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“But I think I can buy you some time,” Daniel continues. “You’re on an extended sabbatical right now—next week won’t work. A month from now? I bet I can swing that.”

I nod again, even though his back is turned. A tiny bit of the weight pressing on my shoulders eases. I think I could make a month of borrowed time work—a month of settling me and Shiloh onto firmer ground and establishing the life I can just barely picture in our future.

“And after that?” I ask.

“After that, you’ll be hundreds of thousands of dollars richer, your name will be circulating once more, and the sharks will start hunting with renewed vigor.” He shrugs, scraping the eggs onto a plate and turning to slide it over to me. “If you take this job—the Knight job—I’ll have you a studio space set up to return to in Siren’s Point. That’s a promise.”

“You think we can do this? Actually do this? You’re not just going along with me because I’m your boss?”

He snorts, arching a brow at me over the rim of his coffee cup.

“Kiddo, it’s cute you think you’re the boss of anything. Yes, we can do this. It won’t be easy, but when have you or Iever needed easy, anyway? I know life moves fast here, and it’s easy to get caught up in that, but this isn’t the center of the art universe, and you’re not the first person to want to get away, the first person to produce better-quality pieces in places with better-quality air.”

I smile. The words he uses are different, but the sentiment behind them so often mirrors things I could imagine my mom saying. She understood the healing power of nature. She would have understood both my desire to leave Siren’s Point, but also the need to come back. Throat tight, I take the fork Daniel passes over the counter to me.

“Eat. We’ve got things to do, and then you’ve got a plane to catch.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

SHILOH

Ibring the boat in slowly, trying not to think about the last time I did this and Ewan was standing on the dock watching. He’s not there today, and he won’t be at home when I get there either. His studio will be empty, and there won’t be any stray clothes left on the living room floor, no dishes sitting in the sink and no kiss at the door to welcome me home.

Yesterday, with no work to keep me distracted, I’d numbly gone through the motions of completing my chores. I tried to do a few DIY projects but gave up after nothing seemed to be working. I tried to read and do a Sudoku. I tried to watch television. I couldn’t focus on any of it, and so my final day of vacation was spent in abject misery, missing Ewan and unable to figure out what to do with him gone. Oliver and I exchanged afew text messages, but he was busy, and I was pretending to be, so it didn’t offer the kind of distraction I needed.

Now, mindlessly going through the end-of-day tasks on theDrifter, despondency nips at my heels. I don’t want to go home to an empty house. My entire adult life, I’ve lived without, and then Ewan came back, giving me so much happiness and love to gorge myself on, I’ve become spoiled with it. I have to remind myself again that he’s not gone for good. That this time is different, and he’s coming back.

I wish I could believe it. I wish there weren’t that small, angry sliver of doubt imbedded in the crack where my heart broke the first time around. I love every part of Ewan, even the ones that are flighty and fearful, and I hate that there is any portion of me harboring mistrust. I don’t know how to kill it. I’ve been trying all day, reminding myself of all the conversations Ewan and I have had since he came back, reminding myself that you can’t have a relationship without trust, and if I’m going to give him a second chance, then I need to let go of the first.

I wish I could talk to my dad. Or, better yet, my grandpa. I wish being an adult didn’t mean I had to figure things out on my own and I could still call up my parents and ask for help. A hand touches my shoulder, and I startle, turning around quickly enough to have Oliver stepping away to avoid an elbow.

“Sorry, Oli,” I apologize. I’ve been distant all day, I know—quiet and taciturn and probably a little bit rude. Nils won’t care or say anything. Oliver, I should have guessed, will.

“Lost in thought?” he asks now, peering at me with those crystalline eyes. My mom, when she met him, said he was adoll, and she was right. He’s also strong and hardworking and incredibly clever, which just goes to show how little one knows when judging a book by its cover.

“Yeah, sorry. I know I’ve been rotten company.”

He tilts his head just slightly to the side, probably thinking about all the other days in the past that have passed exactly the same as this one—silently. Well, silently but for Oliver himself, who doesn’t know the meaning of the word. It’s different, though, when someone is quiet because they’re comfortable and they want to be, and being quiet because you’re miserable. Oliver, I know, is more than capable of picking out the difference between the two.

“Anything you need from me?” he offers, giving me yet another reason to be glad I know him. Oliver will always offer assistance over platitudes.

“No, Oli. Thanks for your help today.” He nods, glancing over his shoulder at Nils before bringing his attention back to me.

“I’ve got some leftovers you can take home.”

I smile. Oliver loves patching bullet holes with food. It’s yet another thing I have to worry about—him being too good, too talented to waste his days toiling away on a fishing boat. I wish I were nosy enough to ask him why he does.

The three of us finish and leave the boat together, our vehicles waiting in a row in the spaces we always utilize. I love having such a steady routine that even something as simple as a parking space is available to me every day. It’s not a good realization to have right now, feelings raw and thoughts stretched thinafter a sleepless night. If I’m the kind of person who thrives on a routine—who enjoys something as simple as having the same parking space every day—then I fear I am also the kind of person who wouldn’t fit in with Ewan’s lifestyle.Fishing vessels run in California, I remind myself, hating this mood I’m in. It feels selfish and ridiculous, and there is every possibility I’m being miserable for no good reason. Ewan told me he’s coming back tonight, andthat’swhat I need to focus on. Just because he’s out of sight doesn’t mean he’s gone forever.

Oliver transfers the leftovers from his cooler to the passenger seat of my truck after I assure him I’m heading straight home and can put everything in the refrigerator. I don’t particularly want to go home, but neither do I want to go anywhere else. Sitting alone in sorrow is far more preferable than doing it in public, where it’ll be spread across town as whispers. Amy Libby already managed to find me yesterday, in the cereal aisle of the grocery store, eyes and tone pitying as she asked when Ewan was coming back. At least there’s one thing I know I won’t miss when I move to LA to be with him.

There’s a single message from Ewan waiting on my phone—a picture from what I assume is the balcony of his loft. It’s a cityscape view with barely a touch of blue on the horizon to let you know that the ocean is there. Pretty, I suppose, but hardly compares to what I have here. Streetlights and mansions will never beat forests and beaches and puffins nesting on the cliffs.

Instead of texting back, I call him. It goes straight to voicemail, which means his phone is either off or set to Do NotDisturb. He could be working or in a meeting or on an airplane. Maybe he got an earlier flight. I know which one I hope it is, but I hang up without leaving a message. I think hearing his voice would have helped me feel better. Even a text reiterating the fact that I’d see him tonight would have been nice. I should have gone with him.

Since his early text was left unanswered while I was out on the boat, I reciprocate with a snapshot of the wharf from the vantage point of my truck. I send it with anI love you, because Ewan is liable to convince himself otherwise or forget if I do not remind him.

These past few weeks, I’ve found the drive home to be lengthy. I didn’t want to spend all day on the boat only for it to take thirty more minutes of driving before I could get home and see Ewan. Now, without him there, I’m wishing it were longer. It would seem the distance between “stable, independent adult” and “codependent Velcro boyfriend” is little more than inches. Hopefully, Ewan didn’t step off that plane in California and realize total freedom was preferable to my smothering brand of love.