In my periphery, I see a body break away from the crowd of people standing at the end of the pier. Walking a little faster to try and get to my truck before I’m intercepted, I groan when I hear my name being called. I’ve got a hand on the driver’s door,metal warm from sitting in the sun all day. So close to freedom. I turn and nod at Amy Libby, who’s moving toward me at a clip somewhere between walking and jogging. She waves.
“Shiloh! I’m glad I caught you.”
I stare at her. I go to haul at the same time every day and come in at nearly the same time every afternoon. It’s not particularly difficult to catch me.
“Yeah,” I agree morosely.
“Did you hear?” she asks, breathless with excitement. I shake my head. Putting a hand on my forearm, she gives me a little jiggle. “Ewan’s back in town! Ewan Fate!”
I remember vividly a moment as a boy, a day when my dad and I had been out on the boat. When we’d got in, Mom had told us that Grandpa died. I remember thinking it…sounded silly, almost. Like she was trying to tell a joke, but falling well short of the mark. I hadn’t been sure of what to say or how to feel. It hadn’t felt real. Right up until the moment we stepped into the funeral home, and I realized that yes, Grandpa was really gone.
Right now, I feel that same sort of fuzzy unreality. Like Amy’s trying to convince me of something bizarre. I’m not sure anything is more outlandish than Ewan Fate coming back to town after seven years of silence. As though he gave us just long enough to forget him before he waltzed back in to remind us what we lost. What I’d lost.
“No, he’s not,” I finally reply to Amy, because there really isn’t anything else to say to that. I’m mostly convinced that she’s wrong, that she misunderstood or perhaps saw a tourist whoonly looked like Ewan. Because if he really was back, he’d come find me, right?
“He is! Staying over in the Kelpie. I wasn’t sure, at first, because the booking was done through a proxy, but it’s him! I talked to him just this morning!” She gives my arm another shake, eyes wide and smile wider. She looks like she wants nothing more than for me to join in with her obvious excitement. When I don’t, she adds, “He looks great. Maybe a little too skinny, but you know how all those celebrities in California are. Everyone wants to be a twig!”
I don’t know how to respond. I truly have no idea what all those celebrities in California want to look like. Ewan didn’t use to be skinny, though. Lanky, maybe, with narrow hips and a long torso. But he was broad-shouldered. He had strong legs. I remember very vividly the shape of those thighs—wet swim trunks clinging to curves and lines I hadn’t seen before and didn’t have the imagination to dream up. I shake my head, because maybe she really is mistaken. Maybe this skinny Ewan look-alike is nothing more than a pale comparison to the big, beautiful, strong Ewan Fate I remember.
When I don’t provide the kind of reaction she’s looking for, Amy finishes with a “Well, anyway, I just thought you’d like to know so you don’t get blindsided.”
“Thank you,” I reply, unsure of what I’m thanking her for. It’s strange that my old friend has been even more in my thoughts than usual, and now this. I wish this week would end already. I wish it were already Monday, and I didn’t have to spend two days pretending to relax.
I’m antsy on the drive back home. I wish Amy hadn’t come up to me. Now, the weekend—which I’d already not been looking forward to—will be nothing but me floating around my house, thinking myself into knots about Ewan. I should probably just go find him. If it even is him. The likelihood of this man being a doppelgänger is far more likely than Ewan being back in town.
Thirty minutes is all it takes for me to drive from the harbor to my house. Thirty minutes for me to convince myself that yes, Amy was wrong, Ewan is not back in town, and why would that bother me even if he was? I like Ewan. I do not have a problem with Ewan. I miss Ewan. Thirty minutes, unfortunately, is not nearly enough time to deal with that, however, so I cut myself off there as I turn onto my sand-covered drive.
Less than a minute later, all that internal convincing is shot to shit when I see Ewan Fate sitting on the middle step leading up to my porch. I very nearly slam on the brakes, my brain somewhat hilariously short-circuiting at the sight of him. Heisthinner. A lot thinner. When I pull the truck to a stop, brakes squeaking in a way that somehow manages to be embarrassing, he stands up, giving me an even better look at him.
He’d had such a striking array of features as a kid. Features that hadn’t looked quite right on a young face. Eyes too big, jaw too narrow, lips too full. He’d been obsessed with growing a beard as a boy and was irked when his body had seemed reluctant to grow any sort of hair that didn’t live on top of his head. He no longer has that problem, apparently, as his jaw and cheeks are stubbled with black. His face, which I’d once knownbetter than the one I saw in the mirror, is so different he hurts to look at. It looks like maybe both Amy and I were right. Ewan Fate is back in town, but my Ewan Fate is probably gone forever.
