Page 31 of Enemies to Lobsters
I blink my eyes open. That’s right, I’m still married to Ike Wentworth, the man who thinks I’m a witch. I’m someone he tells stories about at parties. The sparklers and fireworks in my heart dim ever-so-slightly. “Was I smiling?”
Except the look on his face says Ike might not think I’m a witch anymore. His slanted grin and the light in his eyes say something else. “Yeah. I’ve never seen you look so happy.”
“Maybe not when you’re around.” I fire the cheap shot without thinking—a total knee-jerk reaction. Roasting Ike is pure muscle memory at this point, and I need to retrain myself. This is the guy who made eggs for me and folds his blankets neatly on the back of the couch every morning because he knows I like it. He isn’t terrible. He’s trying. And the twinkle in his eyes faded noticeably at my lazy joke. My stomach twists. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
I can’t elaborate safely. I don’t want him to think I hate him, but I don’t want him to think I like him. Idon’tlike him, right? I mean, he’s thoughtful. He’s surprisingly sensitive. He works harder than anyone I’ve ever known, a lot of the time to help other people. And sure, he’s objectively attractive when he’s getting ready for work in the morning. He whistles softly when he ties his tie, and I kind of love the way his hair looks when it’s slightly damp and freshly combed. It curls a little at his neck because he needs a haircut. And he’s extra cute when he first wakes up and tries to smooth his bedhead before I see it. Oh, and those arms? Don’t get me started.
I gasp lightly as the truth of my thoughts slaps my face like a rogue wave.
Oh no.
I actuallylikeIke. Of course, he does things that annoy the bejeezus out of me, and I have plenty of unanswered questions, but the reality of it remains. I like Ike.
Now that I realize I like him and that I am, in fact, married to the man I like, I have questions. The main one being, why did he antagonize me so thoroughly when we were younger? And where does he go every Saturday night? I’m coming dangerously close to caring about Ike in addition to liking him. And I know I’m thinking too much.
But he’s frowning as he rows, fully focused on the shore. “No sweat.” He grins again, but the light is almost gone from his eyes. “I get it. You can’t stand me, andyoudrive menuts. Old news, right?” His accompanying chuckle is dark.
I nod, chastened and stinging from the much-needed reminder: He doesn’t like me. I’m over here noticing the minor muscles in his forearm and the way he folds blankets, but I drive him nuts. The thought clamps my mouth shut. I need to reread our contract tonight. I need to memorize it. Because Ike isn’t in this for friendship, and neither am I. It doesn’t matter that I’m learning that my husband is a good person. We’re married to save the lighthouse and that’s it.
Nothing more.
Chapter 16
Ike
Tell me I was right,” Stevie announces, barging into our crappy little keeper’s house without knocking.
I’m still getting used to Diana and Stevie’s open-door policy. We’ve been friends for a long time, but being on no-knocking terms is new. It’s risky.
“Geez, Stevie. You’re lucky I have pants on,” I warn, making room for her on the couch.
She plops down, propping her legs on the coffee table. “You’re telling me you walk around in your skivvies with Diana around?” Her eyes twinkle. “Sounds like things are progressing.” She wags her eyebrows.
“No, they’re not.”
I thought things were changing. The night I carried Diana up to the lantern room I saw a side of her I’ve never seen. She was vulnerable, funny, and surprisingly down-to-earth. I distracted her from her fear, which is familiar territory—it's a skill I’ve used often in my many jobs in this little town. Then we hopped in the rowboat and made the quick trek to Marlow’s Diner for whoopie pies. Diana teased me a little, which stung. But she got quiet in the boat, and didn’t say a word in the passenger seat of my truck.When we got back to the island she thanked me and darted up to her room like I was covered in contagious warts.
Maybe I’m overthinking it, but it seems like she’s been dodging me ever since. She’s been gone all day, actually, and the tide is coming in. She didn’t take the boat over, so she’ll be stuck on shore if she doesn’t come back soon.
I’m overthinking. I’ve been overthinking for a few hours now.
“I was totally right, you liar,” she brags, eyeing me. I’m about to ask her what she’s talking about when she clues me in. “Diana isn’t what you thought, and you guys are developing a thing for each other.” Her brown eyes are three shades browner when she’s full of crap.
I shake my head. “No.” That word is disappointing.
It’s my first day off in a week, and Diana left for the day. I don’t care. She can come and go whenever she wants. I wasn’t waiting around, staring at the door like a puppy. Not the whole day, anyway. I jogged over to Muffie’s and helped her deal with a fallen limb. Then I came back and resumed monitoring the door while I knocked out a few items on Diana's spreadsheet. “I can confirm that she’s as repelled by me as ever.”
Stevie doesn’t bother to hide her smirk. “That’s not what I heard.” She reaches for the remote control by her feet. I couldn’t handle watching the Red Sox on my phone anymore so I dragged my TV over from home after I left Muffie’s. My nonexistent short-term renters won’t mind. Stevie points the clicker at the TV and nothing happens.
“I haven’t set it up yet,” I say offhandedly. How can she think about television at a time like this? I snatch the remote out of her hand. “What have you heard?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant and failing terribly. I sound overtly chalant. I am Captain Chalant, who sails the seven seas with his heart on his sleeve.
She huffs and walks across the room to plug in my TV. “Oh, Diana told me stuff, but I will not break best friend code and repeat it. Suffice it to say that she no longer wants to dance on your grave.”
“So you came in here topretendyou know stuff. Gotcha.” I hold the remote out of her reach when Stevie takes a shot at it. Why did she even bring it up? “Isn’t school starting soon? Don’t you have a classroom to get ready?”
“School doesn’t start for two weeks. I’m trying to get as much bestie time in as possible before summer ends.” This time she snatches the remote with a “ha!” and points it at the TV. Stevie is scrappy. Being raised with a feral pack of Irish brothers will do that. She starts entering my passwords to everything because she also mooches my streaming services. “And I do know stuff. I just wanted you to know that I know.”
“Aww. That’s cute that you want more time with me, and I’m not buying it. You don’t know anything,” I say, because the easiest way to get Stevie to spill the beans is to play on her need to know everything and be right all the time.
