Page 121 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
I can’t think straight. Not with him looking at me with those eyes and the unknown stretched in between us. Not with my past a constant fog in my mind telling me I deserve exactly this.
I refuse to accept that this is my lot in life: for men to think I’m disposable and only good enough until they want someone better.
Like a hot blonde with a great rack who services racers in hotel suites.
My sobs are the only sound in the hollowness of the house. Both hands cover my mouth as I try to fight it off and not completely break down in front of him, but the force racks my body.
“Getty. Please. There’s an explanation.”
My laugh hitched with my sobs is all I can emit. All I can give him when I’ve already given him so much of myself. More than I should have. More than I ever intended to: my trust, my history, my heart, my desire. My truth.
“We need to—”
“I need you to leave, Zander.” My voice is serious. Quiet. Barely audible. And yet the jerk of his body, the flash of his eyes up to mine, tell me he can’t believe what I’ve just said. “Please. You can’t be here tonight.”
And I know I’m lying. Know I’m weak and can’t tell him that we’re over. That I need him to leave because I can’t breathe when he’s so close. And I need to breathe. To be able to think. To have more resolve in my voice when I tell him we’re over for good. That it’s perfect timing for him to head back to his old life.
The one without me. The one where he meets women like her.
Because I can’t stay with a man who doesn’t remember if he slept with someone. Every trip, every race, the worry will always be there. The doubt will always linger. And I can’t live like that again.
So I lie. I ask him to leave for the night, stay at the hotel, so we can clear our minds and talk when we are calmer. Tell him I need time. That I need to think.
I stay where I am as he walks down the hall and gathers some of his things. I don’t move when he stands inches in front of me with my welcome-home painting tucked under his arm and his eyes pleading for me to give him the benefit of the doubt. I refuse to cry when he presses a soft kiss to my head before resting his forehead against mine in silence.
And I hold back the confession I was going to make tonight as I watch him close the front door, climb in his car, and drive away.
I love you, Zander.
I was going to lay my heart on the line and give you the only thing of myself I had left to give you.
And as I slide to the kitchen floor, tears on my cheeks and disbelieving hurt in my heart, I wonder if I had told him last night, whether it would have changed anything.
Or if it would just mean I’d hurt that much more right now.
That’s the problem with ifs. Of living with regrets.
You always wonder.
Even when the lies were exactly what you wanted to hear.
Chapter 38
GETTY
Days mix with nights.
I keep to myself these days. Lost in my paints. Consumed with the sadness. Burying the hurt the only ways I know how.
Stormy seas and rumbling clouds line my canvases stacked against the walls. Dark grays and blacks and blues. Endless turmoil in a sea that can only create more of it.
His knocks on the front door go unanswered. His words through the slab of wood tear me apart as I sit on the other side, heart numb, and mind in self-preservation mode.
And he waits. And he persists. Staying ten paces behind me as I walk to work. Sitting at table thirteen through my shifts. His way of reinforcing to me what his constant texts tell me:
I’m trying to be patient, Getty. I’m trying to let you know I’m right here whenever you’re ready to talk.
Or
