Chapter 11 #2
He shrugs again, takes a pull from his beer, and aims his blue eyes toward the ocean.
Alone. It’s an interesting thing to be lonely and still want company, to reach for people and then wish they’d stayed away once you have them.
I had wanted to be alone, and I’d spent every minute of that alone time wishing I didn’t have to be.
People came, and I’d wished they’d go; people would go, and I’d wished they had stayed.
Daniel once told me that when we first met, I’d reminded him of a stray dog—eyes pleading for a home and teeth ready to bite anyone who tried to give me one.
I have no idea what compelled the man to stick it out.
“And what did you need?” I ask Shiloh, because every fiber of my being knows how selfish heartbreak can make a person.
We were suffering together, even though I felt alone, and this is the outcome: a single chair on a porch and someone I’ve spent my entire life loving thinking I was too busy for him.
“Oh, you know me. I just go on.”
Yes. Of course he did. He’s the rock the waves break around, and I didn’t have the sense to use him for shelter from the storm.
“You read the emails?” he asks softly. So softly that I barely hear the words before the breeze pulls them away.
“All of them. Including the last one,” I confirm.
“Well…that’s embarrassing.”
I smile at him, heart pattering a delighted rhythm when he turns his head and returns it. He was so angry last night, and even when I first answered the door and he looked at me, I could see a lingering annoyance on his face. I can’t find it now. I just go on.
“It’s not,” I correct. There is nothing less embarrassing than those emails. “They were nice. I wish I’d been able to read them when you sent them.”
“Would you have replied?”
“I hope so.”
He doesn’t respond to that, nor do I expect him to. Nothing much to be said. Neither of us can say what might have happened if things had taken a different turn all those years ago. All we can do is move forward with how they are now.
“I don’t really want to go into details if it’s all the same to you, but my head wasn’t right after Mom died.
I got so…sick, and instead of just sitting down and confronting it all, I poured everything into work,” I continue, moving the conversation onto the shakier ground I know we need to walk.
I don’t know how else to explain my need to hide from him other than to give him all of the facts, as scary as that might be.
It’s time to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“It wasn’t just Mom, though. It was you. ”
There is a soft chime as Shiloh startles and his beer bottle hits the wooden armrest of his chair.
I can feel his eyes on the side of my face, but I don’t look over.
The blue of the ocean is a safer view than the blue of his eyes when one is about to peel back the layers of their soul for inspecting.
“What did I do?” he asks. Any other person would have asked that question in offense. Shiloh just sounds wary. Thinking through my reply, I decide to start with the lesser, and hopefully easier, of two evils.
“I used to sit in my studio and paint, and every time I finished, I’d think, I wonder what Shiloh would say.
I’d sit there and feel good about myself for all of five minutes before I started noticing things.
Like the focal point suddenly seemed wrong, the edges fragmented, wrong brushstrokes used, that type of thing.
Technical errors that probably only an artist would notice.
But I’d sit there and wallow in this…self-pity of never feeling good enough, and you were always the reason why.
Like, real me could never live up to imaginary you’s expectations. ”
I do look over at Shiloh now, no longer able to stand the burn of his gaze on my cheek. He’s frowning at me, brows low and a few strands of dirty-blond hair caught on his lashes. The breeze frees them after a second. I continue before he can come to his own defense.
“It doesn’t make sense, and I’m probably not doing a very good job explaining it.
But there’s something painful about creating a beautiful thing and asking others to pass their judgment on it.
Beautiful things aren’t beautiful to everyone.
I’ve found I’ve got a pretty thick skin when it comes to the opinions of others, but yours is one I couldn’t stand to know.
I knew if I ever called you up, you’d ask about work, and I’d tell you because I could never not tell you anything; I’d hear what you thought of my work, whether I wanted to or not, and truly, Shiloh, I couldn’t imagine anything more terrifying. ”
“I would never say anything mean,” he says, and now I can detect a hint of offense in his tone. “I would never criticize anything you did. How could I? I’m a damn lobster fisherman. What the hell do I know about art?”
