Chapter 5 #2
I trail off again. Shiloh remains silent, carefully putting together his sandwiches and allowing me space to find my words.
He always was the better listener of the two of us.
One would think I, as the better talker, would be best equipped to have this conversation, but I’m floundering.
I don’t think words are enough to explain the gaping hole my life became after Mom’s death or the unending hunger she left me with.
It felt like I was starving. Starving for anything but what I already had here.
The need to leave had tickled across my skin for months, an un-scratchable itch to go.
To find a place where my mother’s ghost wasn’t hovering in the periphery everywhere I looked.
But along with that was the fear of Shiloh.
The fear of that growing awareness I had of my best friend—the way he smelled and moved and spoke.
The ballooning desire to touch in a way I hadn’t wanted to touch him before and not knowing what he’d do if I tried.
I would look at the ocean beaded on his skin and wonder what it would feel like to lick it off, then go home and frantically jerk off in the shower, biting my lip hard enough to make myself bleed.
The love I had for Shiloh had grown into something I didn’t understand and was frightened to look at lest it take something from me I could never get back.
It was either stay and tell him how I felt, or leave and take my secrets with me.
I left. I’d needed space, and I’d gotten it.
But the crawl of time had rolled over me like an ocean wave, and by the time I came up for air, it had been a year.
A year of no contact with Shiloh had felt like a chasm so incredibly wide, I couldn’t think how to bridge it.
Later, I’d tell myself when I reached for my phone to call him. You’ll do it later.
He brings the sandwiches over to the island, still not quite meeting my eye, even as he slides the plate toward me.
He’s cut the bread diagonally and even gone so far as to stick a pair of toothpicks in to keep the halves together.
Something that feels suspiciously like tears gathers in the back of my throat.
“Water?” he asks.
I nod and finally unstick my throat enough to mutter, “Thank you.”
“How are things going?” Shiloh asks, widening his legs and leaning his elbows down on the island opposite where I’m sitting.
I’m a little disappointed in the obvious redirect, but who the hell am I to try and manipulate him into hearing what I have to say?
He’s not required to hear my apology, and frankly, I probably don’t deserve the forgiveness that would surely follow.
He’s not one to hold a grudge, and I was shamelessly going to try and take advantage of that.
“Fine,” I reply awkwardly, shoulder twitching in a half-assed sort of shrug.
How are things going? Shit. Absolute shit.
I haven’t painted in months, I can’t sleep, and in some sort of psychotic break, I decided that the best place for me to find myself again is my hometown.
Oh, and did I mention that I fell in love with you when we were fourteen, and seven years apparently wasn’t enough for me to fall out?
That’s how things are going, Shiloh, how about you?
“Things are fine,” I repeat, clearing my throat. “How about you? Tell me what’s been happening.”
I pick up my sandwich and take a bite. In the grand scheme of things, this probably isn’t the greatest sandwich that’s ever been made, but since Shiloh put it together, it feels that way.
It feels like some sort of romantic gesture for him to make food and serve me, which is exactly the sort of insane thought I’d expect my insomnia-ridden brain to come up with.
He catches my eye over his own dinner, expression strange.
“You know what’s been happening,” he tells me. I pause. I guess maybe I do, since he’s probably spent the last seven years on the lobster boat, but that wasn’t really what I was asking.
I want to hear about everything including and beyond his job.
I want to hear about this house—when he moved in and what repairs he’s had to do.
I was asking for all the little things I’ve missed out on that I used to know about him, like what he eats for breakfast now and what sort of hobbies he has.
I was asking what he does for fun, whether he was seeing anyone or not.
You know what’s been happening is probably the nicest way he could think of to tell my nosy ass to fuck off. Fair enough.
“Sure,” I agree sadly. He gives me that look again, the one from earlier that made me feel like I was standing in a body scanner at the airport. He looks perplexed, like he can’t quite figure out who I am. An apology knocks on the back of my teeth again. “I’m sorry, Shiloh.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he requests.
“I should have called,” I add. He ducks his head, but not quickly enough for me to miss the twist of his mouth.
Shiloh was always a pretty decent liar growing up, if only because he’s good at maintaining a blank, stoic expression.
He never could lie to me, though. Not when I spent all of our time together cataloguing every expression, and every moment we were apart thinking of his face.
Because I caught that flash of pain, I repeat, “I should have called. I’m sorry. ”
“You explained why you had to go,” he replies, eyes flicking back up to mine.
Is it possible for eye color to change? Shiloh’s has—a darker blue than they were when we were young.
Like the color started as a calm, tropical cerulean but grew into this deep-sea blue of adulthood.
I stare hard into those eyes and pretend it’s the artist in me that cares what they look like.
“I understood—understand why you had to leave, Ewan. I get it. I wasn’t mad at you,” Shiloh continues.
I frown, glancing down at my sandwich. I’ve only managed two bites, so I try for a third, chewing slowly. When I look back up, I find Shiloh already watching me.