Chapter 3 #2
She pats my cheek in a way that might be cute coming from a grandmother but manages to be condescending from someone my own age. Rolling my eyes, I raise a middle finger between us.
“Your coffee shop?” I ask.
“Mine. And that’s my sister.” Jean hooks a thumb over her wide shoulders toward Braxton, still bent over the espresso machine and diligently making my coffee. Now that I’m looking closer, I can see the resemblance—the same Nordic features, blond hair, and stocky build.
“She’s a doll,” I tell Jean honestly. “I don’t remember you having a sister. You sure she’s related to you?”
“She was a surprise. Unseated me as the favorite in the family, but at least I get to boss her around here.”
“I should have known you’d be a hard-ass.” She snorts and gives my arm another pat. Which, from her, is the equivalent of a slug. I catch the glint of a ring on her left hand and add, “Oh, you’re married, or…?”
“I’m a Campbell now,” she agrees. “So, tell me. What sort of winds had to be raging to blow Ewan Fate back into town?”
The question isn’t asked with malice, but I flinch nonetheless.
Jean Anderson—Campbell—is likely to be the first in a long line of faces from my past, asking about my future.
The insular nature of Siren’s Point had frightened me as a teenager, made me feel suffocated and like I was living under a microscope.
Jean, whom I was always friendly with at school, will probably be one of the easier encounters I’ve got coming my way today.
I try not to think of Shiloh, but as always, he’s never far from my thoughts.
“I figured it was time for a visit,” I reply carefully, realizing as I do so that I should probably come up with a better cover story. I’d rather not have a conversation about my current inability to do the one thing that’s always come easy to me each time someone asks why I’m here.
“About time,” Jean replies as her sister approaches us with my coffees in her hands. Before she can hand them off to me, Jean snags one of the cups. Spinning it around so I can see, we share a laugh. Yooan is written across the top in Sharpie, stylized with a couple of stars drawn next to the N.
“Happens all the time,” I tell Braxton, who looks confused as to what we’re finding so funny.
“It’s E-W-A-N,” Jean explains, handing the cup to me.
“Happens all the time,” I repeat, smiling at the girl to let her know I’m not offended. Honestly, Yooan isn’t even the weirdest spelling I’ve ever seen.
“Shiloh goes to haul by four a.m., so you’ve missed him,” Jean tells me, watching Braxton make her way back to help the next customer. I fight the urge to duck out of view and hide my face. I know that customer.
I try to keep my eyes firmly on Jean’s and avoid the attention of Michael Hall.
I really don’t want to confront another face from my past when there’s already one standing in front of me.
Except that leaves me to carry on a conversation about Shiloh, because of course once everyone hears I’m back in town, they’ll all assume the reason for that is to visit my old friend.
We were never far from one another growing up, and the uncomfortable squirm in my stomach makes me think about how that might have translated into adulthood had I stayed.
Shiloh hadn’t had much of an interest in dating as a teenager—I had no clue then, and even less of one now about where his preferences might lie.
Me, on the other hand…I’d become very appreciative of my buddy during those early teenage years.
Thirteen had me looking at Shiloh in a way that made me extremely conscious of how he smelled and the path of veins in his hands, the way he’d mumble in his sleep, and how he’d grown hair on his belly at the same time he started growing it on his face.
Shaking my head, I try to dispel the image of Shiloh reclined back on his elbows, chest bare and adolescent-thin, beach sand clinging to lines of ropy muscle.
Even then, he’d been strong—built from a childhood spent on a lobster boat with his dad.
He’d grown up faster than I had, and boy, had I noticed. I clear my throat.
“I’ll catch up with him later,” I tell Jean evasively. She gives me a knowing look but doesn’t press.
“Well, don’t be a stranger.” She punctuates this with a firm squeeze of my arm before taking a step back toward the counter and her sister. “Shiloh’s over at the old Franklin place, near Naiad Cove.”
“Okay,” I reply, trying to sound like I’m a person whom this information means little to.
After saying my goodbyes to Braxton, I leave the coffee shop, double-fisting Yooan’s order and feeling like maybe that’s enough socialization for the day.
Maybe I’ll start slow—one person from the past per day.
I’ll save Shiloh for last, because that means the town chisme will have done most of the heavy lifting for me. Also, because I’m a coward.
But in the way of small towns and the rarity of interesting happenings, things don’t go my way.
Twice on the short—but somehow dismally long—walk back to my cottage, cars pull over to the sidewalk, and I’m hailed by a familiar face.
I feel as though I’m walking through the pages of a yearbook, comparing how I remember everyone to how they look now, aged seven years.
Even when my rental is in sight, there is no reprieve.
I turn the corner and see Amy Libby sitting on the step, back to the door of Kelpie Kottage and a smile on her face.
“It really is you!” she exclaims, hopping up and hugging me. It’s the fourth I’ve received already this morning, along with the three handshakes and backslaps. Vacation has truly never been as laborious as this.
Finally—fucking finally—I get inside and lean my back against the closed door. Despite having chugged two large cups of coffee on the walk back, my throat feels dry from all the talking. Worse, my brain feels like someone reached into my skull and squeezed it in their fist.
“Welcome home,” I whisper into the empty cottage, feeling lonelier than I’ve felt in a long, long time.