Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
SHILOH
Ewan’s hazel eyes are sharp enough on my face that it feels like his fingers are pressing there instead.
I feel like I’ve said all the right things, but he’s once more reacting in a way that I didn’t expect.
Maybe he’s upset that we wasted all those years not being together—dating, or boyfriends as we probably would have called ourselves in high school—but I feel nothing but a bone-deep relief.
I feel like he showed up and smoothed aloe over a sunburn I’ve been sporting for nearly a decade.
He did love me as much as I loved him, and so what if it took us this long to talk about it?
What matters is getting there in the end, right?
“I think the relationship hierarchy is bullshit,” I start, trying to think of a way to say this.
I’m not an expert in anything other than myself, and I’ve never had to explain before.
“Romance or sexual attraction aren’t any more important than friendships.
You were the most important person to me, and yeah, eventually I did start to think about how it might be to have sex with you.
But that didn’t have anything to do with how attractive you are. It was because you were my person.”
Ewan’s face crumples, devastation peeking through the cracks before he’s able to control it.
I’m making a mess of this, but all I’m doing is telling the truth.
He was honest with me, and it’s only fair I return the favor.
I could as easily have mentioned my own feelings to him as he could have to me before he left.
Neither of us did, which means both of us hold the blame.
Looking at Ewan now, I wonder if he’s trying to shoulder more than his fair share.
“So, Dryden Roy is your person now?” he asks carefully. I feel my cheeks warm, embarrassment making itself known before I even have a chance to feel it.
I pause, thinking for a moment. Is Roy my person?
Part of me wants to answer yes. The part that played pinball with him when he bought the machine for no apparent reason.
The part of me that shared meals with him, fished with him, and made love to him.
But part of me also wants to answer no, he’s not my person.
That, after two years of standing still, this tiny, breakable thing between us was destroyed with no effort and no fight.
I wanted so badly to care for him even half as much as I do Ewan. I wanted him to care about me that much. I wanted us to try, and I’m starting to wonder now if neither of us actually did. Clearing my throat, I answer Ewan.
“Well…no. He sort of came out of nowhere, and to be frank, I was tired of being alone. With Roy, I tried something new, I guess. Sex before friends.”
“And how’d that work out?” Ewan’s voice is soft, precisely matching the chocolatey warmth in the brown parts of his eyes. He looks so serious and so sad, and I seem to only be making things worse.
“A relationship that both Roy and I could discard pretty easily, apparently,” I admit, gut squirming in discomfort. I’ve been uncomfortable in my relationship with Roy for long enough that I should have ended it myself. I should have ended it long before Ewan Fate drove back into town.
“I’m sorry I caused that.”
I shake my head. “You didn’t. We were already on the edge of that cliff. You just gave us the shove to send us over.”
He grimaces. I wish he’d pick up his slice and keep eating.
He was definitely asleep before I knocked on his door and woke him up.
I doubt he’s had any food today, and to be honest, he doesn’t look like he’s had much food at all these past few years.
After a day spent on the boat, I’m starving.
If he doesn’t help me with the pizza, I’m going to finish it all myself.
“You should eat,” I tell him. He shakes his head.
“I need a second to digest just how much I’ve fucked up first.”
“Hey.” He looks at me, mouth soft in a frown and eyes sad. “Let’s not do this, please. I don’t want to be angry or play the blame game. I don’t want to live in the past, okay? Let’s just move on.”
“You were angry last night. Rightfully so,” he adds.
“I was,” I agree, shrugging. “And I’ve spent a fair bit of time angry at you over the last seven years, too. And the only person who suffered during those times was me. I’m sick of it, Ewan. So, please, let’s just move on.”
His lips part on a breath, but he seems to rethink what he wanted to say and looks away instead.
He seems to have an easier time staring at the ocean than maintaining eye contact with me, which is fair enough.
I have a hard time looking at him, too, although I imagine it’s for different reasons.
