Page 52 of Enemies to Lobsters
“This isn’t a real marriage,” I mutter, scooping up the bags of lobsters and letting the door slam shut behind me. “It’s not.”
∞∞∞
A few hours later, my belly is full of blue crab, plus a few tiny bites of lobster claw that I stole from Ike, and I’m smiling. It’s the bottom of the sixth inning, and the Yankees are ahead by three.
Ike, August, Stevie, Marlow, and Desmond are piled onto our two little couches, glaring at the television. There isn’t really room for me out there, which is fine by me. I pop another shrimp in my mouth, watching from the kitchen. August brought over a platter of cocktail shrimp with his own homemade dip that I haven’t been able to stay away from. Both of these Wentworth boys know their way around the kitchen. This dip is heavenly.
The living room full of friends groans when my Yankees end the inning by striking out the Red Sox’s heaviest hitter. I grin. This is especially gratifying after the cooler incident. Lobster murderers don’t deserve to go to the World Series.
Except Ike more than made up for it. After he dealt with the cooler—well, ”evidence tampering” might be the legal term for what he did—he helped chop the vegetables. He taught me how to steam the shellfish. He even brought in a little stack of firewood and got a fire going in the fireplace because I mentioned that I’ve felt cold all day. With the exception of the Red Sox T-shirt he has hidden under his flannel, he’s been a picture-perfect husband.
And he’s looking at me. I swallow the last of my shrimp when I feel his eyes on me, smoothing my hands down my jeans.This isn’t a real marriage,I remind myself.
“Get over here, Di.” He smirks. “You’re missing your moment of triumph.”
With some regret, I leave the shrimp platter and wander into the living area. The couches are full, so I perch on the arm of the sofa beside Ike. He threads his fingers through mine, then pats his knee with his free hand.
I look from his knee to his eyes.Are you seriously asking me to sit on your lap in front of our friends?I try to silently communicate.
He winks, patting his knee again. “Plenty of room,” he murmurs.
This will be a first for us. We’ve held hands in front of our friends. They know we’ve gone on some dates. But sitting on Ike’s lap feels… matrimonial. Like if we’re intimate enough to do something like that in front of them, what’s going on behind closed doors? They’ll wonder.
I barely have time to overthink before Ike tugs my hand, pulling me onto his lap.
He whispers for only me to hear, “Right where you belong.”
A whole flight of butterflies bangs around in my stomach. I’m grateful when none of our friends makes a big deal out of it, especially because this is a cozy spot. There’s a fire crackling in the fireplace, and Ike smells like woodsmoke and his special manipulative cologne. I tuck myself against his chest, draping my legs across his other knee, hunkering down for three more innings of the Red Sox getting their butts handed to them. What a fabulous way to spend an evening.
Then, in the eighth inning, two terrible things happen. First, the Red Sox make a comeback. Some idiot hits a home run when the bases are loaded, evening the score. Stevie and Desmond do an obnoxious happy dance that they must’ve choreographed ahead of time. Second, something I ate also makes a comeback.
I’m still cuddling with Ike, nervously fiddling with the rolled up sleeve of his flannel as I watch the game, when whale sounds start coming from my stomach. I freeze. That better not bewhat I think it is. A few minutes later, the cramping starts. Lightheaded from the pain in my stomach, I groan. I have to go. Now.
Disentangling myself from Ike, I dart upstairs to my bathroom and slam the door behind myself. It’s like my digestive system is hollering, “All right, everything out. You can go north or you can go south, but you can’t stay here.”
My groan echoes off the bathroom walls, and the knowledge that this place isn’t at all soundproof adds to the stress.
There’s a tap on the door. “Di?”
“No.” I moan. I don’t want him to hear this. “Go away, Ike.” That sounded like it came directly from the toilet bowl. Lovely.
“No.” There’s shuffling on his side of the door like he’s leaning against it. “What can I do?”
Nothing. There’s literally nothing he can do. I wish there was. I can’t believe he’s offering to help a person who is making these sounds. But that’s Ike. And this is me—bottomless puke lady. Ike is meeting the real me now. It was only a matter of time, I guess. I’ve dealt with this particular brand of illness plenty of times. Either something I ate had pineapple in it, or my Yankee crab is betraying me. Just the thought of it…
Oh, no. Here we go. A fresh wave pushes the contents of my stomach toward my throat.
When it eases up, I hear Ike move against the door. Why is he still here? I want to die for so many reasons right now.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. Then he reminds me, “I’m your husband, Di.”
Ugh. That makes it worse. And better. It's comforting to know he’s there, but I don’t want him taking care of me because of some contractual obligation he feels. I want him to help me because—what am I thinking? I don’t want him to help me. And I repeat: There’s nothing to be done. Usually when this happens I spend eighteen to twenty-four hours in the bathroom watchingNetflix and cursing the existence of pineapple. I guess this time I’m doing it with an audience—a man whose tenderhearted, husband-like behavior is knocking down my walls one by one.
Chapter 25
Ike
If anyone is looking for definitive proof that Diana is a witch, they need only listen to the sounds that are coming from our bathroom.
