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You know what you would have said to me, back in high school? You would have said, “Shi, pull your head out of your ass.”

Well, here I am. Pulling it out, seven years too late. You don’t want to talk to me, and I should have seen that sooner. I should have respected that. I’m sorry. I’d like to tell you I’m not selfish, just clueless, but I think that might be a lie. I am selfish. You’re off doing incredible things, and here I am, sad to be left behind.

I am happy for you, though, Ewan. I’ve always been honored to be your friend, and that won’t ever change. So, even though this is the last email you’ll get from me, don’t forget that. Don’t ever forget how proud I am of you.

Love,

Shiloh

Chapter Three

EWAN

Iwake up when the silence becomes too loud to sleep through. Flat on my stomach, I open my eyes and slide my hand underneath the pillow, looking for a cooler patch of sheets. The room isn’t perfectly dark, with the light from the streetlamp filtering through the wooden slats of the blinds, but it’s dark enough for me to know it’s too early to be awake. Reaching a hand out for my phone, I tap the screen and groan.

“It’s too early,” I complain to the empty room, rolling onto my back and starfishing my limbs across the mattress.

I’m not good at falling back asleep. Once I’m awake, I stay there. I’m also not good at falling asleep in the first place. Honestly, anything to do at all with sleeping gives me trouble. I used to make the insomnia work for me, back when I lived in mystudio flat in LA. I’d get up, pop in my headphones, and paint under the artificial light of a single lamp. Those days are hard to think about, if only because the memories aren’t sharp. They’re murky and vague, clouded by sleeplessness and hunger. My best work came from those nights, though, so I can’t help but think on them with fondness. Sure, I was tired. But the artistic muse wassinging, and boy, were my ears tuned in.

My eyes catch on the single framed piece of art hung on the cottage wall. A beach scene, naturally. I stare at it through the dim lighting, waiting for that urge to paint. The itch of fingers that want to pick up a brush. It doesn’t come. Disappointed, I turn my face in the opposite direction and close my eyes. I can’t paint, which means I need to try and sleep. If only there were someone here to fuck,thatwould help get me out of my own head for half an hour.

I don’t manage to fall back asleep and instead spend the final hours until dawn rolling around on the bed as though comfort was the reason I couldn’t settle. When I finally admit defeat and get up, the sheets are trashed enough to look as though somebody did get fucked in this bed. It only gives me something else to be annoyed about—a reminder of just how long it’s been since I’ve had that pleasure.

“Ugh, fuck you!” I shout at my phone when it starts ringing on my way to the bathroom.

It’s Daniel, I know it is. The interfering, mothering bastard. By the time I finish peeing, his first call has gone to voicemail, and he’s trying his hand at a second. I contemplate throwing the thing against the wall. Wasn’t the whole point of me cominghere to rest and relax? Kind of hard to do when I’ve been here less than twelve hours and he’s already bothering the shit out of me.

“Daniel!” I snap, unable to stand the ringing any longer and finally answering the phone. “What the fuck! I could have been asleep—you know there’s a time change, right?”

“It’s six in the morning where you’re at.” He scoffs. “If anyone might have been asleep right now, it would be me. You realize it’s three a.m. over here?”

“You realizeyoucalledme,” I reply tartly.

“I’m shipping your equipment today. Watch out for that invoice, because lord knows how expensive that will be. What size canvases do you want? I’ll send a few choices,” he says before I can answer the question. “If you end up needing more, I’ll send them. Sound good?”

“I’m not going to paint.” Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I rest my elbows on my knees and drop my head, closing my eyes. I’m tired, which is ridiculous. I just spent the last three hours unable to sleep.

“You might if you have your accoutrements.”

I snort. “Nice.”

“Did you download that app I sent you? I’m going to go through withdrawals if I don’t have my Scrabble buddy to provide my fix.”

“I’ll set it up today,” I promise, rubbing a hand over my forehead. Daniel, going a step beyond usual PA duties, would sometimes join me on my sleepless nights, a Scrabble board set up between us and something acoustic on the stereo. He’sa good friend. My only real friend from my life in LA, if I’m being honest.

“And get groceries,” he reminds me.

“Groceries,” I agree. He makes an amused noise.

“Go find some coffee. I’ve had more titillating conversation with the neighbor’s cat than I’m having with you right now. That’s another Scrabble word for you, kid. Get the app set up.”

I’m still chuckling when we hang up the phone, and whether he intended it that way or not, I feel a little more relaxed than I was five minutes ago—the tension unspooled enough to give me room to breathe. This is supposed to be a vacation, but the need for it burns like an iron pressed to my chest. I don’t want to be on vacation. I want to be working. I want to stand in front of a blank canvas and see beauty, not the threat of failure.

The gulls are screaming when I step out of the front door of the cottage. A particularly brave one lands, hopping toward me over the uneven paving stones leading up the walk, trying to determine whether I’ve got anything edible I might share. It takes me a few minutes to get the door locked, the wood warped from years of living so close to the sea, lock mechanism crusted with salt. Finally managing to get it latched, I slip the key into my pocket and disturb the seagull as I move down the walk.

That first deep inhale of salt water and fish hits me like a shot of straight adrenaline. It’s not as though I didn’t have access to the beach or the ocean while I was living in LA. I could have hired a private charter at any point and spent a day out on the water, spent a day connecting with my fisherman’s roots. But everything available to me in California never felt quite rightwhen I compared it to what I left behind here in Siren’s Point. I wanted to leave so badly—spent those final months staring down the road and dreaming of one day. I still haven’t quite come to terms with the fact that maybe the grass somewhere else wasn’t quite as green as I thought it would be.

The wind has a slight bite to it. Putting my hands in the front hoodie pocket, I hunch my shoulders against the chill and set off at a pace that will hopefully help keep me warm. By the time I get to Triton’s Brew, I’m pretty sure I’ve got the first stages of hypothermia and also pretty sure that I don’t remember it beingthiscold here in the spring seven years ago.