Page 16 of Enemies to Lobsters
“Just what every groom wants to hear from his bride.” Ike’s hand finds the small of my back as we make our way to the officiant.
I shrink away from his warm hand as Stevie says, “You two aren’t even going to pretend this marriage is sincere?” Her eyes dart to my grandpa.
She’s always been a little intimidated by him. Her mother was my grandmother’s housekeeper for years, and she’d join her at work in the summer. That’s how we met. Stevie showed me the narrow trail through the woods on my grandparent’s property that leads to her street. It became our lifeline.
Every weekend and every summer for years Stevie and I snuck back and forth. And now it’s my wedding day. I sigh. This isn’t at all what I pictured, back when I used to consider marriage. I certainly didn’t picture Ike Wentworth as the groom.
My grandpa cuts into the conversation. “We aren’t asking for anything other than a legal marriage and that they live together for one year, or until the renovation is complete,” he quotes the contract almost verbatim.
We'll get this thing done in a year. I'm not dragging this marriage out longer than necessary.
Ike tugs at the knot of his tie in my periphery. Is he having second thoughts? He better not, or so help me—
“Well, mazel tov,” Stevie says, allowing my grandparents to pass her into the officiant’s office. Then she murmurs to Ike with a smirk, “You didn’t invite anyone? Where’s August?”
He clears his throat. “He had to work.”
Sure. It’s Monday, I suppose. And we gave next to no notice. But it’s far more likely that he’s not broadcasting this indecent proposal. I wonder if he even told his parents. From what I remember of Shelly Wentworth, she would burn the place to the ground before she went along with this.
Obviously, I didn’t invite anyone. My mom? It would be a waking nightmare if she showed up to my wedding. Charlotte York wouldn’t just object. She’d hurdle over seats to swat the ring away from my left hand.
I smooth my sweaty palms over my white dress. Yes, I wore white—the same dress I wore on Saturday. Grandma insisted. Plus, it’s the only suitable dress I packed, and this trip has gone on far longer than I initially planned. Last night when I called my boss to request a few days off, she didn’t ask why. At some point I'll have to fess up that I'm working remotely from the Cape Georgeana lighthouse and that I've gotten married.
Married.
My heart feels like Ike’s gavel hammering steadily against my ribs as I stand in front of the officiant.Bang—bang—bang—bang—bang!
This is happening now. I am marrying Ike Wentworth, my sworn enemy. Well, not my sworn enemy—that’s dramatic, even for me. But the guy did tell everyone I had a glass eye when we were thirteen. That’s a terrible age to have boys randomly ask you to take out your eyeball.
I don’t have a glass eye, for the record.
The sound in the room is muffled behind the thumping of my heart. Ike says something to the middle-aged judge who’s acting like this is just another day at work. I expected a severe old man who would lecture us, or maybe talk Ike out of this. But no. This is happening. This marriage is coming for me like a heat-seeking missile.
“As a county judge for the state of Maine I am authorized to solemnize this marriage. Isaac Patton Wentworth, do you take this woman, Diana Araceli York, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
I think Ike says, “I do.”
My lungs feel too small, and my hands are cold. I count the individual thumps of my heart in an effort to ground myself.
Ike nudges me. “You’re up,” he whispers.
I repeat the words “I do” robotically and a rushing sound fills my ears.
My grandparents sign some papers—they’re our witnesses—then Grandma drops her pen, spinning to look at me with wide eyes. I don’t know why she’s excited. This isn’t the wedding or the marriage she wanted for me. Suddenly my ears are working again, and it’s sensory overload. Grandma coos and throws her squishy arms around my neck. Stevie squeals, joining her and bouncing up and down on her toes.
Grandpa cuts off their celebrations. “Aren’t you going to kiss your bride?” he asks Ike, his brow stern. A record scratches. Crickets chirp. There are faint sounds of cars crashing in the distance.
Stevie, Grandma, and I freeze. I follow Ike in the corner of my eye. His Adam's apple bobs. He takes a step closer. He can’t be serious about this. I shoot daggers past Ike to my grandpa, and there’s a sparkle in his demented old eyes.
Ike asks a question with his gaze, moving closer still. My mind is too scrambled to form an answer. And when did he getso tall? The man is towering over me. But instead of kissing me the way a husband should kiss his wife, Ike leans down like he’s going to kiss my cheek. Then he pauses.
My lungs catch, and I close my eyes. I can’t breathe—it isn’t safe. His cologne smells like chopping wood, putting out fires, and all things manly. It’s designed to make intelligent women ignore their instincts. I sense him breathing in, then he closes the distance. His short beard scratches my skin as he presses a kiss to the apple of my cheek. It’s lighter than air. Almost too gentle. I’m not accustomed to Ike being careful with me.
That’s not true, a voice reminds me, summoning images of Ike leading me down a long ladder and carrying me across the water. My heart is thumping now. I can’t afford to think of him like this, or to smell his manipulative cologne. I shake my head, forcing my mind to fill with paper straws, glass eyes, and crunched mailboxes. This is Ike Wentworth.
Ike Wentworth. Memories of him hurrying to single-handedly move an entire iron staircase flicker through my mind. Those arms, those broad shoulders—
“No.” My voice fills the office like a whip crack and my eyes blink open.
