Chapter 20 #3
Taking his mug of cold tea to the kitchen, I leave the lights off and operate on the moonlight coming through the windows as I prepare my own cup.
The electric kettle is quiet enough that I can run it without waking him.
Tea made, I slip out the back door after another slightly wistful glance in Ewan’s direction.
I wish the couch were big enough to lie down next to him, to slip in behind and curve against his back, listen to him breathe and be the thing that keeps him warm.
Outside, I sit in my chair and kick my legs out.
The mug of boiling hot tea cupped between my palms does more to keep me comfortable than the hoodie and sweatpants I tugged on upstairs.
The morning is crisp but not cold, winter finally loosening her grip enough to give way to spring.
It’s one of my favorite times to live here, although truthfully, no season is bad enough for me to dislike it.
I love them all. I just love Siren’s Point in general.
Settling deeper into my chair, I tip my head back to look at the stars.
I think about my home for a second—all the things I love and dislike, all the things I’m comfortable with.
I think about all the things I could live without if I had to, and I realize, as I do, that I’ve been looking at this wrong.
I’ve been worried about Ewan leaving and me having to stay, but why should he be the one sacrificing his life to accommodate mine?
I could fish in California…probably. I’d have to look into it, anyway.
Hell, maybe I could stay here for the peak season and then shut it down fully for the low, fly to California and stay with Ewan for those months.
That would leave both Oliver and Nils out of a job for half the year, though.
Unless I left all the repair and maintenance work we usually do in the winter for them to complete without me.
Scuffing my socked foot against the rough of the boards, I focus on the catch of the wood against the fabric.
Maybe I should speak to Bernie, who helps me with the accounting for the business.
It’s possible I could give both Nils and Oliver a pay raise high enough to cover the workload that would be required in my absence for those months.
It’s also possible that I can’t, so I’ll need to have a backup.
The high season would be harder to manage, with so many long working days and so few off to travel back and forth between Siren’s Point and LA.
There would be more days apart than ones spent together, and the distance we’d have to travel for that time wouldn’t be ideal.
It would be awful, I’m sure. Never having been on an airplane, I can’t attest to that with personal experience, but if the media portrays it correctly, the seats on airplanes aren’t exactly built for comfort.
It hardly matters, though. I’d walk to LA if it meant Ewan was waiting there for me.
I’ll do anything to ensure this relationship doesn’t have an ending point.
And maybe, depending on how his schedule works, Ewan would consent to spending a few months of the year here with me as well.
It shouldn’t be the case, given I’ve spent almost every single night these past seven years sleeping alone, but it scares me to think about going back to that.
I like the way it feels to have Ewan’s weight balancing down the other half of the mattress, knowing I could turn over and find him with nothing more than a reach through the dark.
I like hearing him breathe, and yes, I like the easy access to good sex.
Mostly, I just like him. Going back to not seeing him every day makes me itch with discomfort, like my skin is suddenly too small for my body.
“Shi?”
I startle at the croaky voice, not having heard Ewan slide open the door.
Looking over my shoulder, I smile at his bedraggled head sticking through a crack in the doors, squinty-eyed from sleep and lips pulled down in a frown as he tries to determine why I’m out here.
The sky has lightened considerably, the moon and only a handful of stars still visible in the early morning dawn.
I’ve been lost in thought, apparently. It’s later than I expected.
“Morning,” I greet him, voice quiet as though to preserve the sanctity of a still morning. He pushes the back door wide, slipping through and shutting it behind him. I set my mug down on the porch. “I can come in, Ewan. You don’t have to—”
“It’s cold,” he complains, approaching and immediately plopping down in my lap. I grunt but automatically grab hold of him.
We’re too big to be sitting like this, neither of us the size of man who could comfortably curl into the lap of another.
Ewan gives his best go of it, though, resting his temple on my shoulder so the cold skin of his forehead presses against my neck.
His feet—which are bare, I notice—wiggle their way between my legs so he can tuck his toes beneath my left thigh.
