Page 56 of Enemies to Lobsters
“Oh, shoot. Sorry, Di.” He reaches down to pull me to my feet. Then he goes for his mom, wrapping her in a hug. “What’re you doing back from your honeym—from your trip so soon?”
I’m grateful when the hug goes on long enough that I can tug my pink shorts back where they belong so I can properly greet my mother-in-law.
Shelly pulls away and smacks Ike on the shoulder. “You have some serious explaining to do. Start talking, boy.”
I clear my throat. “Hi, Mrs. Wentworth.” I reach a hand out for her to shake.
Shelly looks at it like it’s a live lobster. She looks at my left ring finger. Then she looks at Ike with obvious hurt in her eyes. “It’s true? You really did it?” Even Shelly Wentworth seems to know that you can’t believe the rumors until you see for yourself. And she sees her son sleeping with the enemy and a ring on my finger.
“You’re being rude, Mom.” Ike runs a hand through his incriminating bedhead, then starts rubbing that spot in his shoulder that always seems to give him grief. “What are you angry about—that I married her, or that you heard about it from Tina Murphy?”
She doesn’t answer. She just looks from Ike to me and back. She obviously doesn’t want to do this with me here.
He checks his watch and pretends to yawn. “Can we do this tomorrow? It’s late.” Is Ike shooing his mom out of the lighthouse?
I have no sense of how long Ike and I napped, but the windows are dark and, unless Shelly rowed over here, the tide is out. It’s late, but I can take a hint. “You know what? I’m going to head upstairs so you two can catch up.” And leave me out of it, thanks.
If Shelly’s beef with Ike is that he got married without talking to her, I’d have to side with her. If she’s upset that he married me in particular, I want no part of that conversation. Either way, Ike can handle this. She’s his mother.
I can sit in bed and perfect my comfort spreadsheets while I overthink. I’m long overdue for some trademark Diana overthinking. Where are things headed with Ike, and how will I feel if this turns real? My instinct is to dig in my heels—I don’t want to stay married because I can’t handle the thought of losing myself. But I also like snuggling with Ike. I shouldn’t be doing that if this has no future. I turn for the stairs, and Ike doesn’t stop me.
His voice drifts up the stairwell. “Let’s go for a drive and talk about this, okay?” I can hear the grin in his voice. “We can get one of those wild blueberry ice cream cones you like.”
“You’re not charming your way out of this, Isaac Patton.”
The door opens, and their voices fade as they exit through the breezeway. Good. He can explain that this isn’t a real marriage, and tomorrow things can go back to the way they were. I have a guy coming to tweak some of our exterior lights. Ike will go to work. Everything is going to be fine. Normal.
∞∞∞
The next morning, I wake to the sound of Ike whistling in the bathroom. I was up half the night waiting for him to come home, but the tide came in, and he never came back. He didn’t text or call. Just never came home. And now he’s in the bathroom whistling like I didn’t spend eight hours tossing around and looking out the window. No way, sir.
I shove through the bathroom door to tell him exactly what I’m thinking.
Ike is leaning against the sink, whistling softly while he trims his beard. My eyes move down his bare chest, speckled with water droplets. A towel is tucked around his waist.
I yelp, covering my face at the sight. Suddenly, I’m a teenager again. Principal Wentworth wouldn’t approve of any of this. I apologize through my hands. “Sorry. I thought you were—”
“Dressed?” Ike teases. “No need to hide, sweetheart. Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
He’s right. I’ve seen the man in wet swim trunks at the beach. This feels different. It’s the whistling, I conclude. The whistling is practically indecent, and I can hear it even when my face is covered.
When I open my eyes, Ike is smirking at me in the mirror. Does he think the towel and the whistling will make me forget why I’m mad? Think again, buddy.
“Late night?” I accuse.
He frowns. “Yeah, I was talking to my parents, and it was… a lot.” He goes back to trimming, contorting his mouth when he says, “I didn’t quite beat the tide, and the boat was over here.”
“You could’ve texted. Or called.” I sit on the toilet with a huff. “Or responded to my texts,” I grumble.
He taps the trimmer against the sink. “I didn’t see my phone until it was late. I thought you were asleep.”
“I wasn’t.” I hand him a few squares of toilet paper to wipe up the trimmings. He better get every last speck of that dark hair, or so help me.
He takes it, carefully wiping out the sink until it’s perfect. “I’m sorry, Di. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“I wasn’t worried.” I was… lonely. I’ve gotten used to having him around, I guess.
But he can do whatever he wants because this isn’t a real marriage, right?Tom Selleck reminds me. I haven’t heard from him in a while, and I don’t appreciate his input at this juncture.
