Chapter 14 #4
I probably should have, though, because unfortunately, that’s just the way things work around here.
Siren’s Point is fairly unchanging when you compare it to other cities or towns.
In the seven years Ewan’s been gone, no shopping centers or apartment buildings have been erected; no restaurant chains have opened their doors here.
New faces are really the only source of change, which means the gossip mill grabs on to them and doesn’t let go.
Ewan, who is a familiar face masquerading as a new one, has probably been the talk at everyone’s dinner tables since he arrived.
He’s also famous, which only adds fuel to a fire that needs no accelerant.
“You don’t have to be sorry. I did it to myself.”
Reaching in front of him to grab the door, I wait until he passes inside before I snag his elbow.
He turns to look at me, that same infuriatingly fearful light in his eyes.
It’s really starting to grate on my nerves that I’m lumped in with everyone else, that I’m someone he needs to be cautious around.
It’s not supposed to be that way. My name is always meant to be spoken alongside his, and those hazel eyes should never have worry in them when they’re aimed my direction.
I don’t put any pressure on his arm, but he steps into me anyway.
Our faces are close enough for me to see his individual eyelashes and feel the soft displacement of air against my chin as he breathes.
I can feel the muscle of his arm move underneath my fingers, making me wish there wasn’t a layer of fabric between.
We stare at one another, and for a moment, I forget what it was I wanted to say.
The distance between our lips is little more than inches. I could kiss him.
“Hi! Welcome!” a young, happy voice says, reminding me that we’re in public and Ewan and I aren’t the only two people in the world. I clear my throat and look over at Hailey Johnson. Her eyes widen in surprise when they fix on Ewan. After a moment, she looks back at me. “Oh! Hi, Shiloh!”
Ewan makes a soft, gurgling noise and coughs, like a laugh got stuck in his throat.
With a fair amount of regret and sheepishness, I take a step away from him and drop his arm.
What the hell was I thinking? You can’t just go around grabbing people, and you definitely can’t kiss them without first figuring out if they want to partake in the kissing.
“Hi, Hailey. Sorry to drop in like this, but we were hoping to climb the lighthouse if you happen to have any openings?”
“Yes! We do!” Ewan clears his throat. I don’t have to look at him to know he’s trying not to laugh, obviously having picked up on Hailey’s tendency to speak as though every word has an exclamation point at the end. She adds, looking back at Ewan, “You must be Ewan Fate! It’s nice to meet you!”
Hailey, who was indoctrinated into the Siren’s Point biome by marrying in, didn’t go to school with Ewan and me.
It’s yet another reminder of the nature of the town that she already knows who he is without waiting for him to tell her.
I stand next to him, listening closely to Ewan’s tone as he steps carefully through the required small talk.
Hailey looks delighted, and I worry she’s going to ask to take a photo with him, her face so open and happy I can practically see the stars in her eyes.
Ewan’s more famous in Siren’s Point than he is anywhere else in the world, I guarantee it.
When we’re finally waved through the little museum and gift shop, we reach the base of the lighthouse. Hand on the railing, Ewan leans back to peek around me and make sure Hailey let us come back alone. Still, he pitches his voice lower when he says, “That’s Gil’s wife?”
“Yeah. They met in college.”
“Gil went to college?” he asks incredulously, forgetting to whisper.
“For English literature.”
“For English literature?” Ewan repeats, eyes wide and mouth partially open in shock.
I laugh. Gil Johnson was the sort of kid who got big faster than the rest of us and used that size to his advantage.
He never came across as particularly bright, but that was probably because he was too busy trying to come across as a bully.
I can practically see the memories in Ewan’s eyes as he tries to pair the Gil he remembers with the bubbly, happy woman he just met.
“Well…fuck,” he says after a second, looking nonplussed. I chuckle again. I never had much to do with Gil growing up, and I don’t have much to do with him now.
“Hailey’s nice. She bakes cookies every Christmas and brings them around in tins. Everyone gets one.”
“Hm.” He thinks about it. “That is really nice.”
“Yeah,” I agree, the word coming out on a laugh. I gesture toward the latticed metal steps behind him. “Ready to climb?”
Shaking his head, he turns and starts walking up the stairs.
I smile like a fool when I hear him mumble “English literature” under his breath.
We don’t talk as we climb, the air stuffy and warm inside the lighthouse.
I keep a hand on the railing and my eyes firmly on Ewan’s back, not wanting to get dizzy if I can help it.
I’m breathing a little hard when he comes to a stop.
I halt as well, still staring at his back even though we’re no longer moving upward in a spiral.
Mostly, I just want the excuse to look at him.
“I’m out of shape,” he explains after a minute. He doesn’t sound too out of breath, but maybe he’s trying to tone it down for my benefit.
“Me too.”
Ewan snorts. “No you’re not.”
Before I can argue, he’s starting upward again, and we lapse back into silence.
We climb until we reach a porthole window, the fresh, salty air mingling with the musty dampness of the interior.
As I knew he would, Ewan stops to look out the window, resting his hands on the stone.
I’m grateful for the reprieve, calves and lungs burning, and head feeling a tad fuzzy.
