The front door opens behind me. Glancing back, I watch Daniel himself walk in, deep lines in his forehead as he frowns down at the phone in his hand. That thing is practically fused to his palm at this point and reminds me that I should probably send a message to Shiloh to let him know I arrived safely. Something oily settles in my gut at the realization that I’ve already fallen into old patterns. Out of sight? Out of my mind.
I pat my pockets, trying to remember where I left my phone. Looking around, I see it sitting next to the coffeepot, where I must have placed it when I got the machine going. I reach for it. I need to call Shiloh. At the very least, I need to text him.
“So, guess who I just got an email from,” Daniel prompts, distracting me. “Oh, can I have a cup of that?”
“’Course.” Bypassing my phone, I pull another mug from the cupboards and snag my own to top off as well. “Who did you get an email from?”
“Francis Knight.” I raise an eyebrow while I pour the coffee.
“Really? Is something wrong with the piece? Does it need repairs?”
“No, actually, he built an addition onto his house and is wanting something new.” The eagerness in Daniel’s voice matches the excitement in his eyes. Francis Knight was a high-paying client—which endeared him to Daniel—and a kind, easy-to-work-with one—which endeared him to me.
“Oh, wow. Well, that’s random. Been a while since we’ve heard from him.”
“Mm.” Daniel whistles, moving to accept the mug of coffee I hold out for him and angling his phone for me to see the screen. I raise my eyebrows at the size of the piece Mr. Knight is looking for, as well as what he wants to pay for it. Generosity isn’t something he’s short on. I also see the date he’s hoping for, and my heart sinks to my toes.
“Next week?” I clarify, hoping I misread that.
“Looks like. He did this last time, too, although you probably don’t remember. Not much of a heads-up. But he pays to make up for it.”
Nodding, I bite my lip and fiddle with the coffee mug. I don’t like feeling rushed, and this trip was going to be a whirlwind from start to finish, even without Francis Knight hopping in to add to the chaos. I’m supposed to be packing up everything I can fit into suitcases and scheduling a moving company for therest. I’m supposed to be meeting the tenants who want to rent out this space and making sure everything is locked up and safe in the studio. I’m supposed to be dusting off one of my tuxes and shaving my face and practicing my best smile in the mirror for the gala tonight.
I need to call Shiloh. Frantic, suddenly, I reach once more for my phone. I can’t believe I got distracted. Walking over to my patio door, I step out onto the balcony and take a photograph of the horizon. Popping it into a text message, I try to think of something to say. I love you and I’ll see you soon? I miss you? I wish I hadn’t left because I’m starting to fully understand just how hard it will be to come back?
Before I can type anything or send the photo, someone knocks on the front door. Glancing over, I watch as Daniel opens it, stepping back to let in the men he hired to pack up my stuff. Locking my phone, I slide it back into my pocket and go to meet them. I’ll text Shiloh later.
The day moves so quickly, by the time I’m home and falling into bed, it’s past midnight, and my feet hurt so bad they feel like they’re going to fall off. I sleep like the dead. The kind of sleep that was rare here before my trip to Siren’s Point, the kind of sleep that seemed to only be available to me with Shiloh’s steady breathing helping me drift off.
When I open my eyes the next morning, the first thing I see is the sun streaming through the open windows; the first thing I think about is Shiloh. Feeling disoriented, I reach acrossthe bed to find him, sitting up and looking around. For a split second, I forget where I am. The open, industrial floor plan isn’t immediately recognizable; I can’t hear the ocean, and the décor is too modern. A tiny thread of panic thrums through my veins before I realize I’m not at Shiloh’s house. I’m at home. I’m in California.
Frowning, I tug at the collar of the button-up I didn’t bother taking off before falling into bed last night. I smell like stale cologne and too-sweet perfume—an amalgamation of a room full of socialites packed into a small space and each wearing a unique scent. Crinkling my nose, I unbutton the shirt and slide out of bed.
