Chapter 1
Chapter One
EWAN
The plane touches down with a soft thump.
Lifting the plastic blind covering the window, I squint into the sudden brightness.
Leaning back in my seat, I stare sightlessly out at the runways, watching with disinterest as planes are shuffled around the terminals.
The overhead announcement system comes on, the attendant’s voice a low buzz in my ear as they let me know I’m allowed to turn my electronics back on.
I wait until we slow to a stop at our terminal before I reach for my phone, clicking off the airplane mode and watching as the device struggles against the onslaught.
The majority of the texts and emails come from Daniel, my personal assistant, which also means that I’m unable to ignore the majority.
Now, the texts from Ryan Fishe, looking for information about current projects? Those, I can ignore. And, happily, do.
I wait until my phone calms down before opening my text thread with Daniel and responding to the most recent.
If I don’t, he’ll continue pestering me for signs of life.
Honestly, he’ll probably continue pestering me no matter what, but at least now he won’t go sending the police for a welfare check.
The seat belt light turns off. I wait obediently for the attendant to give me permission to stand, which he does with a grateful smile sent my way.
I can only imagine the type of people he usually has to cater to on private flights such as this.
Something tells me the majority of his passengers aren’t good listeners.
I’m exhausted, and by the time I’ve deplaned and am waiting at baggage claim, I’m flagging hard.
Probably, I shouldn’t be driving all the way to Siren’s Point.
Probably, I should head over to the airport hotel and reserve a room for the night; hit the road early, after a restful night of sleep.
Of course, because “restful” and “sleep” are two words that don’t belong in my vocabulary, it seems pointless to even try.
Instead, I wander over to the vending machines and get myself as many energy drinks as I’m able to carry with two hands.
Cracking one open, I wince as I swallow a mouthful.
Disgusting, and probably not the wisest choice for my blood pressure.
I take another drink, watching as the baggage carousel starts rotating.
By the time the machine spits out my bag, I’ve made my way through three of the energy drinks and am already experiencing a pleasant buzz.
Also, a hand tremor, but seeing as I’m not going to be painting for the next twelve hours—perhaps longer—it ranks pretty low on my current list of concerns.
The woman at the car rental counter types and types and types after I show her my reservation.
Brow furrowed, eyes locked on the computer monitor, she types some more.
I stand there, 200 grams of caffeine flowing through my veins like lightning, and crack open energy drink number four.
The sound breaks—I glance at her name badge—Tiffany away from where she may or may not be struggling to find my reservation.
I smile at her and make a cheers motion in her direction.
Bottoms up. Pretty soon, I’m going to be able to taste colors.
“There seems to be an issue with your reservation,” she says apologetically.
“Seems that way,” I agree.
“You see, there isn’t one.”
“Naturally.” I didn’t make the reservation. Daniel did, and although he’s not usually one to fuck up, the stress of the past couple weeks didn’t only have an effect on me. I smile at Tiffany to let her know I’m not upset or blaming her for the mix-up.
“I can offer you an upgraded vehicle?” she says carefully, nudging my phone back across the counter with her fingertips. I look down at the miraculously disappeared reservation for a small, four-door sedan. She adds in a tentative voice, “But it will be a little more expensive.”
When I’m finally handed the keys to a rental, I’ve wasted enough of my driving time that I’m starting to once more regret the decision to leave now.
Watching as my shiny new rental Jeep is brought around to the sidewalk, I rest an elbow on the handle of my bag and clutch my final energy drink like it’s the nectar of life.
Even if I wasn’t going to sleep tonight, at the very least I could lie in a bed with my eyes closed.
Oh well, it was too late to change course now.
“Thanks,” I say to the man who brought the vehicle around, watching sheepishly as he loads my luggage into the back. There is something ridiculously embarrassing about letting someone do something for you that you are perfectly capable of managing yourself.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, I adjust the mirrors, hook up my cell to the Bluetooth, and bring up a map app.
