I look back at him, standing with his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans. He nods to the right, toward a little wooden sign asking hikers to PLEASE DON’T CLIMB. I snort.
“The historical society considers this a protected monument,” he continues, humor evident in his voice.
“Shut up. Because it looks like a mermaid tail?”
“Yeah. Namesake of the trail and all. Apparently, it’s a big worry that children will climb all over it and ruin the integrity of the?—”
“—rock,” I finish gleefully, patting it with my hand. “Ruin the integrity of the rock.”
“Don’t mess with the historical society,” Shiloh cautions, adding so much gravitas to the warning that I can’t help but laugh. This right here is what I’ve been missing. I want to spend every moment with him and suck up the good Shiloh vibes like a sponge. No wonder I’ve been so miserable the past few years. How could anyone be happy when this is absent from their life?
We hike a little further until we come to a rock that isn’t protected by the town. Shiloh sits down and leans back on his hands, shoulders stretching the seams of his navy-blue shirt.When I sit down next to him, he looks over and smiles, eyes seeming to mimic the exact color of the fabric. I’ve always loved that about them, the way the blue seemed to flow between shades depending on what he was wearing. After a few moments of silence, I realize I’m not the only one staring. Eyes steady on mine, Shiloh’s face stays turned my direction, not moving but for the wind teasing the longer strands of his hair. I wait for him to turn away, blush a little bit, the way he sometimes does when there is too much attention on him. He doesn’t.
His gaze presses on every inch of my face, a slow, sensual perusal, like the barest touch of fingertips. By the time he’s looking at my mouth, I’m the one who’s flushed and burning with want. It would be easy—so, so easy—to put a hand against his chest and press him back, to lay him down and stretch out on top; to feel and explore and love all the areas of him I’ve touched only in dreams.
“Afternoon!” a cheerful voice says, interrupting the private space Shiloh and I were caught in. Startled, I turn and look dumbly at a pair of hikers passing us by.
“Afternoon,” I repeat back, my voice oddly hoarse. My body, which had felt floaty and light and beautiful for that moment, locked in sync with Shiloh, comes back down to earth abruptly. I already know before I even turn back that it’s passed; that Shiloh will be looking off into the distance at the view and no longer looking at me. I already know I won’t be able to tug it back, that it was a lovely little sliver of time meant to be enjoyed but not to keep.
“Want to keep going?” Shiloh asks. He is indeed staring outat the trees, forearms balanced on his raised knees.
“Sure,” I reply quietly, wishing instead we could go back in time five minutes.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a pleasant haze of seven years of missed small talk. Somehow, even though I read all of Shiloh’s emails, there’s still plenty to catch up on. He needles me for information about my own life in LA, his words a steady, gentle nudge to get me to talk. I don’t particularly want to, and he can tell.
I’ve been lucky in my success as an artist. I’m successful enough to be able to comfortably handle this period of convalescence and not worry overmuch about money should my inability to paint continue. I’m grateful for that. But if Shiloh’s life is ocean spray and lobster cages and weathered wood, mine is bright lights and oil paints and a single candle burning in a midnight-dark room. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished, while also being ashamed of how little I have to show for it. I’m scared to know what he thinks my life in LA looks like and how he feels about it. I want to be the Ewan he loved as a boy, not the Ewan who came back as a man.
By the time we circle back to his truck, he’s teased out quite a bit more than I’d been planning on sharing. I told him stories I thought were humorous and relaxed a bit when he laughed. I told him about playing Scrabble with Daniel and the giant rat I went to war against in my first apartment. I told him about seeing a therapist and taking antidepressants and struggling with insomnia. I didn’t tell him I love him, even though I wanted to.
Chapter Fourteen
SHILOH
Roy’s car is in the lot when I pull into the harbor at 4:00 a.m. Turning off my truck and listening to the engine tick down, I look at the slick, pretty little Porsche and think about the slick, pretty owner. I haven’t talked to him since that evening at the bar, and truthfully, I haven’t made too much of an effort. Neither has he, but with Roy’s apathetic disinterest in life, I wasn’t holding my breath waiting. He said goodbye, and he probably expects that to be the end of it.
I don’t like the thought of us passing like ships in the night for the rest of our lives, though. I like Roy. I like more things about him than I dislike, even though the stuff that bothered me had started to really dig at me lately. I’d like to keep him as a friend, which probably makes me an idiot. My datingexperience, counting Roy, adds up to a walloping two people, though, and I’m still friendly with the first. Roy might prefer to stay on his side of the pier and keep our interactions to a friendly wave, but I don’t. Not if I can help it.
Leaving the truck, I gather my stuff and walk through the dark toward his boat. The lamps are shining, warm light scattered over the black of the ocean. No fog today, which is a miracle in itself. Roy showing up this early is also a miracle, as the man seems hesitant to ever be awake before the sun. He’s visible as I walk up, alone as far as I can tell, and I watch as he turns toward the sound of my footsteps on the wooden planks. He must expect me to pass by since he raises his hand in a nonverbal hello.
“Morning,” I greet him once I come to a stop, hands shoved into the pockets of my coat. He looks up at me, a smirk toying with the corner of his mouth.
“Well, come on, then,” he says, a touch sarcastically, gesturing me to board.
“Got a minute to talk?” I ask him, following as he steps back under the standing shelter and fiddles with the controls.
“Mm.”
I close my eyes behind his back, reminded of the things about him that drive me insane. Already, my mind tries to compare him to Ewan, who sometimes talks too much, but at least it’s better than Roy’s not talking at all.
“You’re going to haul early today,” I note.
I don’t know much about Dryden Roy prior to his arrival in Siren’s Point, but I do know that his family is rich. Rich enoughthat the family obligation that was assigned to Roy was a lot worse than the one given to me. He always shut down talk of his family, and I didn’t push it out of respect for him. I did, however, search for the Roy dynasty on the internet and nearly swallowed my tongue when I saw how much money the family is worth. Roy doesn’t need to work. He sure as hell doesn’t need to haul lobster traps. Why he does it is yet another thing about him I wasn’t privy to, even with the two-year relationship between us.
“Yeah. Can’t let you have all the fun.” He stretches his back, sweater lifting enough to show me a hint of dark skin below. “How’re things going with Ewan Fate?”
I sigh. There are only two Roys: the one who avoids conversation, and the one who shoves one in your face.
“Fine. I wanted to make sure things were fine with us, too.”
