Barbie
“Hey, Barb.” I glance up from my sisters’ texts to see Ethan gesturing to the street. “How many traffic lights do you see?”
Sticking out my tongue, I return my attention to my phone. “Just for that, we’re doing ziplining tomorrow.”
“Only if you’re willing to split my hospital bill with me,” he counters. “Have you seen our healthcare system? How shitty the deductible is with the company’s plan? I’m not being saddled with life-crushing debt because I can’t say no to a pretty face.”
“Really?” I ignore how warm my body feels when I meet his eyes. “Does this mean you’ll never say no to my inputs at work anymore if I turn the camera on?”
“Oh, will you look at that?” he says. “I’m suddenly cured of my inability to say no.”
With a shake of my head, I turn my gaze elsewhere. There are pockets of stars scattered across the inky night sky. The pier blinks neon colors in the background while we stick to dry land, leisurely strolling across the cobblestone walkway.
We’re making use of the honeymoon package and getting our money’s worth with dinner at The Steak Out, which is on the boardwalk and not too far from the hotel. With how busy the town is, we’re lucky they could squeeze us in at the last minute without any reservations.
I peek at Ethan, who’s no longer walking as stiffly as he did at the conference.
Neither of us are decked in stuffy suits anymore.
We’re both wearing something more business casual.
He looks good. He smells fantastic. I kind of regret not teasing him some more in the hot tub.
By kind of, I mean really, definitely, and most ardently, as an Austen gentleman has been known to say.
When he looks back and flashes me an easygoing smile, I wonder if dimples are genetically a dominant trait or a recessive one. Are they even something you can inherit?
Do we need to have kids for me to test this theory?
“Let me call Lara before we head inside,” he says. “And check in on my mom.”
I stop in my tracks and look at him in surprise. Lara, his girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend, my brain supplies. I don’t think he lied to me on our flights. Everything he told me—everything that happened—was real. I wholeheartedly believe he wouldn’t lie to me.
Suddenly, it makes sense why he never brought her up at work. Who’d want to talk about their ex? I’d rather shove thumbtacks into my eyes than mention Warner’s name.
“It’s really cool… of her to look after your mom while she’s recovering from hip surgery,” I comment. Or rather, it’s pretty great he’s amicable with his ex.
“Why wouldn’t she?” he says with a chuckle, and he doesn’t notice the confused frown spreading across my face while he brings his phone to his ear. I don’t think I’d ever expect my ex to help me with anything.
Ethan leans his weight onto one foot, then breaks into rapid-fire Spanish when she answers.
I squint at him when I realize he’s going through a list of demands.
“Did you walk the dog? Has she taken her medication yet? I don’t care if she doesn’t like it.
You need to make sure she takes them. Also, you need to pick up my laptop.
Do not break into my apartment. Bring the laptop back to the house instead.
I don’t want you inside my apartment, Lara.
Listen to me, Lara. Stay out of my apartment. ”
My eyes are saucer-wide while I pretend to be engrossed in the latest picture of Pie posted earlier today.
“No. Stop it. She is my coworker, not my girlfriend,” Ethan grunts. “Don’t you dare—”
There’s a piercing shriek. “You’re on vacation with your girlfriend?
” His mom, I’m presuming, is shouting so loudly that I can hear her voice from where I’m standing, a foot away from him.
“You’ll tell Lara, but not me, your mother, you’re proposing to her?
When were you going to tell me? After you two have gotten married? ”
“Mom,” Ethan says. “Are you taking your medication—”
“Why?” she counters. “So I can live long enough for you to keep the first of many grandchildren from me?”
“Take your medication. Do not overexert yourself. And let Lara walk the dog,” he says, ignoring her. “I love you. Goodnight.”
He hangs up and pockets his phone, then slides a glance my way. “Any chance you don’t understand Spanish?”
“I’m fluent in Cantonese and Vietnamese.” Surprise registers on his face while I shrug. “Because of my parents.” Tipping my head toward the restaurant, I say, “Now, can we head inside? I’m starving. Or do I have to wait until we have the first of many kids—”
He groans. “If you never bring this up again, I’ll buy you two scoops of pistachio ice cream.”
“Make it three.” I spare him an innocent look. “I’m going to need all the energy I can get before we get started on the first of many—”
Emitting a loud grunt, he pulls the restaurant door open and motions for me to step inside.
We’re seated in a secluded corner, which is nice. Our manager is across the room, which isn’t as nice.
Ed’s too busy chatting with his wife to notice us, though. Based on the sunburn he’s rocking, I don’t think he stayed long for day one of the conference.
“Bee,” Ethan hisses. “Stop looking at them.”