“Ah, but see, that’s the problem. What’s better, someone pandering to you and pretending to love something they hate?
Or telling the truth and ripping you apart?
” We stare at one another for a moment, Shiloh’s lips parted slightly as he waits for words to come to his defense.
In a gentle tone, I add, “Art is subjective. Even a lobster fisherman can look at a painting and decide whether it speaks to them or not. I want you to love everything I create. The possibility of receiving a lie or a criticism had me all turned around in my head.”
“Well…okay,” he says slowly. “But I still don’t really understand.”
I smile at him, trying to soften what might have sounded like a rebuke or a laying of blame. “Nor do I expect you to. The things that make sense in my mind rarely stay that way when spoken out loud.”
Shiloh’s mouth is still turned down into a frown, thoughts so loud he might as well be screaming them at me.
Before I can lose my nerve, I continue. This is going to end up being the hardest and possibly most mortifying part of the conversation.
Glumly, I look down at the beer sweating in my hand and wish it were something harder.
“Also,” I start slowly, “I, uh, was sort of struggling with…us, too.”
“With us?” Shiloh asks incredulously. He’s sitting straight in the chair, no longer relaxed and following the curve of the back.
He looks shocked, as well he should be. I doubt it would ever occur to Shiloh that I might have cared for him in any way other than a friend or brother. He adds, “Did I do something?”
“No, not at all. It’s actually…well, honestly, it was because you didn’t do anything.” He looks even more confused by this. I try for a smile. Here we go. “I loved you. Was in love with you. Which, as scary as that feeling is as an adult, it felt terrifying as a teenager.”
Shiloh looks as though this explanation doesn’t explain a damn thing. He’s leaning hard into the armrest of his chair, bent toward me as though hoping proximity might make the words more sensical. I watch the frown pull down his brows by increments as he thinks.
“Okay, well, you’ve lost me,” he admits. “I love you, too.”
The words hit me like an electric shock to my heart.
I have to remind myself he’s not saying that the way I’m saying it, that he doesn’t understand.
I already know he loved—loves—me. Of course he does.
No two people could be as close as we were without that emotion involved.
But there are different kinds of love. The way I love Daniel as a father figure and friend is nothing compared to the way I love Shiloh.
The two things might as well be planets apart with how different they are.
“No, Shi. I mean I was in love with you. I had you as a friend, and I loved that, I really did, but, like, every day we spent together, I wanted more and more and more. Toward the end, I was crawling out of my skin trying not to act inappropriately around you. Everyone our age was going on dates and losing their virginity, and the only thing I could think about was how badly I wanted to kiss you.”
This does it. He breathes in sharply, and the consternation on his face smooths into surprise. Whatever he was imagining, that wasn’t it. I take a sip of my beer, throat dry, and nearly inhale it up my nose when he asks, “Well, why didn’t you?”
It takes me a minute to catch my breath after doing my level best to hack a lung up my throat.
“Do you want me to grab you some water?” he asks, pressing his hand against the armrest and half rising.
Before he can walk off, I fling a hand out and grasp his wrist. It’s a loose grip, but it does the job to keep him there.
There is no way in hell I’m letting him stroll off after asking that question.
“Hold on. Sit back down,” I instruct, waiting until his butt is planted once more before letting him go. “What do you mean, why didn’t I? Why didn’t I kiss you?”
“Yeah,” he agrees, because apparently, this was meant to be self-explanatory. He waits, watching me, before adding, “You could have.”
The deck feels a lot less sturdy than it did moments ago.
A black hole could spontaneously open up below my feet, and I think even that would be less shocking than Shiloh Lepage telling me I could have kissed him.
As though it was just waiting for its time to shine, regret stands up and steps into the light.
Did I really waste so much time frightened about what my feelings meant and how Shiloh would react to them, only to find out I was worried for nothing?