Two cups of coffee in, I curse and remember that Istillhaven’t messaged Shiloh. Staring down at the photo I took yesterday, waiting patiently in a half-prepared message, I feel slightly adrift. I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing at all. Clicking the little arrow, I send the text and lock my phone, putting it face down on the counter. Sitting down on one of the barstools, I rest my forehead down as well, closing my eyes.
It won’t be easy moving to Siren’s Point. It won’t be easy stepping so far back from a thriving art scene that I can’t reach it without two flight layovers. And if last night was any indication, it won’t be easy staying relevant if my face isn’t seen around town, attached to my work.
Sighing, I sit up and tap morosely at the screen of my phone. No reply from Shiloh, which is expected since he’s out on the boat. I wish he weren’t. I miss him, and I’m scared. I want to move to Siren’s Point. I want to get coffee at Jean’s café and makesmall talk with her sister; dodge the nosy overtures from the townsfolk. I want to move into Shiloh’s house—nestle myself into the warmth and safety and understand what it means to have space to breathe. I wantShiloh.
Planning felt easy when I was back in the Point. I could send a text to Daniel and forget about it, go back to work on painting the view from Shiloh’s guest bedroom window. I could pretend uprooting my life for a second time would be as easy as making the choice and then feel good about it when Shiloh came home from work, smelling like the sea.
But it won’t be easy, and for the first time, I’m frightened it might not even be possible. I’m young. Too young, probably, to be pulling myself away from a thriving art scene to become some sort of artistic recluse. I’ve only just started to get my feet back under me, and last night proved that visibility matters when your success depends on the generosity of the upper class. They might appreciate an artist who’s enigmatic and mysterious, but what they appreciate more is product. It’s been nearly a year since I produced anything, and even longer since I attended a show like last night’s. I could see it in their eyes, the curiosity and, behind that, the surprise. They’d already started to forget about me, distracted by newer and shinier things.
My foothold, which had felt so strong a year ago, has revealed itself to be more precarious than I’d thought. If I leave now, there’s every possibility I won’t be accepted back. More successful artists than I have faded into obscurity for transgressions a lot less severe than disappearing.
The lock on my front door clicks as Daniel lets himself inside.Seeing me at the island, he lifts the tray of coffee in his hand and kicks the door closed behind him. Suddenly exhausted, I can only watch as he approaches, wishing I were back in bed and still asleep, wishing I weren’t in LA at all and had never set foot outside of Siren’s Point. Nothing good ever comes of leaving.
“Morning. You look like a debauched rock star coming off a bender,” Daniel jokes, plucking a cup from the cardboard tray and putting it in front of me.
“Am I tanking my career?” I ask him softly, reaching up to run my fingers through my hair and grimacing when all I encounter is the product I’d used last night. I need a damn shower.
“Drink that coffee. I’ll make you some eggs,” Daniel replies, glancing back at me before checking out the refrigerator. The two days’ worth of groceries he’d put in there are mostly still there. I haven’t had time to eat.
“Daniel,” I mutter, a slightly pleading edge to my tone. I want him to answer the question, and then I want to get back on the plane to Siren’s Point. To Shiloh. I don’t think being here is good for me.
“Well, kiddo, that’ll depend on you, I think.” He cracks a couple of eggs into a skillet, muttering “crap” under his breath when a few shells fall in. After he fishes them out, he continues. “You can’t turn down Francis Knight. I’m telling you right now, that’s nonnegotiable. The day you say no to him is the day he stops coming back, and the art world is a lot smaller than you might think. You’re not in a position to be turning down a commission like that.”
I nod, already having figured that out for myself. The smell of the eggs cooking turns my empty stomach as I think about the timeline needed for completing a project like that. He wants me to start next week, and it’ll be weeks, if not months, before I finish it. Shiloh can’t leave the Point for that long to come stay with me, even if he wanted to. Not when the lobster season is about to begin. I’d have to do it alone.
