she

quickly shuffles a few reservations around.

They're moved, given a free appetizer, and I exhale an enormous breath.

Dodged that bullet!

But then I return to my section to find that Ethan Thomas is seated at the

table in their place.

He's alone and wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt with a vibrant plastic lei,

and when I approach the table, mouth agape, I realize that he's brought his

own glass: a plastic fluted cocktail cup with a giant 1.99 sticker on it.

"What in God's name am I seeing?" I ask, aware that at least half of the

diners and much of the restaurant staff is watching us.

It's almost like they all knew he'd be here.

"Hi, Olive," he says quietly. "I, um . . ." He laughs, and seeing him

nervous does wiggly, protective things to me. "I was wondering whether

you served mai tais here?"

I say the first thing that comes to mind: "Are you drunk?"

"I'm trying to grand-gesture. For the right person. Remember when we

had delicious mai tais?" He nods to the cup.

"Of course I remember."

"That day, I believe, was the day I fell in love with you."

I turn and glare at Shellie, but she won't meet my eyes. The kitchen staff

scurries back into the kitchen. David pretends to be engrossed in something

on an iPad near the water pitchers, and if I didn't know better, I'd think that

was Ami's flash of dark hair darting down the hall to the bathroom.

"You fell in love with me?" I whisper, handing him a menu in a pathetic

attempt to make it look like there's nothing to see here.

"I did," he says. "And I miss you, so much. I wanted to tell you how

sorry I am."

"Here?" I ask.

"Here."

"While I'm working?"

"While you're working."

"Are you just going to repeat everything I say?"

He tries to wrestle his smile under control but I can see how much this

exchange lights him up inside.

I try to pretend it doesn't do the same to me. Ethan is here. Ethan

Thomas is grand-gesturing in an ugly shirt, with a fake mai tai glass. It's

taking my brain a little time to catch up to my heart, which is currently

jackhammering away beneath my breastbone.

It's beating so hard, in fact, that my voice shakes. "Did you coordinate

with the Hamiltons for maximum effect here?"

"The Hamiltons?" he asks, and turns to follow my eyes over to their

table. "Oh!" Ducking, he glances up at me, eyes comically wide. As if

there's anywhere to hide in that shirt? Oh, Ethan. "Wow," he whispers.

"They're here? That is . . . a coincidence. And awkward."

"That's awkward?" I look with meaning at his bright shirt and his Day-

Glo green cup in the middle of the classy, muted dining room of Camelia.

But instead of looking embarrassed, Ethan straightens, growling a quiet

"Oh, you're ready for awkward?" He reaches up to begin unbuttoning his

shirt.

"What are you doing?" I hiss. "Ethan! Keep your clothes—"

He shrugs out of it, grinning, and words immediately fall away. Because

beneath his Hawaiian shirt he's wearing a shiny green tank top that strongly

resembles . . .

"Tell me that's not," I say, biting back a laugh that is so enormous, I'm

not sure I'm big enough to contain it.

"It was Julieta's," Ethan confirms, and looks down at his chest. "We had

it made out of her dress. Yours is, presumably, still intact in your closet."

"I burned it," I tell him, and he looks like he's going to vehemently

protest this decision. "Okay, fine, I didn't. I planned to." I can't help but

reach out and touch the slippery satin. "I didn't realize you were attached to

it."

"Of course I am. The only thing better than you in that dress was you out

of it." Ethan stands, and now everyone is really looking at him. He's tall,

hot, and wearing a shiny green tank top that leaves nothing to the

imagination. Ethan is in great shape, but still . . .

"That really is a terrible color," I say.

He laughs, giddy. "I know."

"Like, it says a lot that even someone as cute as you can't pull it off."

I watch his smile turn into something heated and seductive. "You think

I'm cute?"

"In a gross way."

He laughs at this, and it honestly sends a sharp pang through my chest

how much I love that smile, on this face. "Cute in a gross way. Okay."

"You're the worst," I growl, but I'm grinning and don't pull away when

he slides his hand to my hip.

"Maybe so," he agrees, "but remember what I told you about my penny?

How it isn't so much that the penny itself is lucky, but it reminds me of

times when good things happened?" He gestures to the shirt and waggles

his eyebrows. "I want you back. Olivia."

"Ethan," I whisper, and dart my eyes around, feeling the pressure of

everyone's attention on us, still. This moment is starting to feel like a

reconciliation, and as much as my heart and lungs and lady parts are on

board for that, I don't want to roll over the deeper issue here, which is that

what he did by ignoring my truth wasn't okay. "You really hurt me. We had

this rare, awesome honesty, and so when you thought I was lying, it was

really hard."

