Chapter 5
Chapter Five
EWAN
Hiding away in my rental didn’t work. All I’d managed to do was trap my thoughts into an enclosed space with me.
I’d tried to nap and failed. I’d tried to go grocery shopping and also failed when I left with only half of what I went in for, too busy fielding advances from people who recognized me.
Every single person mentioned Shiloh, as though the produce section was exactly the place for a walk down memory lane.
It felt like a verbal form of whiplash. How are you, Ewan?
It’s been a long time, Ewan. How long are you in town, Ewan?
Oh, and by the way, have you seen Shiloh yet? Have you, have you, have you?
I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone getting to him before me.
Funny, really, since that was originally what I’d hoped.
But no. If our roles were reversed, Shiloh would waste no time coming by to say hello.
Perhaps it’s time I stop doing things Ewan would do and start doing things my old friend would do.
And so here I am, sitting and watching his truck drive up the lane.
The sun is behind me—behind the house—glinting off the windshield and obscuring any view I might have had of the driver.
It’s him, though. That truck is the same one he had back in high school, and even if it wasn’t, I’d know Shiloh simply by the space he holds in the world.
I don’t have to see him to know it’s him. I can feel it.
The first thing I notice when he steps out of the vehicle is how easy it is to breathe, suddenly.
It feels like my ribs are able to expand for the first time in years, fresh ocean air flooding my lungs and smoothing away those last dregs of anxiety.
It’s him. Not exactly how he was when I left, but precisely how my artist’s mind had filled in the blanks.
He looks perfect—dark blond hair windswept and unruly, scruff crawling down his neck, and body hidden beneath layers of clothes.
I can smell the boat on him even from here, and the nostalgia of that smell has tears burning in the back of my throat.
He’s here, looking just how I remember, and I’m here, nothing like how I used to be.
“Did you get my message?” he asks, and if I thought the fish stink was enough to make me emotional, it’s nothing compared to hearing the sound of his voice.
All that time I spent fantasizing about an adult version of Shiloh and painting him into my dreams, I’d never considered how he might sound.
I would have gotten it wrong, anyway. Wouldn’t have guessed the rasp in his throat, like he spent all day screaming at the lobsters instead of catching them.
Say it again, I want to ask, simply to have the pleasure of listening.
It takes me a second too long to work through the words he did say.
“Hi—what?” I ask. I don’t have any missed messages other than the ones from Daniel, which I’ve been studiously ignoring.
For some reason, he blushes and looks away, out across the rocky lawn toward the little stretch of beach in the distance.
I stare at him, enjoying the opportunity to have a view of his profile to add to my mental portfolio.
His hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it, the strands spread around his ear and falling over his forehead, catching on his eyebrow.
When he looks back at me, I resist the urge to step closer, to get a clearer view of the blue of his eyes and a nice deep inhale of that classic Shiloh smell.
I want to hug him so fucking badly, I have to clench my hands around the desire and hold it back.
“Nothing,” he says, the word coming out on a sigh and a little sad. I open my mouth to push for an explanation, but his blue eyes find mine again, and I forget how to speak. “Do you want to come in?”
I pause. Yes, I want to go in. Should I?
Maybe not. I can’t imagine he’s happy with me, even though he’s not acting upset.
Shiloh never was very fiery, even when we were going through puberty.
The hormones that seemed to be raging in everyone else had no effect on him.
He’s just not the kind of person to have a temper.
I’m grateful for it, even as I acknowledge that this is a time where I might have deserved to be yelled at.
“Are you sure?” I ask, glancing at the whitewashed facade of his house.
It’s a beautiful building, two stories tall, the boards bleached white from the salt and sun, just far enough away from town to give him the sort of privacy and peace that I know he craves.
Easy access to the ocean as well, which I also know he craves. He frowns at me.
“I’m sure. Unless you wanted to talk outside?”
I almost flinch away from the way he’s staring at me. Like I’m a puzzle he’s just realized he doesn’t have the key to. A stranger. He’s looking at me like the last seven years are only just now catching up to him, and he’s figured out I might not be the same person he remembers me being.