My right, which is where the majority of his weight is sitting, already hurts; the arm wrapped around his back, holding him up from falling backward, burns. Even so, I have no complaints.
“Maybe you’re not as scrawny as I thought,” I murmur, turning my head so my lips brush against the side of his face. I feel his laugh against my own.
“Told you. I’m not scrawny; I’m wiry. What are you doing out here, anyway? You’re going to freeze your balls off.”
I manage to slip one hand partially underneath his sweater, making him inhale as my cold fingers press against the warmth of his back. After a moment, he settles back in, our temperatures aligning. I stroke tiny circles into his skin.
“It’s not cold enough to freeze off any part of my body, but I do appreciate the concern. You should still be sleeping.”
“Mm. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on the couch. I was just trying to relax before coming back to bed.” He breathes softly, the air not cold enough to fog, no matter what he says about freezing temperatures. He adds, “We could go back to bed right now, if you wanted. Warm up a little bit.”
“In a minute,” I agree, smiling at the coy way that offer was presented. I like where I’m at right now, though, regardless of which of my limbs has gone numb. “What was wrong?”
“Mm?”
“You said you were trying to relax. What was wrong?” I repeat. Ewan doesn’t answer right away, tilting his face to run his nose along the sensitive skin of my neck. I close my eyes to enjoy the tickle.
“The future, I guess. I worry about everything. It’s always worse at night.”
The future. I almost laugh at how closely those two simple words align with my own worries.
We need to talk about it, and I’m probably the one who will have to initiate the conversation.
Not yet, though. Not until I’ve had time to work through my scattered thoughts and come up with a coherent plan.
Not until I’ve talked to Bernie and figured out what is even feasible financially.
Last resort, I’ll sell the Drifter and my house, move down with Ewan and look for work in LA.
I hope it won’t come to that, but as long as Ewan wants me, I’ll be where he is, no matter what it takes to get there.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask him now, slightly hopeful that he’ll open that conversational door and let me walk through. I’ve got a lot of thoughts bouncing around this thick skull of mine, and I’d love to have his opinion on every single one of them.
“Not yet,” he says, the words carried on a sigh. I nod, disappointed, even though I’d known it was coming. I stroke my thumb along his hip, dipping it below the waistband of his pants. My pants, actually, as he’s taken to appropriating my clothing instead of using his own.
“Okay. Soon, though,” I tell him, letting him off the hook today but not forever. He nods against my shoulder, somehow feeling small, even though I’m holding the weight of him.
We lapse into silence then, and by some wordless agreement stay on the patio to watch the sunrise.
Ewan is a hot, slightly uncomfortable weight against my chest; every now and then, he wiggles his toes, still tucked beneath my legs.
When the sun starts sending tentative fingers of pink across the horizon, Ewan begins fidgeting, uncomfortable being in the awkward position for so long.
I keep my hands tucked up warm inside his clothing, touching and stroking every little bit of skin I can reach.
When the sun finally makes its appearance in gold-and-rose splendor over the sea, he unfolds his legs and climbs off my lap.
I shake my leg out, trying to convince blood to flow to the dead limb.
“Let’s go,” Ewan tells me, curling his fingers at me until I put a hand into his and let him haul me to my feet.
“In a hurry?” I ask, amused. “Cold?”
“You’ve been edging me for the past hour,” he grumbles, leading the way toward the house. Testily, he holds the door open for me and waits as I pass through before following. “You can’t just stick your hands up a man’s sweater and get away with it.”
Later, after I’ve learned my lesson—slowly and very thoroughly—I sit a sex-rumpled Ewan down at the kitchen island to make him breakfast. I aim more for caloric intake than finesse, not trying to impress him with my culinary skills so much as ensure he eats.
Ewan sits with his chin propped in his hand, chatting amiably about nonsense things that nonetheless feed my soul like a man in the desert being presented with water.
I love hearing him talk. I love hearing about the little things he finds important enough to say.
I just love him, and every minute that ticks down on the clock makes me more and more sure.
If Ewan wants to stay together, I’m going to sell up and move to LA.