Knowing I can’t sit in my truck and stare at him for long, I push the door open, wincing when the hinge squeaks. The salt water is hell on everything. When I slam it closed, Ewan takes the single step down so he’s no longer on the stairs. I’m struck once more by how skinny he is. Do they not have food in California? Maybe Amy’s celebrity comment was closer to the mark than I thought, and he lost the weight on purpose.
I take a few tentative steps toward my house. Ewan is both waiting patiently and blocking my path inside. There’s no other way for this to go but for one of us to break the ice. I try to think of something to say. Something Roy would say, preferably, because he’s smooth and witty and a lot better at thinking on his feet than I am. If I were Roy, I’d say something clever about how long it’s been and how good he looks; Ewan would laugh, and nobody would be uncomfortable.
But since I can’t be anyone but myself, what comes out of my mouth is “Did you get my message?”
Chapter Five
EWAN
Hiding away in my rental didn’t work. All I’d managed to do was trap my thoughts into an enclosed space with me. I’d tried to nap and failed. I’d tried to go grocery shopping and also failed when I left with only half of what I went in for, too busy fielding advances from people who recognized me. Every single person mentioned Shiloh, as though the produce section was exactly the place for a walk down memory lane. It felt like a verbal form of whiplash.How are you, Ewan? It’s been a long time, Ewan. How long are you in town, Ewan? Oh, and by the way, have you seen Shiloh yet? Have you, have you, have you?
I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone getting to him before me. Funny, really, since that was originally what I’d hoped. But no. If our roles were reversed, Shiloh wouldwaste no time coming by to say hello. Perhaps it’s time I stop doing things Ewan would do and start doing things my old friend would do.
And so here I am, sitting and watching his truck drive up the lane. The sun is behind me—behind the house—glinting off the windshield and obscuring any view I might have had of the driver. It’s him, though. That truck is the same one he had back in high school, and even if it wasn’t, I’d know Shiloh simply by the space he holds in the world. I don’t have to see him to know it’s him. I can feel it.
The first thing I notice when he steps out of the vehicle is how easy it is to breathe, suddenly. It feels like my ribs are able to expand for the first time in years, fresh ocean air flooding my lungs and smoothing away those last dregs of anxiety. It’s him. Not exactly how he was when I left, but precisely how my artist’s mind had filled in the blanks. He looks perfect—dark blond hair windswept and unruly, scruff crawling down his neck, and body hidden beneath layers of clothes. I can smell the boat on him even from here, and the nostalgia of that smell has tears burning in the back of my throat. He’s here, looking just how I remember, and I’m here, nothing like how I used to be.
“Did you get my message?” he asks, and if I thought the fish stink was enough to make me emotional, it’s nothing compared to hearing the sound of his voice. All that time I spent fantasizing about an adult version of Shiloh and painting him into my dreams, I’d never considered how he might sound. I would have gotten it wrong, anyway. Wouldn’t have guessed the rasp in his throat, like he spent all day screaming at thelobsters instead of catching them.Say it again, I want to ask, simply to have the pleasure of listening. It takes me a second too long to work through the words he did say.
“Hi—what?” I ask. I don’t have any missed messages other than the ones from Daniel, which I’ve been studiously ignoring.
For some reason, he blushes and looks away, out across the rocky lawn toward the little stretch of beach in the distance. I stare at him, enjoying the opportunity to have a view of his profile to add to my mental portfolio. His hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it, the strands spread around his ear and falling over his forehead, catching on his eyebrow. When he looks back at me, I resist the urge to step closer, to get a clearer view of the blue of his eyes and a nice deep inhale of that classic Shiloh smell. I want to hug him so fucking badly, I have to clench my hands around the desire and hold it back.
“Nothing,” he says, the word coming out on a sigh and a little sad. I open my mouth to push for an explanation, but his blue eyes find mine again, and I forget how to speak. “Do you want to come in?”
I pause. Yes, I want to go in. Should I? Maybe not. I can’t imagine he’s happy with me, even though he’s not acting upset. Shiloh never was very fiery, even when we were going through puberty. The hormones that seemed to be raging in everyone else had no effect on him. He’s just not the kind of person to have a temper. I’m grateful for it, even as I acknowledge that this is a time where I might have deserved to be yelled at.
