“What did I do?” he asks. Any other person would have asked that question in offense. Shiloh just sounds wary. Thinking through my reply, I decide to start with the lesser, and hopefullyeasier, of two evils.
“I used to sit in my studio and paint, and every time I finished, I’d think,I wonder what Shiloh would say. I’d sit there and feel good about myself for all of five minutes before I started noticing things. Like the focal point suddenly seemed wrong, the edges fragmented, wrong brushstrokes used, that type of thing. Technical errors that probably only an artist would notice. But I’d sit there and wallow in this…self-pity of never feeling good enough, and you were always the reason why. Like, real me could never live up to imaginary you’s expectations.”
I do look over at Shiloh now, no longer able to stand the burn of his gaze on my cheek. He’s frowning at me, brows low and a few strands of dirty-blond hair caught on his lashes. The breeze frees them after a second. I continue before he can come to his own defense.
“It doesn’t make sense, and I’m probably not doing a very good job explaining it. But there’s something painful about creating a beautiful thing and asking others to pass their judgment on it. Beautiful things aren’t beautiful to everyone. I’ve found I’ve got a pretty thick skin when it comes to the opinions of others, but yours is one I couldn’t stand to know. I knew if I ever called you up, you’d ask about work, and I’d tell you because I could nevernottell you anything; I’d hear what you thought of my work, whether I wanted to or not, and truly, Shiloh, I couldn’t imagine anything more terrifying.”
“I would never say anything mean,” he says, and now I can detect a hint of offense in his tone. “I would never criticize anything you did. How could I? I’m a damn lobster fisherman.What the hell do I know about art?”
“Ah, but see, that’s the problem. What’s better, someone pandering to you and pretending to love something they hate? Or telling the truth and ripping you apart?” We stare at one another for a moment, Shiloh’s lips parted slightly as he waits for words to come to his defense. In a gentle tone, I add, “Art is subjective. Even a lobster fisherman can look at a painting and decide whether it speaks to them or not. I want you to love everything I create. The possibility of receiving a lieora criticism had me all turned around in my head.”
“Well…okay,” he says slowly. “But I still don’t really understand.”
I smile at him, trying to soften what might have sounded like a rebuke or a laying of blame. “Nor do I expect you to. The things that make sense in my mind rarely stay that way when spoken out loud.”
Shiloh’s mouth is still turned down into a frown, thoughts so loud he might as well be screaming them at me. Before I can lose my nerve, I continue. This is going to end up being the hardest and possibly most mortifying part of the conversation. Glumly, I look down at the beer sweating in my hand and wish it were something harder.
“Also,” I start slowly, “I, uh, was sort of struggling with…us, too.”
“Withus?” Shiloh asks incredulously. He’s sitting straight in the chair, no longer relaxed and following the curve of the back. He looks shocked, as well he should be. I doubt it would ever occur to Shiloh that I might have cared for him in any wayother than a friend or brother. He adds, “Did I do something?”
“No, not at all. It’s actually…well, honestly, it was because youdidn’tdo anything.” He looks even more confused by this. I try for a smile. Here we go. “I loved you. Was in love with you. Which, as scary as that feeling is as an adult, it felt terrifying as a teenager.”
Shiloh looks as though this explanation doesn’t explain a damn thing. He’s leaning hard into the armrest of his chair, bent toward me as though hoping proximity might make the words more sensical. I watch the frown pull down his brows by increments as he thinks.
“Okay, well, you’ve lost me,” he admits. “I love you, too.”
The words hit me like an electric shock to my heart. I have to remind myself he’s not saying that the way I’m saying it, that he doesn’t understand. I already know he loved—loves—me. Of course he does. No two people could be as close as we were without that emotion involved. But there are different kinds of love. The way I love Daniel as a father figure and friend is nothing compared to the way I love Shiloh. The two things might as well be planets apart with how different they are.
“No, Shi. I mean I wasin love with you. I had you as a friend, and I loved that, I really did, but, like, every day we spent together, I wanted more and more and more. Toward the end, I was crawling out of my skin trying not to act inappropriately around you. Everyone our age was going on dates and losing their virginity, and the only thing I could think about was how badly I wanted to kissyou.”
This does it. He breathes in sharply, and the consternationon his face smooths into surprise. Whatever he was imagining, that wasn’t it. I take a sip of my beer, throat dry, and nearly inhale it up my nose when he asks, “Well, why didn’t you?”
It takes me a minute to catch my breath after doing my level best to hack a lung up my throat.
“Do you want me to grab you some water?” he asks, pressing his hand against the armrest and half rising. Before he can walk off, I fling a hand out and grasp his wrist. It’s a loose grip, but it does the job to keep him there. There is no way in hell I’m letting him stroll off after askingthatquestion.
“Hold on. Sit back down,” I instruct, waiting until his butt is planted once more before letting him go. “What do you mean,why didn’t I?Why didn’t Ikissyou?”
“Yeah,” he agrees, because apparently, this was meant to be self-explanatory. He waits, watching me, before adding, “You could have.”
The deck feels a lot less sturdy than it did moments ago. A black hole could spontaneously open up below my feet, and I think even that would be less shocking than Shiloh Lepage telling me I could have kissed him. As though it was just waiting for its time to shine, regret stands up and steps into the light. Did I really waste so much time frightened about what my feelings meant and how Shiloh would react to them, only to find out I was worried for nothing?
I’m not sure what exactly plays over my face, but Shiloh’s expression relaxes from confused and settles somewhere closer to warmth. It’s the precise way he used to look at me before, eyes a little darker, skin a little more aged, and hair a little longer—still the face I love above all others. It’s entirely possible this conversation will end with me breaking down into tears and really giving him a view into the slightly manic corners of my brain.
“Hey-o!” a cheerful young voice calls, punctuated by the slamming of a car door. Shiloh rises from his seat again, and this time, I let him.
“Pizza’s here,” he explains unnecessarily, glancing down at me. I nod. What a waste of money. There is no way I’ll be able to eat now.
Slumping back in my Adirondack chair, I put an elbow on the flat of the armrest and rest my chin in my palm, watching Shiloh as he walks to meet the deliveryman. Or kid, rather, judging by the skinny teenage body that steps around the corner of the house, bag in hand. He must be familiar with delivering here. Familiar enough to know that Shiloh was likely sitting out back, and knocking on the front door wouldn’t be prudent; familiar enough to smile and laugh and chat as the pizza is handed over. I watch as a cash tip is handed to the boy, who happily raises a hand in hello and farewell to me before trudging back around the house to his car.
“That’s one of the Libby kids,” Shiloh tells me as he rejoins me on the deck and sets the pizza box down between us. “Amy’s older brother’s boy. Jameson. Works three two-hour shifts a week and loves every second of it.”
I smile. Classic Siren’s Point—everyone knowing everything about everyone. I’d forgotten that Amy Libby even had a brother old enough for a kid that age, but then again, I’ve never met theman.
“Seems like a happy kid,” I comment.
“Yeah.” Bending forward from where he’s once more seated beside me, Shiloh flips open the pizza box and pulls out a slice. When I don’t do the same, he glances over at me. “Supreme isn’t your favorite anymore?”
