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.