Living my life on the sea as I do, I’m not prone to dizziness usually, but walking in a tight spiral like this will certainly do it.
Ewan takes a few pictures through the porthole, looks at me, and pauses.
The tension snaps back into place as our eyes meet, but this time, I’m too far away and several steps down from where I’d need to be to kiss him.
Which is good, I remind myself, even though the stuffy interior of the lighthouse feels alive with the possibility.
He fidgets on the landing, the metal creaking beneath the soles of his shoes.
A slight hint of a flush colors the skin above his beard.
It doesn’t seem like I’m the only one having a hard time with the proximity, and I’m really fucking relieved about it.
I’ve gone my entire life believing my feelings for Ewan weren’t reciprocated.
Even if nothing comes of it, just knowing that he feels something back is enough. I’m no longer alone in this.
“We’re almost to the top,” I tell him softly. He nods, reaching a hand for the railing as he turns to keep climbing upward.
I run my hand through my hair as we reach the top and step out onto the balcony, the strands damp between my fingers.
The wind tugs at my clothes, snapping my jacket away before I can zip it up.
Ewan smiles, moving to lean against the railing and look out over the water.
I stare at his hands, fingers wrapped around the iron, and wish he weren’t trusting so much of his weight to the structure.
Images of the thing breaking and sending him tumbling to his death fill my mind like a macabre picture book.
Ridiculous. The lighthouse is structurally sound, and there’s very little chance of him tipping over the railing.
I move closer anyway, just to give myself peace of mind.
Also, because, well, it’s Ewan, and I’m starved for him, and a foot of distance between us these days feels like a mile.
I position myself behind him and a little off his right shoulder, watching as he takes photographs on his cell phone.
When his elbow bumps into my stomach, he glances over his shoulder, eyes bright in the open air.
He doesn’t comment on how near we’re standing, nor how close we are to some sort of prom photo pose.
He does seem to brush against me more often as he continues to take in the view, though—shoulders, arms, hands, and butt all coming into contact with some part of me.
It’s going to be me who has to move away here soon.
Walking back down the stairs with a boner would be more mortification than I’m willing to subject myself to.
I let him look his fill, not in any hurry and enjoying his presence, no matter if that comes with conversation or silence.
I wonder if we see the same thing when we look out over the ocean.
I imagine not. He’s probably noticing colors and lines and shadows, while I’m thinking about the weather and the tides.
Ewan shifts, drawing my eyes away from the horizon and down to his hands, watching as he lets go of the railing and tucks them up into the sleeves of his sweater.
Peering at him a little closer, I notice a fine tremble. He’s cold.
“Kind of chilly,” I comment quietly, giving him the opportunity to act like he’s not uncomfortable if he wants. Ewan huffs.
“It’s freezing,” he corrects. Smiling, I put a hand flat on his back, directly between his shoulder blades. As though he’d merely been waiting for it, he leans back, and I automatically grasp his hip with my other hand to steady him.
“Sorry.” I let him go, but he doesn’t go far. Dislodging every point of contact, he turns until we’re facing one another. With the deep blue of the ocean behind him, the green of his eyes seems more prominent. I can see every little spray of brown and green between them, close as we are.
“This didn’t happen when we were younger,” he says, and I somehow know exactly what he’s referring to.
“No,” I agree. I can’t remember a single time when the air had moved between us, alive with heat and electricity and possibility.
I’d spent a lot of time looking at him growing up, and he’d looked back, but perhaps it wasn’t until now that there was something to see.
Maybe we needed those years away so we’d know what we wanted once we returned.
Ewan sighs, the breeze blowing it away before it can reach my skin. He touches the pads of his fingers gently to the side of my head, tracing the crown of my ear. I put a hand back on his hip, because I won’t be the one missing out if contact is allowed.
“Your hair is a mess,” he tells me fondly, tugging gently before smoothing the strands back out with a firmer hand.
“I always forget to make time for a salon visit,” I admit.
He laughs, and this time, I do get to feel it against my face.
My head is a little floaty, not unlike the way it felt climbing up the lighthouse steps.
It takes me a second to recognize the tremble in Ewan’s fingers and remember what it means.
“You’re cold,” I remind him. Indeed, the fingers against my scalp are chilled; the tip of his nose and the lines of his cheekbones are red. I’d like very much to wrap him up in a blanket right now and am a bit annoyed to be out in public and so far from home.
“Warm me up,” he commands. I groan softly. Ewan smirks at me, head tilted a little to the side like a pretty, exotic bird going through the beginning steps of a mating dance and stopping to see whether the other idiot knows the moves.
“Come on, then, trouble.”
Stepping backward, I give his hip a little tug so he knows to follow.
And because I was invited and have been living in the same fantasy world my entire life, I grasp his chin, turning his head and kissing that spot of red on his cheek.
His skin is cool against my lips, scratchy with stubble, and I wish I could linger, breathe him in a little bit and kiss elsewhere.
But we’re standing at the top of a lighthouse, wind tugging at our clothes.
Ewan’s cold, and I’m in love with him, and it’s time to go home.