It’s been seven years since I’ve been home—which, now that I think about it, might disqualify Siren’s Point from being home any longer.
The realization curdles in my stomach, mixing unpleasantly with the energy drinks.
I’m a little ashamed of the fact that I need the map at all.
I hadn’t been planning on staying away. Hell, I hadn’t even planned on succeeding in this career.
The world is filled with artists skilled enough to make it big, but lacking that dynamic something to get them there.
Even as an eighteen-year-old kid, I’d known my shot at success was a narrow gap, and I had very little hope of hitting it.
But hit it, I did, mostly thanks to Daniel and a one-in-a-million connection.
The sleepy little fishing town of Siren’s Point had seemed so small and so far away when blinded by the sudden whirlwind of making it big on the art scene.
I had never planned on being gone so long; never planned on stretching that first year away to seven.
And now, flying down the interstate, Jeep pointed toward the coast, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing.
You need a break, Daniel had told me a week ago.
We need a break. He was right, but maybe I was wrong.
Maybe, instead of immediately booking a flight back to Siren’s Point, I should have taken the coward’s way out and gone to Cabo.
Maybe found a long-term rental on a beach in Mexico or taken a monthlong safari in Africa.
Maybe what I should have done is take a break somewhere where nobody knows my name or recognizes my face.
Is home still home when you’ve neglected it for seven years?
Or, more importantly, are the people who once loved you in that home still going to love you when you’ve neglected them for seven years?
I think about blond hair and clear blue eyes, a scratchy laugh, and a lanky teenage body stuck between adolescence and adulthood. I think about loyalty and friendship and love, about whether any of those will have survived the seven years since I last spoke to Shiloh Lepage.
Leaving the radio off, I crack the windows when I start to see a bit of blue peeking around the edges of the map.
Glancing at the dashboard, I watch my little GPS dot getting closer and closer.
For the first time today, I feel a little bit of excitement fighting against the trepidation.
I’m a grown man. I shouldn’t care whether a town of people I grew up with will welcome me back, any more than I should care what some random person on the internet thinks of my art.
I continue telling myself this right up until the moment my phone rings, the sound offensively loud through the speakers in the car.
Daniel flashes across the dashboard screen.
“Hey,” I answer.
“You in a wind tunnel?” he asks. Peevishly, I roll up the windows. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone as dramatic as Daniel. Car sealed up, with no trace of fresh air to be found, he adds, “That’s better.”
“I’m driving,” I tell him, hoping it’ll get me off the hook for this conversation.
“I’m surprised you remember how.” I snort, because honestly, it is a little surprising. I don’t do a lot of driving in Los Angeles. A siren echoes through the line from his end. He adds, “How’s traffic?”
“Not bad,” I reply honestly. Considering both Daniel and I are used to the bumper-to-bumper traffic in LA, this is the smoothest drive I’ve had in years. Seven, to be exact. I clear my throat. “What’s up?”
“I checked in with the rental. They’re all ready for you to arrive.” He pauses, huffing a bit as he chuckles. “Get this—they left your key under the seahorse by the door, since you’re getting in late.”
I smile at the disbelief in his voice. Daniel grew up in San Francisco before relocating to Los Angeles.
His world is locked doors, security cameras, and only knowing enough about your neighbors that you could identify them to the police.
Leaving a key where anyone could find it probably sounds incredibly foreign to him.
It probably sounds like asking for a crime to be committed, which in LA, it might be.
In Siren’s Point, however, life has always moved a little slower.
“It’s a pretty safe place,” I explain. “There wasn’t a lot of crime when I was growing up. Just small stuff—kids vandalizing the school, tourists getting drunk and starting fights. That sort of thing. Poaching is the biggest problem around there.”
“Well, please don’t leave the key under the mat, Ewan. Things happen, but I’d really prefer we didn’t help it along the way.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re staying in the…Kelpie Kottage.” Another laugh as he reads something off his notes. I’m glad one of us is finding humor in my impending homecoming. “Kottage with a K, in case you were curious.”