"I know." He bends so that his lips are right near my ear. "I should have

listened to you. I should have listened to my own instincts. I'm going to feel

shitty about that for a long time."

There are two responses in me. One is a joyful Okay then, let's do this!

and the other is a fearful Oh hell no. The first feels breezy and light, the

second feels comforting and familiar and safe. As good as it feels to be

careful, and to risk boredom and loneliness over heartache, I don't

particularly want comfortable and safe anymore.

"I guess you deserve another chance," I tell him, only inches away from

his kiss. "You do give a great massage."

His smile comes to rest on mine and the entire restaurant erupts. All

around us, people stand from their chairs and I look up, realizing that men

in the corner were Dad and Diego in wigs, and the table of women in the

back was Mom, Tía María, Ximena, Jules, and Natalia. The woman in the

hallway to the bathroom really was Ami, and the restaurant is filled with

my family, who are all standing and clapping like I'm the luckiest woman

alive. And maybe I am.

Looking over, I see the Hamiltons near the window, standing and

clapping, too. I suspect that they didn't just show up here tonight—that Ami

got them here so they could see that what they endured with us in Maui

resulted in something enduring between me and Ethan here tonight—but in

the end it doesn't matter.

I don't think I've ever imagined happiness like this.

Luck, fate, determination—whatever it is, I'll take it. I pull Ethan down

to me, feeling the slippery slide of his tank top under my hands and my

laugh echoing into our kiss.

epilogue

Two years later

Ethan

"Man, he is out."

"Is he drooling?"

"He's a cute sleeper. But deep, wow. I bet people drew on his face in

college."

"Not usually this deep." A pause. I try to open my eyes but the fog of

sleep is still too heavy. "I'm tempted to lick his face to wake him up. Would

that be mean?"

"Yes."

Many have said that my girlfriend and her sister are so similar that even

their voices sound the same, but after two years with her, I can distinguish

Olive's easily. Both voices are soft, with an almost imperceptible accent,

but Olive's is huskier, slightly scratchy around the edges, like she doesn't

use it much. Always the listener with most people; the observer.

"Lucas?" It's Ami's voice again, wavy and slow, as if coming through

water. "Can you carry him off the plane if we need to?"

"Doubtful."

I am jostled. A hand comes up to my shoulder, sliding up my neck to my

cheek. "Ethannnnn. This is your faaaaather. We are laaaaanding."

It isn't my father, in fact; it's Olive, speaking through her fist directly

into my ear. I drag myself out of sleep with intense effort, blinking. The seat

in front of me comes into blurry focus; the surface of my eyes feel syrupy.

"He lives!" Olive leans over into my field of vision, and grins. "Hi."

"Hi." I lift a heavy hand and rub my face, trying to clear the fog.

"We're almost on the ground," she says.

"I swear I just fell asleep."

"Eight hours ago," she tells me. "Whatever Dr. Lucas gave you worked

well."

I lean forward, looking past Olive in the middle seat and Ami on the aisle

to where Ami's new boyfriend—and my longtime friend and physician,

Lucas Khalif—sits on the other aisle seat. "I think you gave me a dose for a

horse."

He lifts his chin. "You're a lightweight."

I fall back against the seat, preparing to close my eyes again, but Olive

reaches for me, turning my face to the window so I'll look. The view sucks

the breath out of my throat; the intensity of color is like a slap. I missed this

the first time we came to Maui, spending the entire flight pretending to not

look at Olive's boobs through my anxiety haze, but below us, the Pacific

Ocean is a sapphire, resting on the horizon. The sky is so blue it's nearly

neon; only a handful of wispy clouds are brave enough to block the view.

"Holy shit," I say.

"Told you." She leans in, kissing my cheek. "You okay?"

"Groggy."

Olive reaches up and tweaks my ear. "Perfect, because first up is a dip in

the ocean. That'll wake you up."

Ami dances in her seat, and I glance at my girlfriend as she takes in her

sister's reaction. Ami's excitement is infectious, but Olive's is nearly

blinding. Things were hard for her for a long time after losing her job, but it

also gave her a clarity she'd never had before. She realized that, while she

loved science, she didn't particularly love her job. While waiting tables at

Camelia, she served a woman who ran a nonprofit health advocacy center.

After a long meal peppered with intense, enthusiastic conversations while

Olive worked a busy dinner shift, Ruth hired Olive as her community

education coordinator, in charge of speaking at schools, church groups,

retirement communities, and businesses about the science behind vaccines.

