Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
EWAN
Shiloh is driving us to his house, looking serious and smelling of fish despite the wind whipping through the cab via the open windows.
It’s loud, which makes it hard to talk, but it’s fine since I’m too tired for small talk anyway.
I angle myself in the passenger seat, trying to make it easier for me to keep an eye on him without turning my head.
I love the way he looks. Hair too long, scruff too wild, and skin rough from days spent in the sun.
If he were to touch me, the palms of his hands would be coarse instead of smooth.
Working hands, just like mine, even though our trades couldn’t be more different.
He doesn’t catch me creeping on him. His eyes are so firmly on the road, one would think we were flying down the interstate instead of driving twenty-five down the sleepy streets of Siren’s Point.
It’s better we don’t chat anyway, since this will give me time to prepare.
It’s clear Shiloh has something to say. Obvious, given the fact that he came knocking on my door the night after our argument when I’ve been here a week and he’s never come by.
Shiloh was never one to shy away from things that needed saying.
I imagine he had as bad a night as I did.
Except instead of reading old emails, he was turning the conversation between Dryden Roy and me over and over in his mind, trying to get it to make sense.
Well, he must have figured something out because only that would bring him to my door, ready to talk.
Hopefully, he’s also ready to listen, because I’ve got some crow to eat and years of emails to respond to.
When we get to his place, the windows are finally rolled up, and we simultaneously exit the truck.
Pausing, I bend my knees enough to give me a better view of my face in the side mirror.
My hair is a wreck, and unlike Shiloh, it doesn’t look good on me.
I look like I’ve been in bed with the flu, and he’s dragged me out to stretch my legs.
Which, given the fact that I had finally fallen asleep around noon and was only woken up by his knock, it’s not too far from the truth.
Sighing, I give up. It doesn’t matter what I look like.
The inside of his place is just as neat as it was the last time I was here.
Walking through the door feels like stepping through some magical waterfall, tension immediately melting away.
His space is beautiful—peaceful and open and bright, with not a thing out of place.
Shiloh was better at following his parents’ rules growing up, keeping things neat and organized.
Apparently, that followed him into adulthood, even without his mom to force him to do the chores.
“You’re so clean,” I note. Shiloh huffs.
“You set the bar a little low.”
“Ouch.” I soften it with a smile, making sure he knows I’m enjoying the ribbing. It’s how we used to talk. He takes off his shoes, so I do the same.
“What do you want to eat?” he asks, carefully keeping his eyes averted from me the same way he’d done the first time I was here.
“Could we just order a pizza?” I request. I know I should be hungry after sleeping the day away and not eating, but I’m still on edge, and my nerves feel like someone took a sander to them.
I’d hate for him to go through the trouble of making something only for me to be unable to choke down more than a handful of bites.
“Sure,” he agrees, stopping at the kitchen island and pulling out his phone. While he fiddles with it, I step over to the wide, glass back door and look out at his backyard.
The grassy dunes are dusted with sand, and the rocky shore is visible just before the view bleeds to blue.
I’m not surprised this was the house Shiloh chose instead of one on the cliffs or back in the forest. He used to talk about vacationing somewhere where the sand was white and the water so clear you could see the ocean floor.
Even in his daydreams, Shiloh could never bring himself to part from the water.
A location like this is perfect for my seaman.
“We can sit outside,” he offers, awkwardly reaching in front of me to pull the door open. I step back to give him room, inhaling a bit to catch some of him in my nose.
Not even the strong breeze from the water can diffuse the awkwardness between us as we step out onto the deck.
There’s only one chair sitting out, which seems so strange, I wonder for a second if the other was just blown off by the wind.
I look around for it while Shiloh steps around the side of the house.
When he comes back with a second chair, I feel a slight head rush as my emotions plummet.
I’m not sure there is anything more sad than him expecting to always be sitting alone.
He doesn’t say anything, just pats the back of the chair in a silent request for me to take that seat, before stepping back inside.
I do, my tired body practically melting against the warm surface.
I yawn, rubbing a hand across my eyes. I shouldn’t have taken that nap, probably.
Even though I was flagging hard, it’ll only make sleeping tonight even more difficult.
Tired now doesn’t equate to falling asleep later.
Something cold presses against my arm, and I jolt, looking over my shoulder at Shiloh. I hadn’t heard him approach, his socked feet quiet on the wood.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, still holding a beer out to me as he sits. I take it from him, making a production of looking at the label so I don’t have to look at him.
“Thanks. Local brand?”
“Mm,” he agrees, before allowing the quiet to overtake us once more.
Instead of taking a drink, I lift the bottle and press it to my cheek.
The cool feels nice against my feverish skin.
I used to be so much braver as a kid. Younger me would be astounded to find out that adult me is nervous about doing something as simple as talking to Shiloh.
Anxiety came nipping along at depression’s heels, though, and left me with little bravery and an overabundance of worry.
It was those worries that drove me here in the first place, once my creative block started feeling less like something I might get over and more like the end of the world.
I couldn’t paint, and so I would worry about not painting, which then ensured that I was too worked up to fucking paint.
This, sitting here with Shiloh, the sun peeking over the house and the ocean in the distance, should be peaceful.
It shouldn’t have my pulse jumping and a nervous tic bouncing my leg up and down. It shouldn’t scare me.
But it does, because even with seven years of distance stretched between us, Shiloh is the only person alive whose opinion matters to me.
I suppose that’s another thing I need to explain to him.
How fear of criticism—fear of being perceived—had made me pull away from calling him.
With every piece I finished, every exhibition, every gallery opening I attended, all I could think about was what he might think.
People would praise me and post about me on social media and pay a lot of money for something I made; somehow, all that did was make me more paranoid about the single opinion I cared about.
It built itself up in my mind like a wall, and even today, it’s not one I’ve managed to break through.
Again, all I’ve done is punish him for something he didn’t even do.
Pushed him away for no solid, explainable reason and left him behind in an effort to keep myself safe.
I’m not sure what it says about my fucked-up brain that it decided Shiloh was the threat.
Shiloh, who has never caused me pain in his life and would likely be incredibly hurt to know I thought it was a possibility.
I sigh, shifting in my seat, and take a sip of the beer. Not enough alcohol to provide liquid courage, but I suppose it’s better than nothing. Looking over, I catch Shiloh’s eyes already on my face. He turns away quickly, embarrassed to have been caught staring.
“Shi,” I start, but he cuts me off softly.
“You never got the emails I sent, did you?”
I sigh again, closing my eyes for a brief moment of dark. After a second, I tell him, “No. I don’t run any of the administrative side of things. I didn’t even know the log-in information.”
He huffs another one of his throaty laughs—the kind that are born in the chest but don’t quite make it out.
“Okay,” he agrees, accepting it as simply as that. It’s my turn to laugh, although I can’t seem to inject any hilarity into the sound. I merely sound sad.
“Listen, Shi. I know I apologized before, but I don’t feel like either of us took it very seriously, and I really do think I need to have a better go of it.
I did get the emails—I read them through last night—but I didn’t get them when you sent them, which doesn’t make me any less sorry.
I didn’t mean to ignore you, but I also didn’t reach out myself, so is there really a difference? I’m sorry for it either way.”
“I just thought you were busy,” he explains, shrugging. “My mom told me you needed space after the funeral, and even if she hadn’t, I’d already puzzled that out for myself. You weren’t the same after your mom died, not that anyone would have expected you to be. You needed to be alone.”