“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 herapron 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. Toreallybe 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 itseems reluctant to stay, I walk down the wooden dock toward theDrifter. 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.
“Hey,” I yell back, breathing slowly and evenly and hoping the blush isn’t too noticeable. Maybe it’ll look like sun or windburn.
He stands up, running a red rag over his fingers as he watches me approach. My skin tingles in every place his eyes touch, endorphins swimming through my veins like happy little fish. Even if my brain wasn’t fully on board, my body is so reactive to Shiloh he might as well be a drug.
I come to a stop at the edge of the dock, looking down at him. He squints up at me, running the back of his hand across his forehead to push away his hair. It flops back over a momentlater, the strands too long to be tamed by anything less than a headband. There are grease stains on the tan shirt he’s wearing, and the rag he’s using on his hands only looks like it’s making his skin dirtier. I want him so badly it hurts to look at him.
“Coffee?” I ask, holding up the tray.
“Here. Let me help,” he offers, reaching up as I lower the coffee.
He turns to set it down and then comes back to help me, hand grasping my elbow. I jerk slightly, not having expected it. I don’t honestly need help coming on board, but I sure as hell have no complaints. If Shiloh wanted to help me do every single thing I’m capable of doing myself, I think that would be a pretty fine way to live. I beam at him, giddy with the scratch of his calloused palm against the skin of my elbow.Touch me more, I want to request.
