Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
EWAN
Sitting on the floor cross-legged, I idly click my tongue as I lean over the smallest of the canvases Daniel sent me.
My Sharpie is almost out of ink, which goes to show just how much I’m already benefitting from this vacation thing.
Leaning back, I look at the drawing. It’s not my area of expertise, but I’m feeling pretty good about it nonetheless.
“Stop making that damn noise,” Daniel complains from where my phone is on speaker and resting next to my knee. Feeling ornery, I click my tongue a little louder. He groans.
“I think I’m finished,” I announce, capping the Sharpie and dropping it to the floor.
“What are you even doing besides giving me a headache?”
“Art.”
“Really?” Daniel perks up. “What did you paint?”
“Nothing. I can’t paint. I did, however, draw a lobster.”
He devolves into wordless grumbles, so I heave myself up off the floor, knees popping, and grab the canvas.
Propping it against the TV stand, I head into the kitchen for something to eat.
Phone still in the living room, I can’t hear a word Daniel says as he starts talking.
Something rude, no doubt, so I merely continue clicking my tongue as I look for something to snack on.
Maybe it’s just the fumes from the Sharpie, but I’m starving.
Grabbing a bowl and pouring some cereal in, I scratch idly at my stomach as I walk back toward my phone.
“What was that?” I ask, interrupting Daniel’s monologue. He pauses.
“You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?” He continues before I can reply in the affirmative. “I said you can paint, and I’m sick of hearing you say you can’t. Now, let me see the lobster.”
Tipping the bowl and letting some dry cereal fall into my mouth, I snap a photo of the lobster and send it to him.
I’ve never been particularly skilled at line art, much preferring to start and end with a paintbrush.
But like the majority of people in my trade, I can pass a basic skills test at most things, and that includes drawing lobsters.
“That looks good,” Daniel comments. I roll my eyes. I could smear shit all over a canvas, and he’d still tell me it was good. “Does this have something to do with that lobster Hotmail guy?”
I sigh. Yes, it does. I have a feeling Daniel is still smarting from the conversation we had and my explanation of who Shiloh is to me.
He didn’t really make a mistake—how the hell was he meant to know unless I told him?
But regardless, both of us feel bad, and I doubt Daniel will forget it anytime soon.
He’s already starting to ask me tentatively probing questions about other names or accounts, as though worried another love from my past might pop out of my email account.
“Maybe I’ll give it to him.” Biting my lip, I stretch one leg out and use my toes to nudge the canvas, trying to turn it to face me fully. I chomp down on another bite of cereal, and Daniel groans.
“There is only so much of the auditory torture I can take. Give the man the lobster, and keep up the good work. Bye, kiddo. Call me if you need anything.”
I remain on the floor after he hangs up, contemplating the Sharpie lobster while I finish my snack.
Nutritional? Maybe not, but it counts as calories, and for me, that’s a win.
Yawning, I rise to standing and stop by the kitchen long enough to add the bowl to the stack of dishes in the sink. I need to clean those later.
After putting together an outfit from the nicest things I can find on the floor, I tuck the lobster under my arm and leave the cottage.
I need to do laundry, but I haven’t been doing that much, so none of the worn things are all that dirty.
I’m going to go to the harbor, anyway, so I won’t be anywhere close to the smelliest thing there.
Snuggling the canvas up into my armpit, I walk the short distance to Triton’s Brew.
“Your favorite customer has arrived,” I announce in a dramatic singsong that makes Braxton giggle. If only everyone were as easy to make happy as her. She beams at me as I approach the counter, already grabbing a large cup for my usual order.
“Hi, Ewan.” She writes my name on the cup, and without even looking, I know she’s spelled it wrong. On purpose, this time, as has become our little joke. “How are you?”
“Just fine. And you? Does your sister make you work every weekend? That hardly seems fair.”
“Oh, fuck off.” Jean’s voice comes through the pass-through window behind the counter, easily heard over the sizzle of whatever she’s cooking on the grill. Braxton shakes her head, blushing a little bit.
“Same as usual?” she asks, wisely deciding not to complain about the work environment when her boss is within hearing distance.
“Yes, please. I don’t suppose you know what Shiloh Lepage orders, do you?”
Braxton looks as though all her wildest dreams have come true.
