Shiloh turns away from the road long enough to spear me with an incredulous look. I shrug, tilting my head in his directiononce more and smiling at him. It’s sort of funny how little I can remember smiling this way in the past few years—soft and real and easy. Smiling, for me, became something that needed to be practiced in the mirror before a show, not something that came naturally. But, as he seems to do in all things, Shiloh is able to brush aside the disingenuous and pull the authentic into the light.
“Poetic? Be serious,” he requests, shaking his head. “I’m pretty sure I sent you an entire email describing a blue lobster we’d caught.”
“You did!” That particular email is one of my favorites. I flagged it so I’m able to locate it easier when I need a little pick-me-up. “That one was the most poetic of all. Very lovely descriptions of the shell and the color of the ocean.”
He huffs a little bit, embarrassed by the sudden turn this conversation has taken. I let it go for now, not wanting him to be uncomfortable. I get the impression that he’s a little ashamed of all those emails, maybe even regretful of putting so much time and effort into such a one-sided communication. I’m the only one who should be feeling those things, though, and I mean to make certain he knows how special all those letters are now that I’ve got them. I don’t ever want him to regret sending me a message about the first snowfall of the season or the pops of crimson and gold as the trees changed in the autumn.
The truck bumps along the uneven road as Shiloh turns onto his drive. I like that he left it unpaved—a little wild, with the grass and rock and sand. It feels true to him in a way that a picture-perfect, manicured yard wouldn’t. The house, too,which I know has undergone a fair bit of work, is rough around the edges. It’s the sort of house that looks like it’s stood on the coast for decades, storm-battered and rough, bones strong and wood weathered. It makes me unspeakably happy to see Shiloh settle in a place that is so him, that he didn’t conform or try to fold himself into the shape of current trends.
I’m not sure I could say the same. My early days in LA were spent in an apartment chosen based on what I could afford, and my current loft isn’t anything to get excited about. It’s the place I sleep and occasionally paint in. That’s it. I doubt anyone could walk in and saythis is Ewan’s home, unless the general messiness of the place counted as a giveaway. Whereas this, this I could easily identify as Shiloh’s home if I were provided a lineup and asked to choose.
“Your house is beautiful,” I tell him softly as he parks the truck, pulling it off onto the grass to the side of the garage. It makes me smile. Another thing that feels quintessentially Shiloh—not wasting the garage on his beat-up old truck and using the space for storage or a workshop instead.
Growing up, his dad could often be found tinkering in the garage in the evenings, fiddling with woodworking or the engine on the lawnmower. Shiloh and I would join him, lying flat on our stomachs and rolling our trucks along the cool concrete, listening to the crackle of the radio playing old country-western songs and the slide of the toolbox hinges. It always smelled of oil and sawdust, the room bright from the artificial white light Shiloh’s dad used to see. Shiloh’s dad, who treated me like his own son, giving me the same scratchy kisses he’d give Shiloh,and holding me down and tickling me until I had tears rolling down my cheeks from laughing too hard. He’d bring me a can of Coke when he came over to mow my mom’s lawn, holding a finger up to his lips and acting like it was a secret just between us. And when she got too sick to manage it herself, he was the one who started cleaning our gutters and changing the oil on the Volvo and power washing the sidewalk, too. He never waited to be asked, and he never asked to be paid.
I walk behind Shiloh as he leads the way inside, my mood sliding downward once more. He’s so like his father—steadfast and solid and the person you can count on, no matter what. Shiloh is the kind of man to carry a heavy load and never complain about it. My own father, whom I’ve never met, is known only to me because of how he left and never came back.You’re nothing like him, Mom told me once. She’d be ashamed to know that I am a little bit like him after all. I left, too.
“How do you like your salmon?” Shiloh asks, peeking over his shoulder at me as he shrugs off his coat and hangs it in the closet. I keep my hoodie on, because yes, it’s cold, and yes, I’m a fucking wimp.
“More dead than alive,” I joke, which makes him chuckle.
“No sashimi, then. Good to know.” Smiling, he leads the way to the kitchen.
I pause, not following right away when my eyes catch on the wall that used to have a massive framed beach print hanging on it. That damn lobster drawing is front and center, hanging in pride of place on a wall that is the main viewpoint of the room. My face burns as I stare at it, more embarrassed by Ed thelobster hanging up than I’ve ever been seeing my work displayed. I thought he was joking about hanging it. Heshouldhave been joking about hanging it, because nobody in their right mind would display that garbage. Maybe I should steal it back, have myself a little bonfire up in the woods or fling it into the ocean.
“That’s mine. Don’t touch it.” Shiloh’s voice tugs my gaze away from the abomination hanging on the wall and over to him. He’s half bent over, one hand resting on the open refrigerator door as he peruses the contents. I scowl at him.
“Shi, you can’t hang that there. It’s the wrong size for that wall. It’s not meant to be a focal piece. You should hang it in the bathroom or…the laundry room, if anything.”
“Thebathroom?” he repeats on a laugh, shaking his head. “Leave it alone, Ewan, I mean it. Keep your grubby paws off my art.”
Joining him in the kitchen, I lean my hip against the counter and cross my arms. He told me I wasn’t allowed to help, which is fine, because then that means I get to focus my efforts on observing. I get to watch the way the muscles of his forearms move beneath his skin, and the flutter of his long lashes when he blinks, hiding the blue for a split second before letting it sneak back out once more.
“I’ll make you something better,” I promise, skin feeling itchy with the sudden desire to do it now. Literally anything would be better than that. I don’t even have to feel nervous anymore, since apparently he’s been looking up all my work on the internet anyway. Fuck it.
“Okay,” he agrees. I raise my eyebrows at the easy acceptance,and he adds, “I’ve got plenty of walls; plenty of room for more.”
“Please take the lobster down. It pains me.”
“Poor baby,” he says, reaching over to touch my cheek. Any other time, I’d roll my eyes and give him snark back, but this day, his fingers against my face have fried my brain, and all I can do is lean into it. I want to tell him that yes, I am a poor baby, and maybe he could make it better by cuddling me up and kissing me.
But Shiloh is a man on a mission, and the mission is dinner. Any distraction I might offer is prodded gently to the side as he focuses on preparing a meal. Gosh, he’s endearing. Even when he’s nudging me out of the way like he is now, with a hand on my hip.
“Go sit down,” he tells me with another firm push.
“I want to watch.”
“Watch from over there.” Another nudge. I push back a little bit, just to play with him, but do end up walking around the island and taking a seat on one of the barstools. I can still see from here. The forearm view might be gone, but now I have a perky-ass-in-tight-jeans view, so really, which one of us is the winner?
“Oliver likes to bring lunch for us on the boat. He actually went to culinary school—not sure I told you that—so sometimes he’ll come up with his own recipes and stuff, share them with us. This is a special glaze he makes…” Shiloh trails off, frowning down at his phone, where I assume he’s got the recipe pulled up. Elbow on the counter, I rest my cheek against my palm and watch him.
“Well, it looks easy enough,” he continues, unaware of my scrutiny. “I’m not as good as him, but maybe it’ll be okay since you won’t have anything to compare it to.”
I laugh. “I don’t have a very refined palate. We could eat PB and J, and it would be fine for me.”
“Well, no wonder you’re so skinny, then, if you aren’t eating a well-balanced diet.” He punctuates this with a little scowl in my direction. I roll my eyes. Sure, I sometimes forget to eat, and yes, I don’t make an effort to eat anything particularly nutritional, but I’m hardly starving.
“I’m not skinny; I’m lean and fit. Like an antelope.” This earns me such an incredulous look, I can’t help but laugh.
