Page 27 of Enemies to Lobsters
Ten minutes later I twist the white knob to turn off the shower, and it spins in my hand. It did the same thing yesterday—it took some finesse to shut off the water. This fixture will be my first project after work, along with figuring out what’s going on with the lights and electrical. I’ve already had enough of the flickering lights and haunted house atmosphere.
In my rush to vacate the bathroom, I pull my clothes over damp skin and button my shirt like a timer is running. Hopefully Diana is still asleep and I can sneak downstairs and leave for work without waking her. Inching the door open, I peek through the crack to check that she’s still in bed. She’s not. Her Airbnbstarfish bed is made. After a few short days I’m already tired of living on eggshells. This isn’t working.
I make my way downstairs and find Diana folding my blanket and arranging it on the back of the couch. She’s still wearing that rumpled t-shirt that’s so big it almost droops off her shoulder. Her dark hair is smashed on one side and tangled around her bleary-eyed face. I’ve never seen her like this. It’s like spotting a lioness with her belly up at the zoo. She’s cute, but she could claw my face off at any moment. Man, I wish I could get another picture.
“I was going to do that,” I say instead. No more photos today.
She turns to face me, smirking like she knows I’m full of it. But then her expression changes. She runs jittery fingers through her hair to smooth it, but it’s hopeless. “No you weren’t.”
She’s teasing, but I feel the eggshells cracking under my feet. I’m late for work, but this conversation needs to happen. “If I’m going to live here, you gotta let me relax. This is my home, too. I was going to get to it.” Grabbing the navy blue tie I left on the arm of the couch, I thread it through my collar and work on the knot. “And I don’t like sneaking through your room to take a shower.”
She’s watching my hands on my tie, avoiding eye contact. “Sorry, I slept in.” Her cheeks redden and lines form between her eyebrows. “Of course you should come through and use the bathroom when you need it. And I was only straightening up. I didn’t think—”
“That’s not what I meant.” Now I feel like a major jerk. She wasn’t trying to make me feel bad. Tidying up is probably how Diana relaxes. “I didn’t mean to come out swinging. I just” — I’ve just finished knotting the tie, and I already want to loosen it — “I’ve lived alone for a long time, and I’ve never lived with a woman.” I haven’t dated in a few years. This is a small town, withan even smaller pool of available women. I haven’t had to leave my toilet seat down in quite a while. I keep her in the corner of my eye while I tie my shoes.
She nods, biting her lip like she’s fighting a smile. “I get it. I’m used to living alone, too.” She tugs at the hem of her oversized t-shirt. “I don’t want either of us to be uncomfortable for a whole year. Please live like you normally live. Act like I’m not here.”
When she’s standing there looking like that? Yeah, right. Her bedhead has my full attention. “Okay.” I can’t say more. She’ll know she’s asking the impossible.
“Did you get my email?” She’s messing with her T-shirt like she’s wildly uncomfortable.
I nod. I got the notification while I was driving toward the shore last night. “I’m going to fix a few things around here tonight—the shower handle and the lights. Then I’ll get right on whatever is on the list.”
She dips her head, her dark eyelashes brushing her pink cheeks. “Thanks.”
Conflicting, confusing thoughts flood through my mind. Timid Diana is unreasonably difficult. I can’t do this. I need to get to work. “I’ll see you tonight.”
∞∞∞
A few weeks pass like that. I go to work every day. The people of Cape Georgeana fished for information for a week or two, but they seem to have given up. I’ve been able to retrieve my unglazed fritters in peace. Diana stays on the island, meeting subcontractors throughout the day and doing whatever she does on her computer. Then I come home and whittle down her to-do list. We avoid eye contact. I especially avoid walking through her room when she’s sleeping in that t-shirt. On some nights Stevie comes over, bringing groceries for Diana and staying to binge-watch some western romance soap opera featuring a guy who never seems to wear a shirt. We haven’t shared any more fluffernutters. We’ve developed a safe, easy, predictable routine. This year is going to cruise by.
Then, one Thursday afternoon, Diana meets me at the door with a wide smile on her red lips and light in her eyes. “Do you want to see it?” she asks.
My heart trips at her smile combined with the question. Her baggy sleep t-shirt flashes through my mind. “No,” is my knee-jerk response to the image in my mind. I drop my bag on the couch, exhausted from a full day of chipping at Muffie Horowitz’s seagull crisis, which came after she dropped the tight panties crisis. The sparkle in Diana’s eyes dims and I realize I’m being a jerk. “See what?”
“Nevermind.” She swats the question away. “The guys finished something today, but don’t worry about it.” She runs her hands down the legs of her jeans, and I almost groan. She makes her way toward the kitchen.
“Diana,” I call. She barely turns at the sound of my voice. “What do you want to show me?”
Her perfect eyebrow arches. “Don’t sweat it.” Yanking open the door of the refrigerator, she grabs her half gallon of milk. Is she having cereal for dinner again? I swear this woman lives on cereal and sandwiches. She needs more protein. “You’ll see it when you see it.”
I growl—a sound I’ve never made. Something about Diana turns me into a person I don’t recognize. “Are you going to make me beg?”
Her spoon clatters onto the gold and brown linoleum. With a huff she swipes it from the floor and tosses it into the sink.“No. I’m not going to force you to be interested in the renovation work.” She pulls a clean spoon from the drawer. “I get it. I care about the lighthouse more than you do.”
Those are fighting words, and she knows it. I’m also not about to explain that my initial refusal was nothing more than a survival reflex I’ve developed after a few weeks of living in close quarters with a beautiful woman. I’m not blind. She may be a witch, but she’s also a knockout.
“In three seconds I’m going to throw you over my shoulder and drag you into that lighthouse.” I fight back the grin that wants to cover my face at the threat. “Or you can show me.”
She freezes, her eyes widening. Then they tighten. “You wouldn’t.”
I would. I’ve got a few weeks-worth of pent up frustration coursing through me. I don’t say it, though. Instead I step toward her. One small step.
The corner of her red lips hitches and she takes the tiniest step back. “Ike.” Her voice is mostly warning, with a hint of playfulness that gives me courage.
I take another step.
A shuddering giggle escapes her lips as she inches away. “You need to shave,” she taunts.
