Chapter 15 #2
I’m not sure I could say the same. My early days in LA were spent in an apartment chosen based on what I could afford, and my current loft isn’t anything to get excited about.
It’s the place I sleep and occasionally paint in.
That’s it. I doubt anyone could walk in and say this is Ewan’s home, unless the general messiness of the place counted as a giveaway.
Whereas this, this I could easily identify as Shiloh’s home if I were provided a lineup and asked to choose.
“Your house is beautiful,” I tell him softly as he parks the truck, pulling it off onto the grass to the side of the garage. It makes me smile. Another thing that feels quintessentially Shiloh—not wasting the garage on his beat-up old truck and using the space for storage or a workshop instead.
Growing up, his dad could often be found tinkering in the garage in the evenings, fiddling with woodworking or the engine on the lawnmower.
Shiloh and I would join him, lying flat on our stomachs and rolling our trucks along the cool concrete, listening to the crackle of the radio playing old country-western songs and the slide of the toolbox hinges.
It always smelled of oil and sawdust, the room bright from the artificial white light Shiloh’s dad used to see.
Shiloh’s dad, who treated me like his own son, giving me the same scratchy kisses he’d give Shiloh, and holding me down and tickling me until I had tears rolling down my cheeks from laughing too hard.
He’d bring me a can of Coke when he came over to mow my mom’s lawn, holding a finger up to his lips and acting like it was a secret just between us.
And when she got too sick to manage it herself, he was the one who started cleaning our gutters and changing the oil on the Volvo and power washing the sidewalk, too.
He never waited to be asked, and he never asked to be paid.
I walk behind Shiloh as he leads the way inside, my mood sliding downward once more.
He’s so like his father—steadfast and solid and the person you can count on, no matter what.
Shiloh is the kind of man to carry a heavy load and never complain about it.
My own father, whom I’ve never met, is known only to me because of how he left and never came back.
You’re nothing like him, Mom told me once.
She’d be ashamed to know that I am a little bit like him after all. I left, too.
“How do you like your salmon?” Shiloh asks, peeking over his shoulder at me as he shrugs off his coat and hangs it in the closet. I keep my hoodie on, because yes, it’s cold, and yes, I’m a fucking wimp.
“More dead than alive,” I joke, which makes him chuckle.
“No sashimi, then. Good to know.” Smiling, he leads the way to the kitchen.
I pause, not following right away when my eyes catch on the wall that used to have a massive framed beach print hanging on it.
That damn lobster drawing is front and center, hanging in pride of place on a wall that is the main viewpoint of the room.
My face burns as I stare at it, more embarrassed by Ed the lobster hanging up than I’ve ever been seeing my work displayed.
I thought he was joking about hanging it.
He should have been joking about hanging it, because nobody in their right mind would display that garbage.
Maybe I should steal it back, have myself a little bonfire up in the woods or fling it into the ocean.
“That’s mine. Don’t touch it.” Shiloh’s voice tugs my gaze away from the abomination hanging on the wall and over to him. He’s half bent over, one hand resting on the open refrigerator door as he peruses the contents. I scowl at him.
“Shi, you can’t hang that there. It’s the wrong size for that wall. It’s not meant to be a focal piece. You should hang it in the bathroom or…the laundry room, if anything.”
“The bathroom?” he repeats on a laugh, shaking his head. “Leave it alone, Ewan, I mean it. Keep your grubby paws off my art.”
Joining him in the kitchen, I lean my hip against the counter and cross my arms. He told me I wasn’t allowed to help, which is fine, because then that means I get to focus my efforts on observing.
I get to watch the way the muscles of his forearms move beneath his skin, and the flutter of his long lashes when he blinks, hiding the blue for a split second before letting it sneak back out once more.
“I’ll make you something better,” I promise, skin feeling itchy with the sudden desire to do it now. Literally anything would be better than that. I don’t even have to feel nervous anymore, since apparently he’s been looking up all my work on the internet anyway. Fuck it.
“Okay,” he agrees. I raise my eyebrows at the easy acceptance, and he adds, “I’ve got plenty of walls; plenty of room for more.”
“Please take the lobster down. It pains me.”
“Poor baby,” he says, reaching over to touch my cheek.
