Ethan
Barbie cannot handle her alcohol. After two margaritas, she’s tipsy and chatty. And she giggles after every other sentence. She cheers for everybody brave enough to partake in karaoke night, even the ones butchering the greatest hits.
She has no filter.
Or rather, she’s not as guarded.
She likes pineapple on pizza. She snoops on email chains at work and believes Kelly and Steve from accounting are having an emotional affair. She’s half-Chinese, half-Vietnamese, and has a list of swear words she wants to teach me one day when she’s sober and can remember them.
She rescued her cat from the side of the freeway on the way home from the beach. His name isn’t Pie as his social media account would suggest. It’s short for Pythagorean Theorem, which she can’t say without breaking into a fit of laughter every time the tabby comes up.
She genuinely adores her sisters from how much the conversations would abruptly halt and pivot back to them.
Her face lights up when she tells me about Betty and Bell, buzzing with excitement the entire time.
Literally. She’s practically vibrating. Her words are stumbling over themselves as if she wants to talk about ten different things at once regarding her sisters.
If we were sitting upright instead of lying down on our sides, face-to-face, I’d assume more hand gestures would be used.
“Sorry,” she blurts, scooting closer, and her knees knock into my thighs. “It’s been forever since I’ve done a sleepover. With girls. Not with alcohol. And definitely not with super hot guys I want to lick every inch of. My dad wouldn’t have approved.”
“You really have no filter,” I comment, then bite back a snort when she skirts her palm against my arm. “Am I just a piece of meat to you?”
“No, but feel free to flex ’em again for me.” Her other hand lands on my chest, wandering and inching lower, and I wrap my fingers around her wrist before she goes any further.
“Barbie.” Her warm brown eyes are doe-like as she meets my gaze. “As much as I want this... It’s late and you’re drunk…” I trail off, uncertain of how to proceed with the conversation. I don’t want to offend her, but I refuse to take advantage of her.
“Oh.” She’s silent for a bit. I’m about to say something to alleviate the tension forming in the air when she tackles me out of nowhere with a hug. Burying her face into my chest, she hooks one leg around mine. “You are so sweet. You’re not the jackass I thought you were.”
“You thought I was a jackass?”
“Does seventy-two emails ring a bell?” she muffles in response.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice that you’d change the font color for the words quit to a shade of gray dark enough to look black,” I comment. “You’re not that slick. My laptop’s set to dark mode.”
She turns her head and giggles into my bicep. It’s an uncomfortable position, one she’s also aware of because she wriggles around until her back is pressed against me. She grabs my arm and pulls it around her waist. Her fingers link with mine, squeezing tightly.
“But did you notice I didn’t sign off with kind regards?”
“I mean,” I reply, “regards still convey the same message.”
“Next time you get a regards from yours truly,” she yawns, “know it was sent unkindly.”
“You think you can sneak one in from now until the end of August?”
“Knowing us? My regards will find you on Monday.”
I chuckle wryly into her hair, and she arches against me in response, her body contouring to mine. “Looking forward to it.”
“You’re right, Ethan,” she grumbles, shoving her hands through her brown hair. “I am… not… a morning person. Anymore.”
I refrain from laughing. Now’s not the time. Not when she looks absolutely miserable, down to the heavy bags under her eyes.
“You’re running on four hours of sleep,” I remind her. “And you had a few drinks last night.”
She groans into her palm. “I barely had two. I’ve always been a lightweight, but it’s never been this bad.”
“I mean, we’re not twenty-year-olds anymore,” I say. “If we sleep wrong, it’ll ruin our day.”
She’s silent for a moment. “I miss getting out of bed without my knee popping. And how candy tasted better in my childhood compared to now.”
“There could have been changes to the ingredients.”
“No,” she grumps. “The palate of my adult taste buds has changed. It can’t handle anything sweet anymore.”
“Does this mean you don’t want any donuts?”
“Who am I to say no to freshly made donuts?”
“I don’t know if they’re freshly made.”
“Who am I to say no to deliciously glazed donuts?” she amends. “With a delicious cup of coffee to wash them down. And greasy eggs. And fries. And pizza.”
“I don’t think anything’s open at this time,” I say. “Except the donut shop.” I gesture ahead to where Hole Lotta Donuts is situated. “And Java Hut.” I point to our left. Beyond the town square and vibrant park is the coffee shop I stumbled across the first morning here.
