He says it like a joke, but the wry twist to his mouth gives it up as a lie.
“Protecting your sanity doesn’t make you shelteredorspoiled,” I correct. “If you don’t know who buys your paintings, it gives you the freedom to imagine them in good hands. I can understand that.”
I consider telling him about the painting I do own, but then I know he’ll ask to see it, and I’m not sure I’m ready to bring Ewan into my bedroom. There’s also something just a tad pathetic about hanging the damn thing above my bed. Having already confronted the mortification of the email debacle, I’m not sure I have it in me for any more today. He doesn’t know I have it, and he admitted to not wanting to know who has the paintings. Well, it’s easy enough to honor that today, even if it is a bit of a cop-out.
“Eat more pizza,” I tell him, nudging the box closer with my foot.
“You didn’t use to be so bossy,” Ewan grumbles.
And you didn’t use to be so skinny, I think, watching as he does grab another piece. As we sit and finish the box, the sky slowly darkens, and the conversation becomes easier. Ewan’s voice takes on a soft, sleepy quality, and every now and then, he muffles a yawn behind his hand. I offer to drive him home three separate times before he finally takes me up on it. He looks a little sheepish, but it seems to me like we’re on the same wavelength. I’m exhausted and running on fumes, but I’m also wishing the evening would stretch on and Ewan’s presence here would continue.
I’m not sure what will happen once we both climb into bed and the night brings thoughts and fears and anxieties that weren’t there in the sun. Ewan seems to be thinking along the same lines as me. When I bring the truck to a stop in front of his cottage, he turns toward me with a hand on the door.
“See you later?” he asks shyly. I nod.
“Yeah. See you later.” It’s a promise I intend to keep.
Chapter Thirteen
EWAN
Sitting on the floor cross-legged, I idly click my tongue as I lean over the smallest of the canvases Daniel sent me. My Sharpie is almost out of ink, which goes to show just how much I’m already benefitting from this vacation thing. Leaning back, I look at the drawing. It’s not my area of expertise, but I’m feeling pretty good about it nonetheless.
“Stop making that damn noise,” Daniel complains from where my phone is on speaker and resting next to my knee. Feeling ornery, I click my tongue a little louder. He groans.
“I think I’m finished,” I announce, capping the Sharpie and dropping it to the floor.
“What are you even doing besides giving me aheadache?”
“Art.”
“Really?” Daniel perks up. “What did you paint?”
“Nothing. I can’t paint. I did, however, draw a lobster.”
He devolves into wordless grumbles, so I heave myself up off the floor, knees popping, and grab the canvas. Propping it against the TV stand, I head into the kitchen for something to eat. Phone still in the living room, I can’t hear a word Daniel says as he starts talking. Something rude, no doubt, so I merely continue clicking my tongue as I look for something to snack on. Maybe it’s just the fumes from the Sharpie, but I’m starving. Grabbing a bowl and pouring some cereal in, I scratch idly at my stomach as I walk back toward my phone.
“What was that?” I ask, interrupting Daniel’s monologue. He pauses.
“You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?” He continues before I can reply in the affirmative. “I said youcanpaint, and I’m sick of hearing you say you can’t. Now, let me see the lobster.”
Tipping the bowl and letting some dry cereal fall into my mouth, I snap a photo of the lobster and send it to him. I’ve never been particularly skilled at line art, much preferring to start and end with a paintbrush. But like the majority of people in my trade, I can pass a basic skills test at most things, and that includes drawing lobsters.
“That looks good,” Daniel comments. I roll my eyes. I could smear shit all over a canvas, and he’d still tell me it was good. “Does this have something to do with that lobster Hotmail guy?”
I sigh. Yes, it does. I have a feeling Daniel is still smarting from the conversation we had and my explanation of who Shilohis to me. He didn’t really make a mistake—how the hell was he meant to know unless I told him? But regardless, both of us feel bad, and I doubt Daniel will forget it anytime soon. He’s already starting to ask me tentatively probing questions about other names or accounts, as though worried another love from my past might pop out of my email account.
“Maybe I’ll give it to him.” Biting my lip, I stretch one leg out and use my toes to nudge the canvas, trying to turn it to face me fully. I chomp down on another bite of cereal, and Daniel groans.
“There is only so much of the auditory torture I can take. Give the man the lobster, and keep up the good work. Bye, kiddo. Call me if you need anything.”
I remain on the floor after he hangs up, contemplating the Sharpie lobster while I finish my snack. Nutritional? Maybe not, but it counts as calories, and for me, that’s a win. Yawning, I rise to standing and stop by the kitchen long enough to add the bowl to the stack of dishes in the sink. I need to clean those later.
After putting together an outfit from the nicest things I can find on the floor, I tuck the lobster under my arm and leave the cottage. I need to do laundry, but I haven’t been doing that much, so none of the worn things are all that dirty. I’m going to go to the harbor, anyway, so I won’t be anywhere close to the smelliest thing there. Snuggling the canvas up into my armpit, I walk the short distance to Triton’s Brew.
“Your favorite customer has arrived,” I announce in a dramatic singsong that makes Braxton giggle. If only everyone were as easy to make happy as her. She beams at me as I approachthe counter, already grabbing a large cup for my usual order.
“Hi, Ewan.” She writes my name on the cup, and without even looking, I know she’s spelled it wrong. On purpose, this time, as has become our little joke. “How are you?”
