Finally Ethan takes his spot next to me, and when he holds a breath and then releases it in a slow, controlled stream, it sounds like a resigned sigh. Without looking at me, he offers his arm.
Although I’m tempted to pretend I don’t notice, I take it, ignoring the sensation of his curved bicep passing under my hand, ignoring the way he flexes just a bit, gripping my arm to his side.
“Still selling drugs?”
I clench my teeth. Ethan knows damn well I worked for a pharmaceutical company. “You know that’s not what I do.”
He glances behind us and then turns back around, and I hear him take a breath to speak, but then he holds it, wordless.
It can’t be about the size, volume, or general insanity of our family—they broke him in long ago—but I know something is bugging him. I glance up at him, waiting. “Whatever it is, just say it.”
I swear I am not a violent woman, but at the sight of his wicked smile aimed down at me, the urge to dig my pointy heel into the toe of his polished shoe is nearly irresistible.
“It’s something about the line of Skittle bridesmaids, isn’t it?” I ask. Even Ethan has to acknowledge that there are some pretty amazing bodies in the bridesmaid lineup, but still, none of us can really pull off spearmint-green satin.
“Mind-reading Olive Torres.”
My sarcastic smile matches his. “Mark the moment, people. Ethan Thomas remembered my name three years after we first met.”
He turns his face back to the front, smoothing his features. It’s always hard to reconcile the restrained, biting Ethan I get with the charming one I’ve watched make his way through a room, and even the wild one I’ve heard Ami complain about for years. Independent of how he seems determined to never remember a thing I tell him—like my job, or my name—I hate knowing that Ethan is a terrible influence on Dane, pulling him away for everything from wild weekends in California to adrenaline-soaked adventures on the other side of the world. Of course, these trips conveniently coincide with events deeply cherished by contest-hunters such as my sister, his fiancée: birthdays, anniversaries, Valentine’s Day. Just last February, for example, when Ethan had whisked Dane off to Vegas for a guys’ weekend, Ami ended up taking me to a romantic (and free) couple’s dinner at the St. Paul Grill.
I’ve always thought the basis for Ethan’s coldness toward me was just that I’m curvy and physically repulsive and he’s a bigoted, garbage human—but it occurs to me, standing here, holding on to his bicep, that maybe that’s why he’s such an ass: Ethan resents that Ami has taken such a big part of his brother’s life, but can’t show that to her face without alienating Dane. So he takes it out on me instead.
The epiphany washes cool clarity through me.
“She’s really good for him,” I say now, hearing the protective strength to my voice.
I feel him turn to look down at me. “What?”
“Ami,” I clarify. “She’s really good for Dane. I realize you find me completely off-putting, but whatever your problem is with her, just know that, okay? She’s a good soul.”
Before Ethan can respond, the (free) wedding coordinator finally steps forward, waves to the (free) musicians, and the ceremony begins.
• • •
EVERYTHING I EXPECTED TO HAPPEN happens: Ami is gorgeous. Dane seems mostly sober and sincere. Rings are exchanged, vows are spoken, and there is an uncomfortably raunchy kiss at the end. That was definitely not church tongue, even if this isn’t a church. Mom cries, Dad pretends not to. And throughout the ceremony, while I hold Ami’s massive bouquet of (free) roses, Ethan looms like a silent cardboard cutout of himself, moving only when he has to duck a hand into his coat pocket to produce the rings.
He offers his arm to me again as we retreat down the aisle, and he’s even stiffer this time, like I’m covered in slime and he’s afraid it’s going to rub off on his suit. So I make a point of leaning into him and then giving him a mental bird-flip when we’re off the aisle, allowed to break contact to disperse in different directions.
We have ten minutes until we need to meet for wedding party photos, and I’m going to use that time to go remove wilted petals from the dinner table flower arrangements. This Skittle is going to cross some things off her list. Who cares what Ethan is going to do?
Apparently he’s going to follow me.
“What was all that about?” he says.
I look over my shoulder.
“What was what about?” I ask.
He nods toward the wedding aisle. “Back there. Just now.”
“Ah.” Turning, I give him a comforting smile. “I’m glad that when you’re confused, you feel comfortable asking for help. So: that was a wedding—an important, if not required, ceremony in our culture. Your brother and my—”
“Before the ceremony.” His dark brows are pulled down low, hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets. “When you said I find you off-putting? That I have a problem with Ami?”
I gape up at him. “Seriously?”
He looks around us, confused. “Yeah. Seriously.”
For a beat, I am speechless. The last thing I expected was for Ethan to need some sort of clarifying follow-up on our constant wave of snarky comments.
“You know.” I wave a vague hand. Under his focus, and away from the ceremony and the energy in the full room, I am suddenly less confident in my earlier theory. “I think you resent Ami for taking Dane away from you. But you can’t, like, take it out on her without him getting upset, so you’re a chronic dick to me.”
When he simply blinks at me, I barrel on: “You’ve never liked me—and we both know it goes way past the cheese curds, I mean you wouldn’t even eat my arroz con pollo on the Fourth of July, which is fine, your loss—but just so you know, she’s great for him.” I lean in, going for broke. “Great.”
Ethan lets out a single, incredulous laugh-breath and then smothers it with his hand.
“It’s just a theory,” I hedge.
“A theory.”
“About why you clearly don’t like me.”
His brow creases. “Why I don’t like you?”
“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?” I produce my list from where I’d rolled it into my small bouquet and shake it at him. “Because if you’re done, I have things to do.”
I get another few seconds of bewildered silence before he seems to surmise what I probably could have told him ages ago: “Olive. You sound legitimately insane.”
• • •
MOM PUTS A FLUTE OF champagne in Ami’s hand, and it appears to be on someone else’s to-do list to keep it filled to the brim because I see her drinking, but I never see it empty. It means that the reception goes from what was arguably a perfectly scheduled, slightly rigid affair, to a true party. Noise levels go from polite to frat house. People swarm the seafood buffet like they’ve never seen solid food before. The dancing hasn’t even started yet, and Dane has already thrown his bow tie into a fountain and taken his shoes off. It’s a testament to Ami’s inebriation that she doesn’t even seem to care.