“But what if you want greasy eggs?” she mumbles.
“And fries and pizza?” I tease. “I guess you’ll have to wait until another place opens.”
She quietly groans, rubbing her temples while she follows me into the donut shop.
There’s a sweet, faint scent of vanilla in the air.
A staticky radio forecasts the weather in the background, which I don’t hear the rest of as someone emerges from the kitchen and shuts it off.
At least we won’t be here when a tropical storm hits.
I order a baker’s dozen donut holes and an egg sandwich, the latter of which makes Barbie’s eyes go soft the moment I hand it over to her. She chirps with delight as we head outside, where the baking heat of the morning sun greets us.
And a raccoon.
I see it the moment Barbie gasps, and I reach for her wrist before she takes any step closer. We lock eyes. By we, I mean Barbie and me. Not the raccoon.
“What are you doing?”
“That thing might have rabies.” I hear a low chittering sound from the wild animal, and Barbie wrestles herself out of my grip before I can shoo him away. “Barbie—”
“He has a collar,” she notes, shoving her half-eaten egg sandwich into my hand. “He’s obviously someone’s pet.”
“We don’t know that. It could be a tracker wildlife services use to, you know, track wild animals.
” My words fall on deaf ears. Barbie pays me no attention as she crouches low and pries the paper bag in her hand open.
“You, of all people, should know that we don’t feed wild animals. He’ll become dependent on humans—”
“Okay, I know you’re not supposed to,” she says, retrieving a donut hole. The damn raccoon’s ears perk up when she holds it out to him. He scurries over, the tag on his neck glinting in the sunlight. “But he’s clearly domesticated, not a wild animal, and certainly not rabid.”
“Do you want a trip to the emergency room?” I ask blandly. “Because this is how you’re gonna get a trip to the emergency room.”
“Don’t be such a hater—His name is Nemo,” she gasps.
“So he’s a backward ass omen?” I deadpan. My brows knit in horror when she brings her hand closer to the small, plump beast while he’s distracted with the treat in his grubby little paws. “Barbie, do not pet the rabid animal.”
“I wasn’t going to,” she protests. “I just wanted to make sure he’s not lost.”
“Lost from his pack like a rabid animal?”
“I think a group of raccoons is called a gaze,” she mutters off-handedly. “And you know he’s not rabid. He’s groomed. And his collar has a cute little charm on it.”
Before she can check the tag, we hear a loud, “Hey.” We look to our right. Even the damn raccoon, who crams the rest of the donut hole into his mouth and takes off, sprinting toward the bushes.
“What seems to be the problem, officer?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest.
“Feeding wildlife is not permitted in this town,” he drawls, swaggering over toward us with his thumbs resting on his duty belt.
Christ. We’re about to be arrested because Barbie decided to moonlight as a Disney princess today.
“We’ve been dealing with an infestation of wolves and other wild animals.
Been on the receiving end of plenty of reports and call-ins, too.
The last thing this town needs is for these wild creatures to think they can make themselves at home here. ”
“I’m sorry, Officer Jones,” Barbie says, squinting at his nameplate. “I didn’t know any better. My husband told me not to feed him.”
“That’s why you should always listen to your husband,” he says, chuckling to himself. Barbie and I exchange sideways looks. We both have matching grimaces going on.
“Of course,” she says in a tone I’d recognize anywhere. It’s the syrupy sweet one laced with a hint of venom. For once, I’m not the sucker on the receiving end. “I won’t do it again, officer.”
The officer nods. “Now, I’ll let you folks off with a warning,” he says. “Listen to your husband so you won’t ever have to risk landing your pretty little face in hot water.” He winks at me.
I stare back, my stone-faced expression verging on glare, and while I want to tell him to fuck off with that nonsense, I also don’t want to risk getting my ass hauled off to jail. Lara will never let me live it down.
He breaks into a whistle as he saunters off. Barbie and I glance at each other the moment he slips into the donut shop.
She blows out a frustrated breath. “I’m glad we didn’t get in more trouble, but…”
“It’s okay, Bee. You just wanted to give a pet raccoon a little treat,” I say. “It’s not like you’re the one behind the wildlife infestation here.”
Her shoulders droop. “We could have gotten arrested—”
“We weren’t, so let’s not dwell on it any longer,” I suggest, and she stares at me with an uncharacteristically alarming amount of sadness in her eyes. “Come on, Bee. We’ve got a lot of things on our agenda today for our honeymoon.”
