Page 25 of Enemies to Lobsters
Yeah, right. “I know enough. You’re the golden boy of Cape Georgeana and you’d do anything to earn their love, including personally filling potholes on your day off.” Stevie told me about that. “You were Mr. Popular in highschool, and now the whole town calls you Mr. Everything behind your back because you don’t know how to say no to anyone. Town Manager, volunteer firefighter, Captain America, Mother Teresa.” The amusement in his eyes is gone. He takes a step back. “Oh, and you’re obsessed with feet. Mine, in particular. Did I miss anything?”
His tight eyes flit to my bare feet. “You pretty much nailed it. You know me.” He fixes a wide smile in place that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Except the feet thing, of course. I’m a butt guy.”
This man is a button pusher. “Yeah, you’re a butt guy.” I paste on the trademark York Business Smile. Ike is not as amused as I am. “Well, a butt, anyway.”
His expression changes. His eyes harden. He nods once. “Send me that list.” Then he shoves through the door, letting it slam behind him.
∞∞∞
Ike never came back. It’s almost eleven o’clock. The tide came up long ago, and now the breeze is whistling around the lighthouse tower. It’s a sound I’ve never noticed before.
The wind picks up, howling around and through the drafty house, and my bedside lamp flickers. The waves sound closer than they did last night. I’m over the haunted house atmosphere. I push send on Ike’s freshly-edited spreadsheet, then close my laptop and drop it onto the quilt. That Mac is the only thing that ever sleeps beside me.
Spreadsheets are the only husband I need, I think with a yawn.
Spreadsheets can’t spoon you,a voice taunts in the back of my head. It sounds like my grandma.Spreadsheets won’t banter with you over a fluffernutter dinner.
“You’ve never seen my spreadsheets,” I mumble. I reach over, placing a hand on my warm laptop. “Good night, lover,” I whisper, and the ridiculousness of my life forces a laugh out of me.
I groan at my foolishness, curling under my starfish quilt and sliding my bare legs around until I find a cool spot in the sheets. I thought I’d fall asleep quickly, but my feisty conversation with Ike runs through my mind on a loop while the wind howls around me. I don’t like the way I teased him. I took things too far. I called out a huge weakness, and he didn’t dish it back. He could have. Instead, he left. And I’m feeling worthy of all the witchy rumors about me.
I want to call Ike and apologize, but when I swipe open my phone it occurs to me that I don’t have his number. Email, yes.But do I have my husband’s phone number? No. This reallyisa business arrangement. I shoot a quick humble pie text to Stevie.
DIANA:
Hey, can you give me Ike’s phone number?
STEVIE:
You don’t have it?
STEVIE:
Isn’t he asleep on your couch right now?
DIANA:
He isn’t here. I need to call him to apologize for being myself.
I tack on a GIF of a laughing Wicked Witch of the West. She’ll get it.
STEVIE:
You’re not a witch, you’re his wife!
She attaches a GIF of Miracle Max fromThe Princess Bridethat makes my laughter drown out the sound of the wind. I am so grateful to have Stevie as a friend. Next, she sends his number and wishes me good luck.
I have Ike Wentworth’s phone number.
This shouldn’t make my heart rate spike, but here I am—my heart thumping and my cold finger pushing the little green phone icon to call him. I try to calm my breathing while it rings in my ear.
“Hello?”
“Ike?”
“Yeah.” He sounds winded.
“Why are you out of breath?” I didn’t mean for the question to sound like an accusation, but it did. This apology is getting off to a rocky start.
