8. Fisher
CHAPTER EIGHT
fisher
Wilder tips back on the high metal stool. Damn, I wish he’d fall on his ass in the grass. That would make my week. Especially since this time of year, the ground around this whiskey barrel table is pretty much mud. I’d love to see his pretty face splattered with dirt.
“Elephant in the room.” Wilder smirks as he drops the code for I’m about to point out something obvious, whether you want to hear it or not . “As unbelievable as it sounds, you’re in a worse mood than normal.”
Scowling, I avert my gaze and lift my can of Balmy Days to my lips.
I’m careful not to lock eyes with anyone else, either.
Especially Flora, who’s sitting two tables away.
If I so much as look her way, she’ll scamper right over to the table to chat.
But I don’t have any words left today. And I really don’t like her.
That leaves me with no other choice but to focus on the wall of lobster traps that cuts off the brewery’s makeshift outdoor dining room from the dirt road.
It’s Memorial Day weekend, so the place is hopping.
This beer is much-needed after dropping off a ridiculous amount of luggage at the inn and cottages that pepper the island.
Summer people season has officially begun.
For the next three months, our island will be crawling with fresh faces. Wilder loves it. Me? Not so much.
I make the effort. I come out to the brewery with my friends on Saturday nights and try to be social.
I can’t even use Sutton as an excuse, since Mrs. K insists on keeping her and her granddaughter Lindsey for weekly sleepovers.
It’s her way of helping me out. Giving me the break to be something other than a pseudo-dad for my niece.
She means well, but people make my skin crawl.
I’ve never been popular with the islanders. Not even when I was growing up. I was always the weird kid. The one who was more into computers than playing kick ball. Besides Wilder, I rarely talked to anyone, and that hasn’t changed.
“Seriously, what bug crawled up your ass? This seems worse than the normal it’s tourist season funk.”
Wasn’t a bug, and it’s not a funk. It’s a giggling, pink-shirt wearing blond pain in my ass.
I knew Elizabeth Sweet would make my life hell. But I didn’t realize exactly what a pro she would be at it until she moved in next door.
Not all of it is her fault. I have no idea why her pilot light goes out almost every day, but I’ve been over five times in the last week to relight it. Even if she is making me insane, I don’t want her blowing herself up.
And she will not get over the idea that a magic ferry is going to show up with her luggage. I’m not even convinced she called the airline about it. She swears they know where she lives, so they know where to drop it off. It’s ridiculous.
She insists on hanging her clothes to dry, and maybe I’d be impressed that she was conserving energy if the woman didn’t have lace panties in every color under the sun.
I swear I’ve never hated lace more than I do this week.
I can’t focus on anything because all I can think about is that perfect ass covered in the lace that is constantly blowing in the northeast breeze.
I shift on my stool at the image that’s taunted me for at least the fiftieth time today. Fuck, what is wrong with me? I don’t like her. If only my damn dick would get on board.
If all that isn’t bad enough, Libby has gotten in the habit of feeding the damn birds.
Every day she throws bread onto the rocks out in front of the house.
I don’t understand the need she has to turn our yard into a bird sanctuary.
All I know is it’s driving Bing insane. He whines at the door all day, and when I can’t stand the noise anymore and finally let him out, he chases the gulls away, only to return covered in bird shit.
After one very large white glob of shit landed in my hair this afternoon, I’m pretty sure I developed a twitch.
Libby’s laugh floats above the noise of the crowd, but I refuse to look over to the table where she is sitting with Maggie and Wilder’s sister Eddy. Libby has invaded enough of my life. I’m not giving her my free time.
Not that she would want my time or attention anyway. What interest would Elizabeth Sweet have in someone like me?
“Fisher?” Wilder’s voice brings me back to the moment. And the brewery. “I’m seriously worried about your teeth.”
“My teeth?”
My best friend throws his head back and laughs. “Yeah, you’re grinding them to dust.”
The man thinks he’s funnier than he is.
