But with Ewan, it’s different. A poet would probably have the sort of pretty verses needed to describe how he makes me feel, but I don’t possess those kinds of words. All I have is the knowledge that Ewan is the person I love above all others. Always was and always will be, and that won’t change, no matter where he finds himself geographically. If there is one thing I’ve learned since he came back, it’s that my feelings are more than strong enough to stretch for miles.
“Eat your pizza,” I say again, trying to make it sound like a demand and not a suggestion. I don’t like the pallor of his face or the press of his bones through his skin. If we’re building a bridge, I’m not letting any sort of martyrdom across. I can forgive him, and he can forgive himself, and we can move on.
Ewan sighs but leans forward and snags his slice. I grab a second and drink a swig of my beer, taking a moment to listen to the surf crashing in the distance. He finishes the piece of pizza quicker than I would have expected and silently holds the crust out to me with a graceful roll of his wrist. I’m not sure if it’s the sight of the inside of that pale wrist or the way he’s continuing a tradition we started as kids, but the dull thud of my heart hurts as I reach for the crust. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to deal with the effects of Ewan’s presence, and my avoidance of him this past week hasn’t helped. There is so much of him, and Siren’s Point has never felt smaller than it does when Ewan is in town, making everything brighter and happier and more lovely.
I wish I hadn’t spent the last week dodging him, all of a sudden. I wish I’d been a man and gone to talk to him that first day. Had this conversation taken place sooner, where might we have found ourselves now? I doubt it would have ended in a fight between Roy and me or the ending of our relationship. Biting into the crust he passed off to me, I shake my head, exasperated at myself. Here I was, telling Ewan we need to let go and move on, and here I am, already failing. Taking one’s own advice is never easy.
“Dryden Roy is handsome,” Ewan says suddenly, for all the world as though the thought only just occurred to him. I pinch my lips in an effort to fight a smile. Ewan—stubborn, obsessive Ewan—could be a dog with a bone if something got stuck in his head.
“He is.”
“And a dick,” Ewan adds, as though he knows Roy at all anddidn’t just meet him last night.
“Sometimes,” I agree, earning a soft chuckle from my companion. Unwilling to leave it at that, though, I add, “He’s good people.”
Ewan tries to hide his eye roll by snagging another slice of pizza, but I catch it all the same. I give him another couple of minutes of silent eating before I continue.
“So, why’d you really come home?”
He jolts, coughing a little bit like the pizza burned on its way down his throat. The careful avoidance of my eyes isn’t lost on me.
“Work stuff,” he replies, which could mean anything or nothing at all.
“Like what?” Usually I wouldn’t press him so much, but it’s been a weird twenty-four hours, I’m tired, and I love him desperately. For the first time in seven years, he’s here not only in spirit but in body as well. I don’t mean to lose this.
“Just struggling to paint.” He shrugs, spinning the beer against the armrest of his chair, eyes on the trail of water the glass leaves behind. Before I can reply to that, he adds, “I painted you, once.”
“You did?” I’m surprised. Also, confused. I’ve kept up to date on all of Ewan’s work—he doesn’t do portraits. I’m pretty sure I’d remember seeing my own face.
He finally drags his eyes up from the beer and onto mine, a soft smile on his lips. Pleased with himself, apparently.
“Here,” he says, leaning to the side and freeing his cell from the pocket of his jeans, “I’ll show you.”
I watch his face as his eyes flick over the screen, thumbs tapping as he searches. I want to reach out and slide my fingers into the black hair above his ear, move close enough to determine what sort of aftershave he uses, if any. I’d like to give him a hug and determine how well the curves of us fit together after all this time.
Except there is that infuriatingly logical voice in my head telling me that would be a bad idea. Ewan is a runner. He’s the type of person to want to leave, decide to do so, and hit the road. He’s the type to never look back. I, on the other hand, am an oak tree—roots so firmly planted, not even a hurricane could pull me up. I need to remember that the first time Ewan was given a choice about his life, he chose to leave. I need to remember that here now doesn’t mean here always. I need to not give up on Roy so quickly, to not get lost in the dreams I once had about Ewan and me, losing sight of where we are now.
“There you are,” Ewan says, holding his phone over to me. I don’t miss the way he worries his bottom lip with his teeth or the flutter of his dark lashes as he blinks rapidly. He’s regretting bringing this up.
Before he can snatch the phone away, I take it. Frowning, I look down at the screen in confusion. I remember this painting. I remember it vividly, in fact, because it’s one I’d wanted to buy but could neither afford nor find a space big enough for it to hang. The title of the piece is a simpleHarbor, which is still lost on me because as far as I can tell, there is no harbor in the painting.
It’s the coast. More specifically, it’s the coast during a storm.Rolling waves, thunderclouds fat with rain, and trees bending as though being forced downward by the wind. It’s dark, like most of the work Ewan does, with only the barest hints of color, and even those are deep navy or purple. The first time I looked at it, I felt like I was looking out a window, watching the ocean froth and the rain fall, separated from the elements only by a thin piece of glass. I wanted to buy it rather badly and was incredibly disappointed that I couldn’t. Looking back up at Ewan, I find worried hazel eyes on my face.
“I tried to buy this,” I tell him. Immediately, he flushes and shakes his head like I’ve startled him. Silly man. I told him a thousand times growing up that I was going to be his best customer once he was famous.
“It’s you,” he repeats. “Or at least I thought of you while I was painting it.”
“A thunderstorm?” I’ll be the first to admit that symbolism is going to be wasted on me more often than not. He inhales hard through his nose, chest rising and cheeks still dusky with color.
“Yeah. Because you’re…an element. A presence. Something that can’t be ignored, like a storm. But you’re a thunderstorm soft enough to pass and leave no damage behind.” I’m glad we’re already sitting down; Ewan looks like his knees wouldn’t be able to hold him right now. He tacks on, in a somewhat smaller voice, “I never explain this stuff.”
“That was a good description,” I tell him, and it really was. Do I understand precisely? Maybe not, but I don’t think I’m meant to. He just finished telling me how scared he is of meseeing his work, and I can’t imagine it’s any easier explaining it either. I clear my throat. “I set up alerts on your name so that I wouldn’t miss anything. When I saw this one, I wanted it bad enough to consider a second mortgage on my house. Luckily, I took a closer look at the measurements before I did.”
A little bit of tension bleeds out of Ewan’s shoulders, and the timid smile turns more sure. “It’s massive.”
“It is. Where did it end up?”
“I don’t know,” he says regretfully. “I was always afraid to find out that someone terrible bought my stuff, so Daniel kept all that to himself. I’m pretty sheltered and spoiled.”
