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This time, he doesn’t ask it as a question, nor does he wait to see if I comply. Turning, he moves further into the darkened room. Curious despite myself, I go to lean against the doorframe. It’s a small cottage, really only one room, although the furniture placement does provide the impression of separate spaces. And he was right…it’s not very clean. Another relic from childhood, and it makes me smile. Ewan used to leave dishes up in his room, scraps of food drawing flies and stink. It was the only thing his mom would ever yell at him about, stomping up the stairs and raiding his bedroom for things that should have been brought downstairs days earlier. Ewan, seeing me smiling, freezes where he’s bent over a suitcase propped on a chair, contents spilling out.

“What?” he asks. I gesture to the room before crossing my arms. It’s odd, being the undivided recipient of his attention after being invisible for so long.

“I was thinking about your mom. You never were good at cleaning up.”

He ducks his head as if in embarrassment, but there is a smile in his voice when he replies, “Every time I wash dishes, I think of her.”

Indeed, dishes seem to be the only thing that aren’t scattered about. Shoes are strewn across the floor, none that form a complete pair from what I can see in the doorway. Clothes are thrown over the back of the couch, and there is even a pair of jeans resting on the island, as though he was preparing a snack in the kitchen and decided it would be better enjoyed without pants on. Only half of the bed looks slept in, while the other half is home to a laptop, a pair of books, and a random assortment of things I’d expect to find in a junk drawer. I have half a mind to ask him to go pick up dinner—let him handle that while I clean some of this up.

“Give me a second,” he requests, clothes held to his chest with one hand and the other fiddling with his hair. Slipping into the bathroom, he uses the heel of his foot to close it, and he’s gone.

Sighing, I step further into the room and reach for the things closest to me. He’s out of the bathroom only minutes later, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, hair still a mess, and smelling of something expensive. He was only out of sight long enough for me to pair up a handful of shoes and leave them by the door.These aren’t even the shoes he grabs. Instead, he bends down and snags some from under the bed that I hadn’t even noticed.

“Working?” I ask him, pointing to a couple of canvases propped against one wall. The one facing outward has an anatomically correct stick figure drawn on it in Sharpie, middle finger lifted to the room.

“No,” Ewan replies shortly, walking past me and straight out the door.

I follow, pulling it closed behind us and walking toward my truck. Once more, I lose control of my tongue when I ask him, “Want to ride with me?”

He’s behind me. Glancing over a shoulder, I come to a surprised stop when I see him fumbling with the lock on the cottage door. I rarely remember to lock my door and sometimes even leave the keys to my truck on the floorboards.

“Damn thing sticks,” he mumbles, finally succeeding in getting it locked. Turning to face me, he smiles again, still looking happier than he probably should be. I really do need to warn him about having a conversation. A serious, adult conversation. The type of conversation we don’t have much practice with, seeing as the last time we talked, the pair of us were eighteen and idiotic.

“I’d love to ride with you,” he adds, smiling even wider. “You won’t mind driving me back? Or I could walk.”

Given that inviting him to dinner was accidental, I have no plan of action. I just want to talk to him and would prefer not to do that in a community setting the way we did last night. One public meltdown is quite enough for me. Fiddling with my keys,I glance back at the closed door of the cottage. We’ve already abandoned that option, which only leaves one other.

“My place?” I offer.

Chapter Eleven

EWAN

Shiloh is driving us to his house, looking serious and smelling of fish despite the wind whipping through the cab via the open windows. It’s loud, which makes it hard to talk, but it’s fine since I’m too tired for small talk anyway. I angle myself in the passenger seat, trying to make it easier for me to keep an eye on him without turning my head. I love the way he looks. Hair too long, scruff too wild, and skin rough from days spent in the sun. If he were to touch me, the palms of his hands would be coarse instead of smooth. Working hands, just like mine, even though our trades couldn’t be more different.

He doesn’t catch me creeping on him. His eyes are so firmly on the road, one would think we were flying down the interstate instead of driving twenty-five down the sleepy streets of Siren’sPoint. It’s better we don’t chat anyway, since this will give me time to prepare. It’s clear Shiloh has something to say. Obvious, given the fact that he came knocking on my door the night after our argument when I’ve been here a week and he’s never come by. Shiloh was never one to shy away from things that needed saying. I imagine he had as bad a night as I did. Except instead of reading old emails, he was turning the conversation between Dryden Roy and me over and over in his mind, trying to get it to make sense. Well, he must have figured something out because only that would bring him to my door, ready to talk. Hopefully, he’s also ready to listen, because I’ve got some crow to eat and years of emails to respond to.

When we get to his place, the windows are finally rolled up, and we simultaneously exit the truck. Pausing, I bend my knees enough to give me a better view of my face in the side mirror. My hair is a wreck, and unlike Shiloh, it doesn’t look good on me. I look like I’ve been in bed with the flu, and he’s dragged me out to stretch my legs. Which, given the fact that I had finally fallen asleep around noon and was only woken up by his knock, it’s not too far from the truth. Sighing, I give up. It doesn’t matter what I look like.

The inside of his place is just as neat as it was the last time I was here. Walking through the door feels like stepping through some magical waterfall, tension immediately melting away. His space is beautiful—peaceful and open and bright, with not a thing out of place. Shiloh was better at following his parents’ rules growing up, keeping things neat and organized. Apparently, that followed him into adulthood, even without hismom to force him to do the chores.

“You’re so clean,” I note. Shiloh huffs.

“You set the bar a little low.”

“Ouch.” I soften it with a smile, making sure he knows I’m enjoying the ribbing. It’s how we used to talk. He takes off his shoes, so I do the same.

“What do you want to eat?” he asks, carefully keeping his eyes averted from me the same way he’d done the first time I was here.

“Could we just order a pizza?” I request. I know I should be hungry after sleeping the day away and not eating, but I’m still on edge, and my nerves feel like someone took a sander to them. I’d hate for him to go through the trouble of making something only for me to be unable to choke down more than a handful of bites.

“Sure,” he agrees, stopping at the kitchen island and pulling out his phone. While he fiddles with it, I step over to the wide, glass back door and look out at his backyard.

The grassy dunes are dusted with sand, and the rocky shore is visible just before the view bleeds to blue. I’m not surprised this was the house Shiloh chose instead of one on the cliffs or back in the forest. He used to talk about vacationing somewhere where the sand was white and the water so clear you could see the ocean floor. Even in his daydreams, Shiloh could never bring himself to part from the water. A location like this is perfect for my seaman.

“We can sit outside,” he offers, awkwardly reaching in front of me to pull the door open. I step back to give him room,inhaling a bit to catch some of him in my nose.

Not even the strong breeze from the water can diffuse the awkwardness between us as we step out onto the deck. There’s only one chair sitting out, which seems so strange, I wonder for a second if the other was just blown off by the wind. I look around for it while Shiloh steps around the side of the house. When he comes back with a second chair, I feel a slight head rush as my emotions plummet. I’m not sure there is anything more sad than him expecting to always be sitting alone.