He’s so beautiful. And while I can appreciate the aesthetic appeal of someone like Roy or even Oliver, nobody I’ve ever met has struck me like Ewan does.
Desire is a strange and fleeting emotion for me.
It’s never been something I can count on, and the few times in my adult life I have experienced it have been lackluster.
But with Ewan, it’s different. A poet would probably have the sort of pretty verses needed to describe how he makes me feel, but I don’t possess those kinds of words.
All I have is the knowledge that Ewan is the person I love above all others.
Always was and always will be, and that won’t change, no matter where he finds himself geographically.
If there is one thing I’ve learned since he came back, it’s that my feelings are more than strong enough to stretch for miles.
“Eat your pizza,” I say again, trying to make it sound like a demand and not a suggestion.
I don’t like the pallor of his face or the press of his bones through his skin.
If we’re building a bridge, I’m not letting any sort of martyrdom across.
I can forgive him, and he can forgive himself, and we can move on.
Ewan sighs but leans forward and snags his slice.
I grab a second and drink a swig of my beer, taking a moment to listen to the surf crashing in the distance.
He finishes the piece of pizza quicker than I would have expected and silently holds the crust out to me with a graceful roll of his wrist. I’m not sure if it’s the sight of the inside of that pale wrist or the way he’s continuing a tradition we started as kids, but the dull thud of my heart hurts as I reach for the crust. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to deal with the effects of Ewan’s presence, and my avoidance of him this past week hasn’t helped.
There is so much of him, and Siren’s Point has never felt smaller than it does when Ewan is in town, making everything brighter and happier and more lovely.
I wish I hadn’t spent the last week dodging him, all of a sudden.
I wish I’d been a man and gone to talk to him that first day.
Had this conversation taken place sooner, where might we have found ourselves now?
I doubt it would have ended in a fight between Roy and me or the ending of our relationship.
Biting into the crust he passed off to me, I shake my head, exasperated at myself.
Here I was, telling Ewan we need to let go and move on, and here I am, already failing. Taking one’s own advice is never easy.
“Dryden Roy is handsome,” Ewan says suddenly, for all the world as though the thought only just occurred to him. I pinch my lips in an effort to fight a smile. Ewan—stubborn, obsessive Ewan—could be a dog with a bone if something got stuck in his head.
“He is.”
“And a dick,” Ewan adds, as though he knows Roy at all and didn’t just meet him last night.
“Sometimes,” I agree, earning a soft chuckle from my companion. Unwilling to leave it at that, though, I add, “He’s good people.”
Ewan tries to hide his eye roll by snagging another slice of pizza, but I catch it all the same. I give him another couple of minutes of silent eating before I continue.
“So, why’d you really come home?”
He jolts, coughing a little bit like the pizza burned on its way down his throat. The careful avoidance of my eyes isn’t lost on me.
“Work stuff,” he replies, which could mean anything or nothing at all.
“Like what?” Usually I wouldn’t press him so much, but it’s been a weird twenty-four hours, I’m tired, and I love him desperately. For the first time in seven years, he’s here not only in spirit but in body as well. I don’t mean to lose this.
“Just struggling to paint.” He shrugs, spinning the beer against the armrest of his chair, eyes on the trail of water the glass leaves behind. Before I can reply to that, he adds, “I painted you, once.”
“You did?” I’m surprised. Also, confused. I’ve kept up to date on all of Ewan’s work—he doesn’t do portraits. I’m pretty sure I’d remember seeing my own face.
He finally drags his eyes up from the beer and onto mine, a soft smile on his lips. Pleased with himself, apparently.
“Here,” he says, leaning to the side and freeing his cell from the pocket of his jeans, “I’ll show you.”
I watch his face as his eyes flick over the screen, thumbs tapping as he searches.
I want to reach out and slide my fingers into the black hair above his ear, move close enough to determine what sort of aftershave he uses, if any.
I’d like to give him a hug and determine how well the curves of us fit together after all this time.