I’m not sure what exactly plays over my face, but Shiloh’s expression relaxes from confused and settles somewhere closer to warmth.
It’s the precise way he used to look at me before, eyes a little darker, skin a little more aged, and hair a little longer—still the face I love above all others.
It’s entirely possible this conversation will end with me breaking down into tears and really giving him a view into the slightly manic corners of my brain.
“Hey-o!” a cheerful young voice calls, punctuated by the slamming of a car door. Shiloh rises from his seat again, and this time, I let him.
“Pizza’s here,” he explains unnecessarily, glancing down at me. I nod. What a waste of money. There is no way I’ll be able to eat now.
Slumping back in my Adirondack chair, I put an elbow on the flat of the armrest and rest my chin in my palm, watching Shiloh as he walks to meet the deliveryman.
Or kid, rather, judging by the skinny teenage body that steps around the corner of the house, bag in hand.
He must be familiar with delivering here.
Familiar enough to know that Shiloh was likely sitting out back, and knocking on the front door wouldn’t be prudent; familiar enough to smile and laugh and chat as the pizza is handed over.
I watch as a cash tip is handed to the boy, who happily raises a hand in hello and farewell to me before trudging back around the house to his car.
“That’s one of the Libby kids,” Shiloh tells me as he rejoins me on the deck and sets the pizza box down between us. “Amy’s older brother’s boy. Jameson. Works three two-hour shifts a week and loves every second of it.”
I smile. Classic Siren’s Point—everyone knowing everything about everyone. I’d forgotten that Amy Libby even had a brother old enough for a kid that age, but then again, I’ve never met the man.
“Seems like a happy kid,” I comment.
“Yeah.” Bending forward from where he’s once more seated beside me, Shiloh flips open the pizza box and pulls out a slice. When I don’t do the same, he glances over at me. “Supreme isn’t your favorite anymore?”
“No, it is,” I agree. Feeling bad that he might have bought the pie for nothing, I pick out the thinnest slice I can.
Satisfied, he sits back in his chair, legs kicked forward and crossed at the ankle.
I think maybe it’s time to admit that I don’t know my old friend nearly as well as I thought I did.
“I don’t mean to keep beating the dead horse here, but…
are you honestly telling me that if I’d told you how I felt, you would have been fine with it?
You would have, what? Felt the same?” The question comes out exactly how I feel inside, like I’m reaching tentative fingers his way and waiting to see if he’ll run away or let me touch him.
“You already knew I felt the same, Ewan. I’m pretty sure we were the only teenage boys in existence saying we loved one another.
” He slants a look my direction from the corner of his eye, taking a bite of pizza and running his tongue over the corner of his lip to catch any stray grease.
The accidental eroticism of the act isn’t lost on me. I look back out at the ocean instead.
“We loved each other as friends,” I tell him, not understanding why I have to explain this.
“Is there a difference? Isn’t your significant other meant to be your best friend?”
I open my mouth, pause, and close it again. He’s right, but he’s also…wrong, somehow. Attraction doesn’t work like that. At least not for me. Daniel is my friend, but that doesn’t mean I have any desire to have sex with the man. Honestly, I’d rather not see him naked at all. Ever.
“Sure, yeah, but that doesn’t mean you want to have sex with all your friends.”
Shiloh huffs around his mouthful of pizza, breaking my staring contest with the sea and drawing my gaze back to him. He looks amused. I decide maybe this conversation won’t be as horrendous as I thought—strange, maybe, but not terrible—and tentatively take a bite of my own pizza.
“I wouldn’t have wanted to have sex with anyone but you in high school,” Shiloh says, casually tossing a grenade against the vigilantly tended wall around my heart and destroying it.
Nope. There is no way I can eat through this. Leaning forward, I drop my slice of pizza back into the box, complete with a single bite missing. Bending a knee, I turn as much as I’m able to face Shiloh and ask, “What the fuck are you talking about?”