Nils closes his eyes as though the reminder of Oliver learning life skills from YouTube pains him. He doesn’t reply, though, nor does he offer to help the way he might usually have done. I doubt we’ll hear him speak again today, no matter how much Oliver tempts him with household DIYs.
“I love watching stuff like that,” Ewan agrees. “There’s this one guy who walks everywhere and films it all for social media that I’m addicted to.”
“Spencer Davis?” Oliver asks, perking up. I watch the pair of them, amused when they fire up like they’re the best of friends and not two people who have only just met today. I’vealways envied that skill in others, although I do so at a distance. As nice as it would be to have the social skills needed to make friends with everyone you meet, it sounds too exhausting for me to truly wish for it. I’ll leave it to Oliver, who has so many words stored up inside him, I doubt he’s even quiet when he sleeps.
For the rest of the day, Oliver and Ewan chum it up while Nils and I work alongside them in silence. Occasionally, we catch each other’s eye and commiserate with acan you believe this?look. Mostly, though, I bask in the presence of all of us together in one place, unable to help but think about a future where Ewan might spend more time with us—more time on the boat, or maybe a cookout on the weekend. It’s not until he stepped onto theDrifterthat I realized just how badly I wanted him to like my friends. It feels like another thing I can use in the future when I am inevitably trying to convince him to stay.
The fog having made the morning run a little less smoothly than it should have, we head back in later in the afternoon than is usual for the offseason. Despite my previous teasing, Ewan hasn’t lost enthusiasm or become bored, as far as I can see. In fact, he spent the majority of the day with a smile on his face, cheeks red from the sun, hair damp with seawater and sweat. He had, in short, spent the entire day looking happy and beautiful and like my every fantasy of him. It was a bit of a hard day for me, if I’m honest, if only because focusing on work required a herculean effort.
“So, how did I do?” Ewan asks the moment we’re alone, walking slowly down the pier toward our vehicles. He bumps his shoulder playfully against mine. “Am I hired?”
“Are you looking for a job?” I ask, only half joking. He shrugs.
“I wouldn’t say no to more of that.” Ewan hooks a thumb over his shoulder toward theDrifterbehind us. “Better than what I usually do all day.”
“What’s that?” I’m genuinely curious. I’m pretty sure he’s supposed to be working, too, but for him, that means trying to find his creativity again. Every time I ask him about painting, he looks like he swallowed a lemon and usually answers with a pissy comment. Work is not going well, that much I know.
“Oh, sleep a little bit. Stew in existential crisis. Check my finances and catastrophize.” He makes a jerking-off motion in mid-air. I snort.
“Dramatic much?”
He sighs, turning to face me and resting his butt back against the side of his rental Jeep. After a second of chewing on his cheek, he admits, “I actually wanted to paint yesterday. Felt the itch, you know?”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Well, it’s stupid because the whole point of painting something while I’m here is for it to be fun. It’s not meant to be a masterpiece.” He huffs, a wry twist to his mouth. “But there’s no place for me to set up any sort of work area, and I can’t go outside because every motherfucker who drives by will be stopping to snoop.”
“They would,” I confirm. Ewan Fate sitting in the grass outside the cottage, easel set up and paintbrush in hand, would be enough to stop traffic. “How much room do you need?”
“Oh, not much. I’m just being whiny.” I wait, and after a second, he rolls his eyes before continuing. “But enough room to not knock over a lamp with my elbow every time I move would be preferable.”
“You could use the spare bedroom at my place,” I offer. His eyes pop wide, mouth opening on a soft gasp and drawing my gaze. Shifting, I put a hand through my wind-tangled hair and try not to get distracted by thoughts of what those lips might taste like.
“No, Shi, that’s?—”
“You can. Really. Nobody has ever even stayed in that room. We can push the bed to the side, and you can set up your…easel.” I stumble over the word, not even sure if he uses one. When we were young, he’d just prop the canvases his mom bought him on any available sturdy surface. He’s probably a little fancier these days. Ewan smiles.
“Sometimes, depending on the size of the canvas, I hang it on the wall and paint standing. Especially now that I have a studio space. When I was in my apartment, I’d use an easel, like you said, and plop a stool in front of it. These are small canvases, though, so an easel works fine.”
“Perfect. My spare room will be great, then.”
Before I even finish speaking, he’s shaking his head. We’re still in the parking lot of the harbor, the soft sounds of the boats tugging on their ropes as they move with the water and the gulls crying for food a gentle background noise. I’m in no hurry to get home, and evidently, neither is Ewan. I step a little closer to him. He’s not wearing the cologne he always has on these days,so he smells more like me than himself right now. It makes my brain a little crazy, even though smelling like me just means he smells like dead fish and salt water. I want to rub against him, press myself into every pore so not even that fancy cologne could cover me up.
“Earth to Shiloh,” Ewan says, waving a hand in front of my face and grinning. “Where did you go?”
I hope my face is windburned enough to hide the blush. Here we are having a nice conversation, and I’m visualizing scent marking him like an animal. Sighing, I stuff my hands into my pockets and pull myself together. I’m too old to have sex thoughts in a parking lot.
“Sorry, spaced out for a minute,” I tell him.
“Tired?” he asks, a lilt to the words making them suggestive enough for my brain to immediately picture a bed. I’m not tired at all; I’m horny. A day spent in its entirety in Ewan’s company has frazzled my brain.
“Mm,” I hum. Ewan opens his mouth, but I cut him off before he can keep talking. “Want to grab your painting stuff now and bring it over? I can make dinner while you set up the room.”
He smiles in a way that feels like he’s hugging me, warm and loving. “Really? You’re sure? I don’t want to impose.”
“It’s not an imposition,” I tell him immediately, barely waiting for him to finish speaking before I talk.
My thoughts tumble over one another as daydreams flash through my mind. Leaving the house early in the morning and coming home to find Ewan there, the smell of him diffusingthrough my space. Maybe he’d leave his things scattered about in his messy way—a hoodie on the couch and a sock on the stairs because he never was one for keeping his feet covered. I could make dinner and leave leftovers in the refrigerator for him so that he has something to eat at midday. Then I could come home and make him something fresh in the evening, secure in the knowledge that my flighty friend wasn’t forgetting to eat on my watch.