“Was he there when the conference was over?” I ask, even though I’m certain his Rudolph-red neck answers my question. “And do you think we could leave early tomorrow?”
“And miss out on all the free pens you can collect?” he deadpans. “What if the ones offered tomorrow can be used as a stylus? Or a torch for the Olympics?”
The withering gaze I shoot him is met with a crooked grin.
“I looked at the schedule,” I say. “And it’s not like we work in sales or marketing. We’re not getting anything out of this except for office supplies and business cards from people irrelevant to our jobs.”
“We’re being paid to attend the conference,” he says. “Even though it makes no sense why we’re here. The least we could do is stick around for the entire thing.”
“What about the package we paid for?” I ask dryly. “Are we ever going to enjoy our honeymoon?”
“Y’all are on your honeymoon?” Our server beams brightly at us as she approaches our table. “How exciting! How did you two meet?”
“Online,” I blurt.
“On a plane,” Ethan says at the same time.
We exchange glances.
“Well, we first met online two years ago,” I stammer. “We met in person yesterday—” Fuck. “After dating online. And lots and lots of emails—”
“And y’all already tied the knot?” She furrows a brow. “Yesterday?”
“Yeah.” My lips curl into a too-big grin. “We were in Vegas, so we were like why not?”
After a beat, she nods, which is better than her accusing us of lying to her face. “So, how are y’all liking it here so far?”
“It’s a beautiful place,” Ethan says breezily. “Would love to move to an area just like this.”
“Yeah?” Our server leans in. “You know, there have been whispers of ’em wanting to tear down the woods and develop luxury apartments.” With how deep her grimace is, you’d think the town’s planning on building a bunch of outhouses. “If it’s something y’all wanna consider.”
“Oh, no,” I say immediately. “It’s… out of our budget. We can’t afford anything luxurious. He’s… a circus clown.”
I can feel his glare boring a hole through the side of my head. “And she’s a cat handler,” Ethan supplies. “Her cat’s an influencer. He wears novelty hats.”
I almost twist my head to gawp at him. Instead, I spare our server a bright laugh.
“Yeah. My kitty is semi-famous. He brings in some cash. Not enough where we can afford something so pricey, though. Unlike homebuyers on those house-hunting shows, we do not have a budget of fifteen million dollars with our combined income. We’re lucky to afford our honeymoon as it is. ”
Her nod is less enthusiastic this time. I get it. It’s a lot of information to take in. “All right… What can I get for y’all?”
I fight my sigh of relief. I don’t think anyone wants to bear witness to my terrible improv skills any longer. I know I don’t.
After we place our order and she hurries away from our table like a bat out of hell, we lock eyes again.
“You didn’t want to tell her I was a pilot?” Ethan says immediately. “Or literally anything but a clown?”
“Well, I had to sell why we can’t afford to live here,” I say. “I’d assume pilots make more than a clown in an average year. Also, how do you know about my cat?”
“We’re married, dear,” he says, his voice an utter deadpan. “I should know about your cat.”
“Yes, but I’m not the one running the account.” I lean in, propping my elbows onto the table. “My sister is.”
“Oh.” His brow dips. “So that’s how those posts went up during our calls.”
Now my chin is resting against the palm of my hand. “Tell me, Ethan. How do you know when pictures of Pie go up?”
“Aaron,” he says. “He’s a fan of the cowboy fit. Lara likes the ones where the cat’s wearing fruit hats.”
“I personally prefer the shark hats,” I say. “And you do know that posts can be scheduled, right?”
“They can?”
“You don’t know this?”
“I don’t do social media,” he says, which causes my head to tilt. “I’ve got better things to do than post pictures of my dinner.”
“Like hiking?” When he lets out a wry laugh, I lean in closer. “Oh, come on, Ethan. You’re always talking about it. If you did do social media, your bio would literally state: I make hiking my personality.”
“And yours would say: Yes, I’m Barbie from Malibu. No, I’m not made of plastic.”
My eyes roll. “First of all, I’m from Westminster. I just happen to live in Malibu at the moment. Second of all, my profile wouldn’t say that.”
“What would it say?”
“I’m not a bot, I’m a morning person.”
He snorts so loudly that the couple two tables down glances over. “You’re funny, Bee. A stand-up comedian in the making. You are not a morning person.”
“Excuse me? I totally am—”
“You are so damn cranky every morning,” he says. “Unless you get your coffee fix in, you’re this close”—he presses his forefinger and thumb together—“to ripping my head off. I give you ten or so minutes before I call you for a reason.”
“Fifteen,” I say, blinking. “You always call me right at seven-fifteen.”