She gets to geek out all over the Midwest about the flu vaccine now.

When she found out where the National Community Health Awareness

winter conference would be this year—Maui—we knew it was fate: We

owed Ami a trip to the island.

The landing gear lowers; the plane crosses the coastline and then sweeps

over the lush landscape of the island. I glance down my row to where Ami

has reached across the aisle to hold Lucas's hand. It's fitting that her first

time in Maui should be with someone who adores her with as much

devotion as he does.

And it's fitting that this time Olive and I are headed to Maui, I've got a

real ring in my pocket.

• • •

DAY TWO AND IT TOOK some convincing to get Ami to agree to go zip-lining.

For one, it wasn't free. And also, zip-lining essentially requires jumping

from a platform, trusting the harness, and flying through the air while

hoping there really is a platform on the other side. For a woman like Ami,

who relishes keeping a stranglehold on all of the variables possible at any

given moment, zip-lining isn't ideal.

But it's one of the few things Olive and I didn't get to do on our first trip,

and my girlfriend would hear no dissent. She did the research for the best

location, bought the tickets, and now ushers us up to the platform for our

first jump with a no-nonsense wave of her hand.

"Step right up," she says.

Ami peers over the edge of the platform and then immediately takes a

step back. "Wow. It's high."

"That's a good thing," Olive reassures her. "It would be way less fun to

do this from the ground."

Ami stares flatly at her.

"Look at Lucas," Olive says. "Lucas isn't scared."

He finds himself the object of all of our attention right as he's adjusting

himself in the harness.

Lucas gives her a little salute but I tilt my head. "Lucas probably isn't

scared because Lucas regularly goes skydiving."

"You're supposed to be on my team," Olive growls. "Team Listen-to-

Olive-Because-This-Will-Be-Fun-Damn-It."

"I'm always on that team." I pause and give her a winning smile. "But is

it a good time to suggest a better team name? Or no."

She stares me down, and I fight a smile because if I told her right now

that with her blue shorts and white tank top, and the blue harness and

yellow helmet they've given her, she looks like Bob the Builder, she would

murder me with her bare hands and feed me to the creatures on the forest

floor.

"Look, Ami," she says, and her mouth curls into a delighted grin, "I'll go

first."

The first drop is 50 feet above a ravine with a platform 150 feet away.

Two years ago, Olive would have waited until everyone was safely on the

other side before taking her turn, certain her bad luck would snap the cord

or break the platform and end with us all crumpled on the forest floor. But

now I watch as she stands behind the gate, following instructions to wait

until her lead is strapped to the pulleys, and then steps out onto the

platform. She hesitates for only a moment before taking off in a running

leap and sailing (screaming) through the tops of the trees.

Ami watches her go. "She's so brave."

She doesn't say it like it's an epiphany; she just says it like it's a fact,

something we've all always known about Olive, a core quality. And it's

true, of course, but these little truths, finally being spoken aloud, are tiny,

perfect revelations, dropped like jewels in Olive's palm.

So even though Olive didn't hear this, it's still awesome to see Ami

looking after her twin in wonder like this, like she's still figuring things out

about this person she knows as well as she knows her own heart.

• • •

THE LAST LINE OF THE day is one of the biggest in Hawaii—nearly 2800 feet

from platform to platform. The best part is there are two parallel lines; we

can ride it in tandem. As we make our way to the top, I remind her where to

keep her hands and to angle her wrists the opposite direction that she wants

to turn.

"And remember, even though we're starting side by side, I'll probably

make it there faster because I weigh more."

She stops, looking up at me. "Okay, Sir Isaac Newton, I don't need a

lesson."

"A what? I wasn't giving one."

"You were mansplaining how gravity works."

I go to argue but her brows go up as in Think before you speak, and it

makes me laugh. She's not wrong.

Leaning in, I press a kiss to the top of her yellow helmet. "I'm sorry."

She scrunches her nose and my eyes follow the movement. Her freckles

were the first thing I noticed about her. Ami has a few, but Olive has

twelve, scattered just across the bridge of her nose and over her cheeks. I

had an idea of what she looked like before we met—obviously I knew she

was Dane's girlfriend's twin—but I wasn't prepared for the freckles and

how they moved with her smile, or the way adrenaline dumped into my

veins when she pointed that smile at me and introduced herself.

She didn't smile like that at me again for years.

Her hair is curly from the humidity and coming loose from her ponytail

and even dressed like Bob the Builder, she's still the most beautiful thing

I've ever seen.