Any other time, I’d roll my eyes and give him snark back, but this day, his fingers against my face have fried my brain, and all I can do is lean into it.
I want to tell him that yes, I am a poor baby, and maybe he could make it better by cuddling me up and kissing me.
But Shiloh is a man on a mission, and the mission is dinner. Any distraction I might offer is prodded gently to the side as he focuses on preparing a meal. Gosh, he’s endearing. Even when he’s nudging me out of the way like he is now, with a hand on my hip.
“Go sit down,” he tells me with another firm push.
“I want to watch.”
“Watch from over there.” Another nudge. I push back a little bit, just to play with him, but do end up walking around the island and taking a seat on one of the barstools.
I can still see from here. The forearm view might be gone, but now I have a perky-ass-in-tight-jeans view, so really, which one of us is the winner?
“Oliver likes to bring lunch for us on the boat. He actually went to culinary school—not sure I told you that—so sometimes he’ll come up with his own recipes and stuff, share them with us.
This is a special glaze he makes…” Shiloh trails off, frowning down at his phone, where I assume he’s got the recipe pulled up.
Elbow on the counter, I rest my cheek against my palm and watch him.
“Well, it looks easy enough,” he continues, unaware of my scrutiny. “I’m not as good as him, but maybe it’ll be okay since you won’t have anything to compare it to.”
I laugh. “I don’t have a very refined palate. We could eat PB and J, and it would be fine for me.”
“Well, no wonder you’re so skinny, then, if you aren’t eating a well-balanced diet.” He punctuates this with a little scowl in my direction. I roll my eyes. Sure, I sometimes forget to eat, and yes, I don’t make an effort to eat anything particularly nutritional, but I’m hardly starving.
“I’m not skinny; I’m lean and fit. Like an antelope.” This earns me such an incredulous look, I can’t help but laugh.
“You were out of breath climbing the lighthouse,” Shiloh reminds me.
“Can I request a segue into the romance part of the date? I want the poetry words, please, not the sarcastic ones.”
Shiloh, smirking, refocuses on the recipe.
I let him have his silence while he fiddles with the ingredients, not wanting to distract him.
I take a closer look at the house as he preps dinner, admiring the bright, open interior and the abundance of natural lighting.
The walls are white, but the trim and the cabinetry are painted a soft, seafoam-green color.
Blue pillows rest on the couch, and with the exception of one hideous lobster, the art mainly features ocean scenes in the same color palette.
It’s incredibly beachy and the exact sort of coastal decorating people like to see in a tropical vacation home.
The entire place is soothing, like an on-land underwater oasis.
I wonder if, when Shiloh opens up those big glass doors, the crash of ocean waves fills the space.
“Okay, let’s fire up the grill,” Shiloh says, wiping his hands on a towel before dropping it onto the counter.
Obediently, I follow him out the back, helping open the glass patio doors I’d just been pondering.
I smile when I can immediately hear the rush of the ocean.
It’s soft, but it’s there; comforting, like a white-noise machine meant to lull you into relaxation.
Stopping next to where Shiloh is fiddling with the grill, I watch.
“I’ve never used a grill before,” I admit.
“No?” He pauses, glancing at me and back at his hands. “I suppose you might not have space for it where you’re at?”
“No,” I agree. “My loft is a good size, but I don’t have a yard or anything. To be fair, though, I doubt I’d have bought a grill even if I did have the space for one. I don’t particularly care about what I eat, nor do I want to put much effort into it.”
“I care what you eat.” There’s a definite note of finality to Shiloh’s tone, like he’s adding extra meaning to those five words. “Have a seat, okay? I’ll grab the salmon.”
Both Adirondack chairs are on the deck this time, with a little table between them.
Just a chair, I suppose, but also so much more than that when I remember how fucking sad it was to see the one alone before.
I didn’t like the implication of that single chair, and I like the look of these two together maybe a little too much.
I don’t know what I’m doing with myself right now, not really.
My life and career are in limbo, and Shiloh and I are…
what? Taking a chance on something neither of us knew existed before and hoping we can make something of now?
I need to be very, very sure that if I claim that second chair, I never give Shiloh a reason to think he’ll ever go back to sitting alone.