“Jeez, tough crowd.” He tips his number seventeen mug at me.
I have a mug too, every islander does, and they’re all numbered.
I don’t use mine; the whole thing is ridiculous.
I want my beer in a bottle or a can just like I’d get it at any bar in Boston, not a ceramic thing that never gets run through the commercial dishwasher inside.
But Wilder takes pride in the cup that proves he’s a Monheganer.
Although I could have sworn he’s number twenty-five.
“What happened to your mug?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Old man Wayne died over the winter.”
I frown. Although common knowledge, I don’t see how it relates to his beer mug.
“So I get his.” He says it like it’s obvious. “I made a deal with Rip—every time someone dies, I get their mug. I’m moving up in life, man.”
With a shake of my head, I scoff.
“What? I’m shooting for the one spot.”
“You’re telling me your life goal is the Monhegan Brewery mug number one?”
He shrugs again. “We can’t all be Boston hotshots.”
The statement makes me want to cringe. Maybe I was a big city hotshot back in the day, but I haven’t been that guy for years.
I roll my shoulders in a vain attempt to rid myself of the constant unease I feel at the loss of the life I built for myself.
“Right, but someone has to die for you to reach your goal.”
He nods, his lips pressed into a serious frown. “Sixteen someones.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s not like I’m waiting for you to die, Mr. Fifty-Five.” He eyes my cup where it’s still hanging on the wall and shudders, then turns back to me, his grin growing wide again. “So like I was saying, this is the start of the good times. New women and a summer full of weekend fun.”
Unlike most of the islanders—who put up with the summer people for the income they bring us—Wilder loves the fresh blood.
He lives for new faces and new people. Just like Hunter was, Wilder is a people person.
The asshole should be the sheriff. I petitioned for it when I moved back, but no one listened to me.
Even Wilder is insistent that it’s my job.
No one seems to mind that I have no qualifications or patience for it.
“Yay for new people,” I mutter into my beer.
“I like that group.” Wilder tips his mug to six women huddled together around the picnic table closest to the heater. “They’re out for fun.”
“Looks like a bachelorette party,” I grumble. Too much giggling and screeching.
“Exactly.” His lips kick up on one side. “And I happen to be the fun they’re looking for.”
“Better get over there, then, or those guys will beat you to it.” I tip my bottle to the two men about our age across the space. One of whom is already pushing to his feet.
I watch him saunter away from his buddy, but instead of heading toward the women Wilder’s checking out, this tool heads straight for Libby’s table.
My grip on my beer can tightens, the aluminum crinkling. Of course he’s going to her. Who in their right mind would go for anyone else if they had a shot at Libby? Not Elizabeth Sweet, America’s Sweetheart, but Libby, the most gorgeous woman in any room.
I shake my head. What the fuck am I saying? She’s making me crazy.
The makeup-free, ponytail-sporting woman looks nothing like Elizabeth Sweet, and everyone on the island—although more than happy to gossip amongst themselves about her—has been utterly silent to outsiders about Elizabeth Sweet’s presence here.
So this guy isn’t heading over to Maggie, Libby, and Eddy for an autograph.
“Where are you going?” Wilder asks before I even realize I’m standing.
“That guy’s going to bother Eddy. You know how much she hates the summer men.”
Wilder chuckles. “My sister can handle herself.”
That is true. Growing up, Kennedy Knowles was the sweetest girl on the island. But after she wound up pregnant—by a mystery man she still won’t name—Eddy toughened up.
“Unless the disappearing dad waltzes in, she doesn’t need anyone’s help.
” He narrows his eyes at me, then, bringing his mug to his lips, zeroes in on Libby.
“Elephant in the room,” he challenges as he sets the mug on the table with a fucking smirk that pisses me off.
“You like her and you want to be the only one hitting on her.”
I grit my teeth and consider sitting down again. Fuck him and the smarmy look he’s giving me.
Wilder just laughs. “Better hurry up.”