“Sure,” I agree, voice weak. “Let’s go inside.”
I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but I definitely hadn’t been expecting this.
His house is beautiful—decorated in soft coastal blues and greens, filled with natural light from the uncovered windows.
A wide glass accordion door shows an incredible view of the dunes and rocky yard, the ocean sparkling in the distance.
Standing a few steps inside the front door, I turn a slow circle and try to take it all in.
Never in a hundred years would I have expected Shiloh to decorate a house so charmingly.
“Wow,” I comment, looking at the decorative throw pillows sitting on the couch. Throw pillows. My stomach sinks. Someone would have warned me if he were married, right? Shiloh, misreading my staring for something else completely, clears his throat and gestures awkwardly.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” he says, as though explaining away a mess that isn’t there. My throat burns at another reminder of just how out of sync we are.
“No, I was saying ‘wow,’ like…wow, your decorating skills are impressive. A good wow. Not a bad wow,” I explain. He clears his throat again. It settles my nerves a bit to hear him make the noise—a leftover from childhood, when he’d clear his throat if he was feeling uncomfortable.
“Thanks. Mom did it, though. You know.” He shrugs sheepishly and turns away from me, hiding his face. “Hungry?”
I follow him into the kitchen, hovering with a hand on the island as he bends to peek into the refrigerator.
This entire situation feels unreal all of a sudden, like I’m living an episode of television and not a moment in my own life.
Did the last seven years even happen? Shiloh’s not acting like we’ve not spoken since we were eighteen.
He’s acting like I took a vacation, and now I’m back.
I wonder if maybe it would be better if he did yell at me.
That would be a more normal reaction than… whatever this is.
“Shi—Shiloh,” I correct immediately, stumbling over my old nickname for him. Whatever he thinks about the matter, I don’t feel as though I have a right to that level of familiarity any longer. “Do you mind if we…talk? For a minute? I won’t stay long; I don’t want to be a bother. I just…”
I manage to stop before I utter the damning words miss you, but it’s a close thing. What fucking right do I have to miss him when I’m the one who left in the first place? Shiloh looks over his shoulder at me, pulling ingredients from his refrigerator and frowning.
“Sit down,” he instructs, pointing his eyes toward the barstools tucked under the lip of the island. “Sandwich okay? I need to grab fresh groceries this weekend. I’ll leave the tomato off of yours,” he adds, as casually as though the words aren’t a knife to the chest.
I shouldn’t even be surprised he remembers I don’t like them.
Of course he does. I doubt he’s forgotten a single thing about me.
Obediently, I slide onto a stool and watch as he lines up his ingredients on the counter in an orderly row.
His back remains firmly to me, and I wonder if that’s done purposely.
Sandwiches could be prepped just as easily on the island as on the counter he’s using.
“So, uhm…how have you been?” I ask awkwardly, trying to figure out the best way to break the ice.
“Good. You?”
Flattening my hands onto the marble island, I stare hard at the granulations. I need to just suck it up and do it. Rip the Band-Aid off, as my mother used to say—going slowly will only prolong the hurt and make it worse in the end.
“Fine. Listen, Shiloh, I’m sorry I haven’t reached out. The truth is—” I cut off when he glances over his shoulder at me, lips once more tugged downward in a frown and eyes squinted.
“You don’t have to apologize for being busy,” he tells me before turning back around.
I stare at his back. He’s right—I was busy.
Breaking into the art world and trying to make a name for myself wasn’t easy.
Not to mention the absolute culture shock that was moving to California.
But not reaching out wasn’t a product of being strapped for time.
It was a product of running away, of losing my mom, and feeling the boundaries of our small, coastal town closing me in.
I needed to run, and the road was right there.
It was so much easier not to look back over my shoulder, and so I didn’t.
I’d buried my only blood relative, said goodbye to Shiloh, and hit the road.
By the time I’d realized I’d made a mistake and let go of the single thing I should have held on to, I was too far away to turn back.
“No,” I agree slowly. “I’m sorry I didn’t reach out, though. I just…I kept meaning to, and then time got away from me. It was just hard to…”