Beautiful, but also very suspicious. "That apology was easier to extract

than I expected."

I run my thumb over a strand of her rebellious hair and push it back from

her face. She has no idea how good my mood is right now. I'm struggling to

find the right moment to propose, but I'm enjoying every second more than

the one that came before it; it makes it hard to choose how and when to do

this. "Sorry to disappoint," I say. "You and your arguing kink."

With a blushing eye roll, she turns back toward the group. "Shut up."

I bite back my smile.

"Stop making that face."

I laugh. "How do you know I'm making a face? You're not even looking

at me."

"I don't have to look at you to know you're doing that derpy heart-eyes

thing."

I bend to whisper in her ear. "Maybe I'm making a face because I love

you, and I like when you're argumentative. I can show you just how much I

like it when we get back to the hotel."

"Get a room." Ami shares a commiserating look with Lucas as he's

strapped into the pulley.

But then she turns and meets Olive's gaze across the platform. I don't

need to understand secret twin telepathy to know that Ami isn't just happy

for her sister, she's elated. Ami isn't the only one who believes Olive

deserves every bit of bliss this world has to offer. Seeing that tiny, salty

woman crack up or melt or light up like a constellation gives me life.

Now I just have to get her to agree to marry me.

• • •

I THINK I'VE FOUND MY moment when four nights in, we're given a sunset

that's so surreal it feels computer generated. The sky is this layered parfait

of pastels; the sun seems reluctant to disappear entirely, and it's one of

those perfect progressions where we can watch it slowly diminish in size

until it's nothing but a tiny dot of light and then—poof. It's gone.

It's right then that I hold my phone up, snapping a selfie of Olive and me

on the beach. The sky is a calming purple-blue. Her hair is blowing across

her face, we're both a little tipsy. Our feet are bare, toes digging in the

warm sand, and the happiness in our expressions is palpable. It's a great

fucking photo.

I stare down at it, spinning a little inside. I'm so used to seeing our faces

together, so used to how she fits against my shoulder. I love her eyes and

her skin and her smile. I love our wild moments and our quiet ones. Love

fighting and fucking and laughing with her. I love how easy we look side by

side. I've spent the last few days agonizing over when to propose, but it

occurs to me that this is when I do it: in this quiet space, where we're just

us, having a perfect night. Ami and Lucas are down the beach a ways,

walking in the lapping waves, and so it feels like we have this little stretch

of sand entirely to ourselves.

I turn to her; my heart is a thunder inside me. "Hey, you."

She grins at the phone, taking it from me. "This is cute."

"It is." I take a deep breath, steadying myself.

"Caption this photo," she says, oblivious to my internal mayhem, my

mental preparation for one of the biggest moments of my life.

"Um . . ." I say, a little thrown but thinking as I try to play along.

And then she bursts out laughing. "Here's one: 'She said yes!' " She

leans into me, cracking up. "Oh, my god, this is a good picture of us but this

is exactly the kind of vacation photos people in Minnesota put on their

mantel in shell-encrusted frames to remind themselves of the sunshine

when we are in the deepest pit of winter." She hands the phone back to me.

"How many Minnesotans do you think get engaged on the beach? Eighty

percent? Ninety?" Shaking her head, she grins at me. "What total—"

And then she stops, her gaze moving over my face. It feels like a tube of

cotton has lodged itself in my throat. Olive claps a hand over her mouth as

realization draws her eyes comically wide. "Oh. Shit. Oh, Ethan. Oh, shit."

"No, it's okay."

"You weren't, were you? Am I that big an asshole?"

"I—but no. I don't—it isn't. Don't worry."

She gapes at me, eyes wide with panic as it becomes clear her sarcasm

wasn't that far off the mark. "I am such a dick that I've broken your brain."

I don't know whether to be amused by this destroyed attempt at

proposing or bummed. It did seem like the perfect moment; I felt like we

were on the same page and then—nope. Not even a little.

"Ethan, I'm so—"

"Ollie, it's okay. You don't know what I was going to say. You think you

do, but you don't." Based off her unsure look, I add, "Trust me. It's all

good."

I lean in, kissing her, trying to get her to let go with a gentle bite to her

lower lip, a growl that has her softening beside me, opening her mouth to

let me feel her. It escalates until we're both a little out of breath, wanting to

take it to the next place where clothes come off and bodies come together,

but although it's getting dark, it isn't that dark or that empty out here on the

beach.