“Yes! Yes, I’ll make it!”
I raise my eyebrows at the exuberance but dutifully pass over my credit card to pay.
The canvas slips, so I tug it back into place under my arm, drawing Braxton’s eyes.
I’ve got the lobster facing inward, but it’s big enough that parts of him are peeking out.
After putting my card back into my wallet, I oblige the curiosity and show my young friend.
“Oh, wow.” She breathes the word out so reverentially, I can’t help but laugh. Between that reaction and Daniel’s, I’m liable to get my confidence back without any growing pains at all. “Did you make that?”
“It’s just a drawing of a lobster, but yes, I did it.”
“We should hang it here!” She looks so painfully excited by the prospect, I feel bad letting her down. Bad enough to make a promise there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to keep.
“It’s a gift. I can make you one, though. If you want.”
“You should make enough for an entire gallery wall! We sell local artists here, didn’t you know?
” Having completely forgotten about the coffee order, she gestures toward the walls where the same photographs I noticed before are still hanging.
The words “gallery wall” turn my stomach, and I tilt my face away from her to hide my grimace.
There’s nothing like the sharp reminder of a failing art career to wake you up in the morning.
Maybe I don’t need the coffee after all.
“Yeah,” I agree, trying not to sound as morose as I suddenly feel. “Maybe.”
Braxton seems happy enough with this half promise and busies herself with making the coffee. I watch, interested to see what sort of thing staid, serious Shiloh might order, and laugh when all she does is pour some brewed coffee into the cup.
“Does he take cream or sugar?” I ask her when she slides them over the counter to me after popping them into a carrier tray.
“Nope! Just black.”
“All right. Thank you.” I pass her a handful of folded bills. “That’s your tip. Don’t split it with your sister.”
“Are you trying to get me murdered?” she asks in a mock whisper, although the gravitas is lost somewhere between the grin on her face and her fingers as she slips the money into her apron pocket.
The balancing act of carrying a coffee tray in one hand and a canvas in the other is harder than expected.
Neither are heavy, but both are unwieldy enough to give me—fitness-inept oaf that I am—a bit of a difficult time.
I pass three people on the way to the harbor who offer to help me, and I send them on their way.
I don’t want any nosy hangers-on coming with me to see Shiloh.
We’ve been texting back and forth the past few days.
Or, well, I’ve been texting, and Shiloh has been occasionally responding.
Given that his job sends him out onto the ocean most days, and he was never a very solid communicator via cell phone, I don’t let this hurt my feelings.
I do, however, keep it up. I’ve decided that maybe the best way to show him how sorry I am about leaving is to be here now.
To really be here. To chat with him the way we used to, maybe go out on the boat if that offer he made still stands, bring him coffee and drawings of lobsters.
When he’d mentioned yesterday evening that he wasn’t hauling today, I’d spent the majority of the night in sleepless excitement, already planning on hunting him down.
It’s not hard to hunt Shiloh down, even on a day that he himself called a day off.
He’s either home or on the boat, and if I had to put money on it, I’d bet he’s at the boat today.
A day off for his crew most likely means it’s a boat-maintenance day for him.
So, off I go, bearing gifts and hoping my presence won’t be unwanted.
The Porsche is parked in the lot when I arrive, but so is Shiloh’s truck, so I barely pay the fancy car any mind.
Using my knee to nudge the canvas back up into my armpit, where it seems reluctant to stay, I walk down the wooden dock toward the Drifter.
A pair of gulls sit on top of one of the posts, squawking at me as I go by.
When I don’t toss any food their way, they fly off in search of some elsewhere.
Inhaling as deeply as I can, my stomach flutters with happiness at the smell of bait, as though it’s fancy cologne and not dead fish.
I catch sight of Shiloh, and the flutters turn into a burn.
He’s fiddling with one of the lobster tanks, head bent and hair falling over his brow.
I can feel a blush sneaking up from the neck of my hoodie, and I can’t even pretend it’s due to embarrassment.
Desire has no expiration date, apparently.
Shiloh looks up, and the heat of my body ramps up to an almost dangerous degree.
I suppose there’s no better place than the harbor to spontaneously combust.
“Ewan?” Shiloh calls in confusion, likely wondering why I’m standing here staring at him. Age, it seems, has only made me stranger.