Page 32 of Enemies to Lobsters
“She likes you.”
See? She is putty in my hands—but wait. “What makes you say that?”
She gestures at the empty, avocado green house. “Diana York, confirmed hermit, isn’t home on a Sunday afternoon. You scared her away by being too likeable. She said that, actually.” She grins, imitating Diana’s soft voice,“He’s too easy to like—”She stops mid-sentence with a cringe. No secret is safe with Stevie.
This feels like a major victory. I want to pump my fists in the air, which is almost laughable, considering I could barely stand the woman just a few short weeks ago. But things have been shifting for me. Actually, if I had to nail it down, I’d say when I caught her eating another fluffernutter in her pajamasat midnight last week, things started to take a turn. When she let me hold her together while I guided her down the lighthouse tower the neural pathways in my brain realigned. She keeps barging into my thoughts. My admiration for her snuck up on me and consumed me before I knew it was happening. Why would I scare her away, though?
At my confused look, Stevie explains, “Diana doesn’t want to get married.”
Well, I have some bad news for her. “Uh…” I trail off, holding up my left hand and pointing to my black silicone wedding band.
“No, I mean for real.” She scrolls, biting her lip and barely holding back a grin when she leaves it on an episode ofMagnum P.I.“All her grandparents want is for her to get married and pump out babies.”
“Again, I hate to state the obvious, but…” I waggle my ring finger.
“I mean, they want the type of marriage where Diana will drag her husband to charity fundraisers, and she’ll produce heirs with names like Charles Edward York-Wellington the Third who wear knee pants and carry on their legacy.” Her tone implies that I could never produce an heir who wears knee pants. “Diana doesn’t want that.”
I like her even more now.
Yeah, I can admit that I like her—to myself. Diana smells like peaches and has a wicked sharp wit. Her snort laugh—which she constantly fails to hide—is adorable. She’s too good for me, but not in the way I thought. She’s a good person. I’ll be keeping this uncomfortable revelation to myself, though.
When I don’t respond, a devious grin takes over Stevie’s face. She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes are bright with the effort of holding her thoughts inside. She’s so annoying.
“What?” I shove her leg. “Spit it out, already.”
“Ow, you oaf!” She shoves me back. “You and your gorillastrength. And shave your beard already. You look like the guy fromCastaway.” She settles back into the cushions, folding her arms and pretending to watch the old re-run.
I smooth my hand over my beard. It’s not that bad, is it? I haven’t had time to keep it trimmed since I’ve been running out the door every morning to avoid my wife. Stevie’s my friend, and her opinion holds weight. I’ll shave, and if I’m doing anything wrong with Diana I need to know. “Say what you’re thinking.”
She scans my face, making a decision. Then the corners of her mouth twitch when she says, “You’re realizing Diana is an incredible woman, and it makes you uncomfortable because then you have to come face to face with the rumors you’ve started.” She gives up, and a smile takes over her face. “Like the paper straw thing.”
Oof. Bullseye. I tighten my jaw, nodding in thought. I’ve been rotten to Diana. I’d like to say that she deserved it. If I’m honest with myself, though, most of the time I acted in response to false assumptions. Except for the time she ran over my mailbox. “She had the paper straw thing coming.”
Stevie rolls her eyes. “You had the mailbox thing coming, doofus.” She glares at me, but there’s no conviction behind it. And she’s got it all wrong.
The door bangs against the wall, and Diana barges inside like we summoned her, butt first and out of breath. She’s carrying a big, blue Rubbermaid tote with a cardboard box on top. She turns, spotting Stevie and me on the couch. Her dark eyebrows draw together and she frowns. Her cheeks flush and her eyes widen when she takes in the scene on the television. Magnum P.I. is walking out of the ocean, his dripping chest hair on full display.
“What are you up to, Stevie?” Diana asks, turning for the stairs without waiting for an answer. I can’t tell if she's running away from me or Tom Selleck’s chest hair.
Still, relief washes over me. Diana beat the tide. I jump from the couch. “Let me help you—”
“I’ve got it,” she grunts, already making her way upstairs. “I made it this far.” Her voice sounds off, probably from carrying all that stuff across a rocky beach without help.
I catch up to her on the second step, pulling the stack of boxes from her—trying to, anyway.
She tugs them back. “I said I’ve got it.”
Luckily, I’m stronger than her. I take the boxes, and she stomps up the stairs behind me, huffing the whole way. Stevie turns up the volume onMagnum P.I.,and the sound follows us.
“You need to learn to let people handle their own stuff, Ike.”Stomp, stomp, stomp. Diana’s ire is pouring out of her through her sneakers. “And learn to take a day off.”Stomp, stomp, stomp.
Her peach scent leads me up the stairs. It’s stronger the higher we climb, and her bedroom is the epicenter. Once I’m in her space I'll be powerless against it. I need to move quickly. “I took today and most of yesterday off,” I defend myself as I slide the boxes onto the floor.
“Then where were you last night?” she asks, her fists on her hips.
“Where were you all day?” I lob back at her.
“I was grabbing some things from my apartment.” Her delicate chin juts in defiance. “And I asked you first.”
