Chapter 12 #2
Except there is that infuriatingly logical voice in my head telling me that would be a bad idea.
Ewan is a runner. He’s the type of person to want to leave, decide to do so, and hit the road.
He’s the type to never look back. I, on the other hand, am an oak tree—roots so firmly planted, not even a hurricane could pull me up.
I need to remember that the first time Ewan was given a choice about his life, he chose to leave.
I need to remember that here now doesn’t mean here always.
I need to not give up on Roy so quickly, to not get lost in the dreams I once had about Ewan and me, losing sight of where we are now.
“There you are,” Ewan says, holding his phone over to me. I don’t miss the way he worries his bottom lip with his teeth or the flutter of his dark lashes as he blinks rapidly. He’s regretting bringing this up.
Before he can snatch the phone away, I take it.
Frowning, I look down at the screen in confusion.
I remember this painting. I remember it vividly, in fact, because it’s one I’d wanted to buy but could neither afford nor find a space big enough for it to hang.
The title of the piece is a simple Harbor, which is still lost on me because as far as I can tell, there is no harbor in the painting.
It’s the coast. More specifically, it’s the coast during a storm.
Rolling waves, thunderclouds fat with rain, and trees bending as though being forced downward by the wind.
It’s dark, like most of the work Ewan does, with only the barest hints of color, and even those are deep navy or purple.
The first time I looked at it, I felt like I was looking out a window, watching the ocean froth and the rain fall, separated from the elements only by a thin piece of glass.
I wanted to buy it rather badly and was incredibly disappointed that I couldn’t.
Looking back up at Ewan, I find worried hazel eyes on my face.
“I tried to buy this,” I tell him. Immediately, he flushes and shakes his head like I’ve startled him. Silly man. I told him a thousand times growing up that I was going to be his best customer once he was famous.
“It’s you,” he repeats. “Or at least I thought of you while I was painting it.”
“A thunderstorm?” I’ll be the first to admit that symbolism is going to be wasted on me more often than not. He inhales hard through his nose, chest rising and cheeks still dusky with color.
“Yeah. Because you’re…an element. A presence.
Something that can’t be ignored, like a storm.
But you’re a thunderstorm soft enough to pass and leave no damage behind.
” I’m glad we’re already sitting down; Ewan looks like his knees wouldn’t be able to hold him right now.
He tacks on, in a somewhat smaller voice, “I never explain this stuff.”
“That was a good description,” I tell him, and it really was.
Do I understand precisely? Maybe not, but I don’t think I’m meant to.
He just finished telling me how scared he is of me seeing his work, and I can’t imagine it’s any easier explaining it either.
I clear my throat. “I set up alerts on your name so that I wouldn’t miss anything.
When I saw this one, I wanted it bad enough to consider a second mortgage on my house.
Luckily, I took a closer look at the measurements before I did. ”
A little bit of tension bleeds out of Ewan’s shoulders, and the timid smile turns more sure. “It’s massive.”
“It is. Where did it end up?”
“I don’t know,” he says regretfully. “I was always afraid to find out that someone terrible bought my stuff, so Daniel kept all that to himself. I’m pretty sheltered and spoiled.”
He says it like a joke, but the wry twist to his mouth gives it up as a lie.
“Protecting your sanity doesn’t make you sheltered or spoiled,” I correct. “If you don’t know who buys your paintings, it gives you the freedom to imagine them in good hands. I can understand that.”
I consider telling him about the painting I do own, but then I know he’ll ask to see it, and I’m not sure I’m ready to bring Ewan into my bedroom.
There’s also something just a tad pathetic about hanging the damn thing above my bed.
Having already confronted the mortification of the email debacle, I’m not sure I have it in me for any more today.
He doesn’t know I have it, and he admitted to not wanting to know who has the paintings.
Well, it’s easy enough to honor that today, even if it is a bit of a cop-out.
“Eat more pizza,” I tell him, nudging the box closer with my foot.
“You didn’t use to be so bossy,” Ewan grumbles.
And you didn’t use to be so skinny, I think, watching as he does grab another piece.
As we sit and finish the box, the sky slowly darkens, and the conversation becomes easier.
Ewan’s voice takes on a soft, sleepy quality, and every now and then, he muffles a yawn behind his hand.
I offer to drive him home three separate times before he finally takes me up on it.
He looks a little sheepish, but it seems to me like we’re on the same wavelength.
I’m exhausted and running on fumes, but I’m also wishing the evening would stretch on and Ewan’s presence here would continue.
I’m not sure what will happen once we both climb into bed and the night brings thoughts and fears and anxieties that weren’t there in the sun. Ewan seems to be thinking along the same lines as me. When I bring the truck to a stop in front of his cottage, he turns toward me with a hand on the door.
“See you later?” he asks shyly. I nod.
“Yeah. See you later.” It’s a promise I intend to keep.