Page 67 of Enemies to Lobsters
My grandma warned us that we’d have a traditional first dance. I agreed to it because… Ike. When I poo-pooed the idea initially, his face fell. I’m learning I can’t say no to his sad eyes. So I’ll dance in front of a tent full of people and make a fool out of myself—anything to stave off the sad eyes.
And it’s almost time. I swallow my ravioli while I watch my mother pretend to laugh at something her cousin Lili says.
“You look gorgeous tonight, Diana,” a woman’s voice says behind me. It’s Louise and Boone, the former looking harried,and the latter looking like the harrier. “Sorry we’re late,” she says, out of breath.
“Don’t sweat it.” Ike stands to hug Louise. “We’re glad you made it. But what about me? How do I look?” he jokes, tugging his lapels and straightening his black tie.
I stand beside him, offering Boone a smile and hugging Louise. I want to answer Ike’s question for Louise.You look almost edible,I want to say. The man knows how to wear a tux. His dark hair is tamed and parted, and his trim beard combined with the tux makes his jawline impossible to look away from. I take his hand, weaving our fingers together.
Louise rolls her eyes. “You know how you look.”
“Yeah, I do.” He smooths his lapels, all false arrogance. “I almost look as good as this guy.” He gestures to Boone. “Look at you, buddy. You got the tie and everything. Wow.”
Boone isn’t happy about the bright red tie, that much is obvious. He’s tugging on the knot like it’s a sea creature clawing at his throat.
“Yeah, that’s why we were late.” Louise’s frazzled expression says it all. “And also why we probably won’t last—”
“I’ve just been informed that it’s time for the happy couple to have their first dance.” The DJ cuts off Louise with the dreaded announcement. The opening notes of a swingy jazz song play, and I don’t recognize it at first. “Come on out here, Ike and Diana.”
“Sorry, Lou,” Ike grins, tugging my hand. “I have to dance with this beautiful woman.” He winks at me.
Louise nods. “Twist your arm.”
He pulls me into his side. “Twist my arm,” he murmurs only for me, leading me to the center of the dancefloor.
Oh man. I know this song. I might stuff Ike into the lobster cooler for this. I told him he could pick our phony First Dance song because I was trying really hard not to care about thissham of an evening. So, I guess I was asking for it. Ike chose “Witchcraft” by Frank Sinatra, the handsome little butthead. Ike is the butthead, not Frank Sinatra. Well, maybe Frank is. I've never met the man. Geesh, I'm flustered.
“Do you know how to dance to this?” I hiss without moving my mouth because I am freaking out. We didn’t practice. Of course we didn’t. I figured he’d pick some 90s George Straight song, and we'd sway in a circle for three minutes. Instead, he chose a slow fox trot, and my whole extended family is watching.
Ike holds our right hands out to our side at eye level and positions himself off-set the way I remember from when my grandma made me learn.
“Do I know how to dance to this?” he repeats my words under his breath with a scoff. “Watch and learn, cute girl,” he murmurs. He wraps his other hand around my back, snapping me into place against his chest.
I gasp. “This is a little close for a fox trot, don’t you think?” I whisper, looking up at him.
He leads me through the slow-slow-quick-quick steps flawlessly, but a little more intimately than I remember from my mandatory dance lessons. “This isn't exactly how your grandma taught me, no.”
“My grandma…” I let my unformed question trail off. My grandma taught Ike the fox trot?
“I wanted to surprise you, so she gave me a few lessons.” His voice is a low rumble that I feel down to my toes. “She made me promise to tell you the song choice was all mine—like I would let anyone else take credit for this stroke of absolute genius.”
I want to laugh, but I can hardly breathe. I'm trying to picture my grandma teaching Ike to dance, and the mental image is too sweet to be real. “You're serious?” I breathe out.
He nods. “Can you believe this song?”
“No, I mean about my grandma. Where? When?” This man has no free hours in the day.
“We met at your grandparents’ place a few times.” He shrugs as he leads me around the floor.
This is too much. He turns me under his arm, spinning me back toward him and pulling me against his chest. So close. I know he didn't learn that move from Grandma.
When he turns me around the floor, I catch something in my periphery that pops our satiny Frank Sinatra bubble. My mom and Shelly are sitting at a table, obviously in the middle of a heated discussion.
I want back in the bubble, so I block them out. “Ike, I—”
“Listen, Di—”
We talk over each other, then we both chuckle. “You go ahead,” I tell him.