“Shouldn’t we talk to Ed about his mixed signals?” she responds.
“Be real with me,” I say. “Do you think Ed is going to show up at the convention center today?”
She worries her bottom lip between her teeth for a contemplative beat. “Maybe. He might feel obliged to work for one of the conference days.”
“All right. If he’s there, we won’t run off and play hooky. We’ll resume working,” I say, eliciting a hesitant nod from her. “If he bails yet again, do you want to check out the aquarium or the art gallery today?”
The stingray glides across the tank floor in a graceful arch. Besides Barbie and me, there’s nobody else in this area. Penguins are being fed on the other side of the aquarium at the very moment.
It’s dark here, save for the blue light emitted from the various fish tanks surrounding us. I move to the next window, coming to a stop beside Barbie, who’s got the dreamiest expression on her face.
She peers at me and falters.
I groan. “Barbie, you need to stop feeling guilty—”
“I’m trying. I just get really emotional and… um…” Her face tints with pink. “When I’m close to…” She trails off, but I don’t need to be a mind reader to figure out what she’s implying.
“Got it.” When I see the look on her face, I shrug. “I have a sister. Lara is crabby when she’s close to her period.”
She nods, then wanders off to the display behind us. This one hosts dozens of seahorses, and we both watch them dart back and forth in the water in zigzags. When I sneak a glance in her direction, I catch sight of her mesmerized expression. Her eyes are lit up. Her lips are curved with delight.
It’s like this wherever we go. She’s glittery. Clearly in her element. By the time we’ve reached the third exhibit of the aquarium, she’s chatting up a storm about seadragons and relaying information to me from memory.
Sometimes she’ll talk about native sea creatures from the sunny coast of California. Or she’ll bring up her research for her marine biology or oceanography classes. But she hasn’t stopped talking once, which I don’t mind.
Barbie’s sentence on loggerhead sea turtles is cut off with her gasp. Her eyes grow saucer-wide as we both tilt our heads back and look up at the exhibit tunnel we find ourselves in.
A small shark weaves through a school of fish above us. Tiny starfishes stick to the glassy surface. Corals are scattered across the tank floor.
It’s a sight to see.
It’s not the only one. When I look at Barbie again, she’s glowing under the blue light while she takes picture after picture of all the aquatic animals she spots.
“It’s so beautiful,” she marvels softly.
“It sure is.” My eyes never leave her face. “Breathtaking, even.”
She tears her attention away from the sharksucker and looks sidelong at me. “I can’t wait to work at a place like this one day.”
Within a heartbeat, I’m reminded of the fact that August is thirteen days away. The fact that there are six weeks until she’s no longer with the company. Or the fact that in two days, we’ll be flying home.
“I’m happy for you,” I say, because truthfully, I am. Even if she’s leaving. Even if we started at the company around the same time and I technically was onboarded three weeks before her.
Even if, just a few weeks ago, we worked on our mission goals at Green Checks for the next year and strategically outlined numerous collaborative projects.
But then I see the awed look and remember this is her dream, and the only feeling I should have about this is to be glad she’s pursuing her passions. One of us should be able to.
“Don’t be happy yet,” she says. “It’ll be a while before it happens.”
“But it will happen,” I say. Her lips part slightly, her eyes swimming with emotions, while she holds my gaze. “I know it will.”
She ducks her head, biting her lower lip. “I need a picture,” she whispers.
“For your sister?”
“For me.” A gentle flush crawls across her cheekbones while she lifts her phone. “With you.”
“With me?”
“Who else?”
“Only if you send me a copy,” I say.
“Deal.” She rises on her toes as she extends her arm fully, leaning into me the moment I’m standing beside her. My knees are slightly bent, so we’re both in frame.
Laughter bursts from her chest—the goose honk one.
My eyebrows draw together. “What’s so funny?”
“You are so unphotogenic.”
I turn to glower at her, only to blink when I see a flash of white light from the periphery of my vision.
“There we go,” she says, tapping at her phone. A live photo takes over the screen, one that keeps looping the moment when I look in her direction. And the laughter in her eyes while she snaps a picture of us. “Should we take another one?”
“This one’s growing on me.”
She snorts, then tilts her head to the side. “Yeah.” The corner of her mouth sneaks up. “It’s growing on me, too.”