I shake my head as he laughs, reaching forward to lower the volume on the stereo.
His hilarity is hurting my ears. The cottage in question—Kelpie Kottage with a K, as Daniel so helpfully pointed out—is one of the few options for long-term visitors in the Point.
Growing up, the little coastal cabins had been owned by the Libby family, which means that’s likely the way they still remain.
I do hope whichever Libby is running the joint now has done a little upgrading in my time away.
My memories of the cottages aren’t super clear, but I do remember Shiloh saying once that he hoped the family of opossums was enjoying their stay there.
“It’s a small town,” I tell Daniel, suddenly feeling the need to come to the defense of the same place I was desperate to escape all those years ago.
“I’ll say,” he agrees. “Anyway, you’ll have to steal your key back from the seahorse if you wish to sleep in the kelpie lair. I’m going to ship you down some supplies tomorrow, once I know you’re there and will be available to take a delivery.”
“I probably won’t paint,” I warn him quietly.
Maybe too quietly to be heard over the sounds of interstate driving.
Even if he did hear me, any declination on my part isn’t going to do much to sway Daniel.
He’ll send the canvases down no matter what.
And they’ll likely sit and rot, untouched and blank, mocking me with their possibility and my inability to tap into it.
“You need anything else?” he asks. I sigh.
“No.”
“All right. Remember, the whole point of this is to relax, have a little fun. Try not to stress so much. Also, make sure to get groceries tomorrow. I tried to find a delivery service to stock the kitchen before you got there, but surprise, surprise, not available. The woman who handled my booking thought it was a hilarious thing to request.”
I grimace. Whomever he spoke to probably had a hell of a laugh at his expense. Only someone from away would expect their groceries to precede their arrival. Fucking city folk.
“I can get my own food,” I tell Daniel, who sometimes takes his managerial duties a step too far. The line between mother and personal assistance is apparently very, very thin.
“Make sure you do, kid.”
The map app dings, covering up my huff of denial.
Daniel, fifteen years my senior, seems to think every one of those years is a nail in his coffin.
Rarely does an opportunity pass where he doesn’t warn me of the horrors awaiting me on the other side of thirty.
He’ll probably start discussing headstone options with me soon.
“I’d better go,” I tell him, following the GPS instructions and pulling onto the exit ramp, passing under the sign for Siren’s Point.
I listen with only half an ear to Daniel’s goodbyes, carefully lowering my speed and looking for my turn.
None of this looks familiar. My skin itches, and I feel restless.
It’s been a long day, and even though flying private is a hell of a lot better than the alternative, it’s still a day spent in recycled air, a day spent talking to people, smiling, and having too much free time to sit in silence with my thoughts.
Now, nearing the three-quarter mark of my drive, I’m losing the buzz I borrowed from the energy drinks and am once more slipping below the water.
The amount of attention I have to pay the GPS has my ribs tightening in my chest, suddenly too narrow for the organs they’re meant to protect. My breathing feels restricted, and even knowing that it’s simply anxiety doesn’t help to make it easier.
The gas station that used to live on this corner is gone, replaced by a sleek new alternative.
An apartment block sits where a park used to stretch into the distance.
None of the houses look right—paint colors different, and porches I remember as sagging suddenly sitting straight.
There are still miles to go before I reach Siren’s Point.
Miles of reminders of the fact that leaving doesn’t mean home will stay the same and wait for you to return. It has to change, too.
When I finally reach the weathered old Welcome to Siren’s Point sign, I struggle to swallow around the lump in my throat.
The painted siren—which Shiloh and I named Wanda for whatever reason—is unchanged.
Her tail is still blue, hair still black, and smile still falling short of sultry and landing closer to creepy.
Her eyes follow me as I pass the sign, driving toward everything I left behind.