When I pull back and smile at her like everything is fine, I can sense the

skepticism lingering in her posture, how she holds herself carefully like she

doesn't want to make a wrong move. Even if Olive thinks I was going to

propose, she still hasn't said anything like I would say yes, you know or I

was waiting for you to ask, so maybe it's a good thing I didn't manage to

get the words out. I know that her view of marriage has been marred by her

parents and by Ami and Dane, but I also like to think that I've changed her

views on long-term commitment. I love her wildly. I want this—want to

marry her—but I have to accept the reality that it isn't what she wants, and

we can live just as happily together forever without that ceremony binding

us.

God, my brain is a blender all of a sudden.

She lays down in the sand, pulling me gently back so that she can curl on

her side, her head to my chest. "I love you," she says simply.

"I love you, too."

"Whatever you were going to say—"

"Sweetheart, let it go."

She laughs, kissing my neck. "Okay. Fine."

We need a new subject, something to help us limp away from this crash.

"You really like Lucas, don't you?" I ask. It had taken Ami almost a year

to start dating again after the divorce. Dane held out hope that she'd take

him back and that they could work things out, but I didn't blame her for not

wanting to try. My brother didn't just lose Ami's trust in all this; he lost

mine, too. Things between us have slowly gotten better, but we still have a

long way to go.

"I do. He's good for her. I'm glad you introduced them."

I didn't think Olive would ever welcome another guy into her sister's

life. She was protective at first, but at dinner one night, Lucas—doctor,

adventure seeker, and widowed father of the most adorable four-year-old

I've ever seen—won her over.

"Ethan?" she says quietly, pressing small kisses up my neck and along

my jaw.

"Hmm?"

She holds her breath and then lets it out in a shaky exhale. "I saw the

ugliest dress the other day."

I wait for her to continue, admittedly confused, but finally have to

prompt her. "Trust me, I'm riveted. Tell me more."

She laughs, pinching my waist. "Listen. It was this horrific orange. Sort

of fuzzy? Like, velvet, but not. Something between velvet and felt. Velvelt."

"This story keeps getting better."

Laughing again, she bares her teeth against my jaw. "I was thinking we

could get it for Ami. As payback."

I turn my face to hers. Up close she's only individual features: enormous

brown eyes, full red mouth, high cheekbones, gently sloping nose. "What?"

She rolls her eyes and growls. When she speaks, I see her bravery; it's

the same Olive who blindly jumped from a platform to sail through the

forest. "I'm saying . . . maybe if we got married she would have to wear the

ugly dress this time."

Struck dumb, all I can manage is, "You want to get married?"

Suddenly unsure of herself, Olive pulls back. "Don't you?"

"Yes. Totally. Absolutely." I trip over my words, gathering her back close

to me. "I didn't think—from earlier—I thought you weren't—"

She looks directly at me, chin up. "I do."

Olive slides over onto me, cupping my face. "I think my joke earlier was

totally Freudian. I thought maybe you would. But then we've been here a

few days and you didn't. And then I was like, why shouldn't I do it?

There's no rule book that it has to be the man."

I reach into my pocket and pull out the tiny box. "It's true—it doesn't

have to be me, and you can totally get down on one knee to propose, but

just so you know, I don't think this ring would fit me."

She squeals, rising to her knees to take the box. "For me?"

"I mean, only if you want it. I can go ask someone else if you—"

Olive shoves me, laughing. If I'm not mistaken, her eyes are a little

misty. She opens the box and slides her hand over her mouth when she sees

the delicate band lined with a halo of diamonds, the emerald-cut stone

cradled in the center. I'll admit, I'm proud of myself—it is a pretty great

ring.

"Are you crying?" I ask, grinning. Drawing intensely positive emotion

out of this woman makes me feel godlike.

But of course Olive would never admit to happy tears. "No."

I squint at her. "You sure?"

"Yes." She valiantly works to clear her eyes.

"I mean"—I lean in for a closer look—"it looks like you might be."

"Shut up."

Gently, I kiss the corner of her mouth. "Will you marry me, Oscar Olivia

Torres?"

Her eyes close and a tear breaks loose. "Yes."

Smiling, I kiss the other side of her mouth and then slide the ring on her

finger. We both look down at it. "Do you like it?"

Her voice shakes. "Um. Yeah."

"Are you usually better at making conversation than you are with me?"

She laughs, tackling me. The sand is still warm at my back, and this little

bundle of fire is hot all along my front and I burst out laughing, too. What a

ridiculous, silly, mistake-ridden proposal that was.

It was absolutely perfect.