Page 122 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
I’ll get to the bottom of this, Getty. I’ll find this woman and prove to you, I didn’t sleep with her.
And
Don’t you see I want this to work? You’re not getting rid of me yet, Socks.
All of them sit on my phone just as his presence is constantly in my periphery. And I don’t know if it would even matter if he found this woman to prove otherwise. The trust between us has been broken. The seed of doubt planted.
The notion that I need to rely on myself and no one else reaffirmed.
But damn it to hell, the hurt persists. In his presence. In his absence. In the desperation in the tone of his texts. In the temerity with which he’s there day in, day out, so that I can’t run away and hide from him. Hiding seems the best option, because the feelings are still there. The want is still real. The desire is still ravenous.
And yet I’ve felt so much over the past few days that I’ve started to feel nothing. I’m afraid. I’m doubting everything about myself: my decisions, my choices, my own needs.
Liam eyes me across the bar when I walk in. Asks without words if he needs to suggest that Zander leave. And I can’t respond. I simply do my job. I collect my tips. All under the curious gazes of the locals, whose eyes are like a visual Ping-Pong ball between Zander and me, while the tourists are oblivious to the town gossip unfolding beneath their noses.
Then I walk home. Him behind me. Enter the house. He stands on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, eyes beseeching, and waits for me to tell him to come in. But I shut the front door. I cry in the shower. I don’t eat. I’ve lost my appetite. My stomach churns.
So I paint.
All night.
Because sleep is impossible. Without his warmth to cuddle against. Without the heat of his breath against my hair.
Without the comfort I’ve gotten used to of him just being there.
Of not being alone.
* * *
“I have to leave tonight, Getty. I was hoping you’d talk to me before I had to head out.” His voice behind me is like an invisible magnet pulling me toward him.
With my hand on the front door and a bone-deep exhaustion running through me after my shift, I hang my head and close my eyes. I will myself to have the strength to talk to him without breaking down and letting him see how much this is killing me. While still wanting him, still loving him, I just can’t be with him right now.
Not until I chase away my own demons, which make me question myself too easily. And him. And any possibility we might ever have at a future.
“What race are you headed to?” I ask the question although I already know the answer. Boston. A road race. A two-and-a-quarter-mile loop.
“Boston,” he says quietly. “Qualifying first part of the week. Then the race on Sunday. But I’ll be back.”
I don’t say anything. I’m too busy fighting the emotion in my voice to speak.
“Turn around. Please, Getty. Let me see your face.”
My chest constricts. It’s hard to pull in air. But I turn around and face him; his hand rests on the god-awful pink handrail and his eyes lock immediately on mine. They search, they beg, they question, and I just hope mine don’t give away any answers.
“Don’t cry.” He steps forward and wipes an errant tear I couldn’t hold back from sliding down my cheek. “It’s killing me that you won’t listen to me, Getty. You won’t let me apologize, let alone even talk to you.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I whisper.
“Bullshit. You know that’s a lie. We’re good together, Getty. Goddamn incredible. I’ve had nothing but time the last few days to think about this. To think about us. I can see that what I want has been right in fucking front of me, but I was so fixated on not letting it turn into a disaster that I made one of it myself.”
His words are too much. They cause me to feel again. And I don’t want to feel. I shake my head, try to refute him, and he reaches out and grabs my hands from where I’ve brought them to the side of my head to shut him out.
“No. You need to hear me. I’m not going until you hear me.”
“
Zander, I can’t.” I look up at him with tearstained cheeks and a trembling lip and meet his eyes.
