Page 37 of Enemies to Lobsters
I am a dead man.
I crank the engine, propping my hand behind Diana’s headrest as I reverse out of the driveway. We need to get where we're going because I need fresh air before I do something stupid. Diana York is sitting in my truck. After years of watching her from afar, the enigma herself is sitting in my old truck, running her hands over her knees.
My mental checklist swirls in my head. The cooler is wedged behind my seat, safe in the air conditioning. I have a big blanket. We just need to get to the beach.
Why did I plan a lobster bake? Diana was raised on the New England coast like I was. I should’ve planned something less cliché. Something nicer. Something she hasn’t done before, because I love the way Diana lights up when she tries something new. I figuredmy wife—the air quotes are alive and well, I guess—would want to keep this night private, since I know how she feels about Cape Georgeana. What’s more private than a lobster bake on a secluded beach?
But now I’m second-guessing everything. I should’ve made reservations somewhere. I should’ve worn a tie. Did I put enough effort into this? Are those storm clouds popping up behind the trees?
I can’t get this wrong.
Diana’s honey voice breaks into my spiraling thoughts. “Be honest.” Her red lips curl. “Are you about to murder me?”
I choke on nothing. “What?”
“There’s a shovel in your truck bed. Blankets on the seat.” She’s teasing, but her voice shakes just enough to let me know that she’s nervous—hopefully not about being offed on our date. “Am I about to end up as the subject of a true crime podcast?”
Ice? Officially broken. I chuckle. “Diana, the only way you’ll end up on one of those things is if I go missing. You know you’ll be suspect number one.”
“Pfft.” She swats my knee lazily, and I freeze. She goes on like she has no idea what she just did to me: “Yeah. If you go missing, your fan club will track me down and toss me into a volcano. They’ll avenge you and finally rid themselves of the town witch. Two birds, one stone.” She stares out the window with a snicker as I make a left turn onto the road that leads to our beach.
Diana makes a lot of jokes about how disliked she is by the entirety of Cape Georgeana. At first I didn’t think much of it. After weeks under the same roof, I’m seeing a pattern to the remarks, and I know her well enough to sense the injury beneath the flippant words. I don’t like it. And I hate that I’ve been a part of it. This ends now.
“Diana.” I haven’t figured out how to say this.
“Y-yeah?” I feel her eyes on me while I drive.
I can’t stand the nervousness in her voice. I hate that she’s ever felt anything but safe with me, and I can’t believe the things I used to assume about her. I swallow. “I owe you an apology.” I clear my throat. “A few hundred apologies, probably.”
She puffs out a laugh. “We’re fine, Ike. No need to apologize.”
I refuse to let her blow this off. “Yes, there is. I was so wrong about you. Everyone is wrong about you. I thought I knew you, I just—” I didn’t know her at all. “I’m going to fix this.”
“You don’t have to fix everything, Ike.” She’s running her hands down her jeans again. “Some things aren’t fixable.”
I hope that no one ever clues her in to the nervous habit that is her biggest tell. The barely-detectable defeat in her tone makes my gut ache. I pull off the main road onto a bumpy dirt road that leads to my favorite secret beach. “That’s not true. I’m going to fix this, Di. And I’m sorry. You deserve more than the words, though. I promise I’m going to make this right. Will you let me make this right?”
While I’m shamelessly begging for forgiveness, a call lights up the screen on the dash. It’s Boone’s mom, Louise. I’m sureshe’s calling to confirm that tomorrow night is sandwich night, for the seventy-fourth weekend in a row.
Louise is the Chief Executive Officer of keeping Boone’s life together. She’s like the Jeff Bezos of raising a kid on the spectrum. But I let it ring while I grovel at my wife’s feet. This is important.
“Do you need to get that?” Diana asks, arching an eyebrow at the “Louise” on the screen and obviously eager to change the subject. I don’t think she likes being groveled to—more proof that I’ve been wrong about her.
The call goes to voicemail while she asks, but a second later the screen lights up with another call from Louise.
“I think Louise needs you.” She folds her arms across her chest. “You should get that.”
She is closing off. I can feel it. I push the button to take the call, purely to set Diana’s mind at ease.
“Louise?” I answer as I park on the shoulder. A wooded path a dozen feet away leads to the rocky beach and our perfectly-planned date.
“Hey, Ike. Are you here somewhere? I told Boone you’d be sitting by us. He’s looking for you.”
“Oh, crap.” I run a hand down my face, muttering under my breath, “How did I forget aboutBoone’s play?”
“You forgot?”
“I’m sorry, Louise.” I check my watch. It hasn’t started yet.
