Page 18 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
Of course, now that I know I want to stay, he’s here. And while it seems he may have his moments of kindness, it doesn’t mean I want a roommate. At all. I just want to be left alone in this place I’ve grown to call home. Where I can paint in private so that no one knows or can scrutinize my art and demean it. Where the last name Caster is like Smith or Jones and doesn’t mean anything to anyone.
“What about you?” I ask, assuming the question isn’t welcome but indulging my curiosity.
A heavy sigh in response. The sound of aluminum hitting against the edge of the trash bin near us rings out as he throws his empty can into it. Actions to buy him some time on an imaginary clock no one’s watching.
“Everybody’s running from something, Getty.” His words startle me, unexpected honesty that hits home. A part of me wonders if he’s telling me this to get me to talk or if he really means it. And as much as I want to ask more, get lost in his troubles instead of my own, I let it go, let us sink into the silence milling around us.
The cool ocean breeze. The warmth of a body next to me. The notion that someone understands when he really has no clue what I’m going through or have been through, but understands in his own way nonetheless. This is new to me. Welcome and unwelcome at the same time.
Because I’m supposed to be figuring myself out. Supposed to be dealing with this all on my own. Determined to prove to myself that I don’t need anyone. That I can do this.
“There’s a storm rolling in.” Zander’s quiet murmur beside me breaks the silence. How long have we been sitting here? I’ve lost track of time, absorbed in my own thoughts.
“I love sitting on the back patio and watching them move across the sea.” Listening to the roar of thunder and the pelting sound of the rain. Then after the light show is over, I’ll sit in my bedroom with the window cracked so I can smell the distinct scent of the rain.
“Please tell me you don’t actually sit on that death trap of a deck?”
My wide eyes meet his raised eyebrows. “Maybe. Is it that bad?”
“Rickety is a compliment for that hazard.”
“And so what, you’re a carpenter? You’re trading your skills for room and board?” Time to turn the tables on him. Put him in the hot seat for a bit, since I know he’s still curious about why I’m here.
The laugh I get in response to my question is cynical at best. “No. Not a carpenter whatsoever. I’m the farthest thing from it.”
My mind flashes back to earlier today and the constant pounding of the hammer. On how much time it took to replace the broken step.
“How do you plan on fixing the house up if you don’t know what you’re doing?”
“The same way you’re being a bartender, I suppose,” he says with a purse of his lips and a resolute nod of his head. “Figure it out as I go.”
“Does Smitty know you’re not a carpenter?” I wonder if I’m asking for fuel to add to my argument as to why I should stay and he should go, or because I just want him to keep talking. To help not make the silence seem so lonely tonight.
His laugh in response is genuine and rich and wholehearted and brings a soft smile to my lips at the sound. “Yeah. I’m pretty positive he knows who and what I am.”
“Then why . . . ?” There are so many ways I can end the sentence and yet I’m not sure which one I want an answer to the most: . . . are you here? . . . are you sitting with me on a bench after apologizing when I never asked you to? . . . are you making me want to tell you things when I don’t like to talk to anyone?
“Because I owe him big-time. He, uh . . . helped me out with a few things. Kept me from getting in trouble in a sense when I didn’t deserve his help.” He shrugs, eyes trained to the darkness beyond as he absently reaches into the bag and pulls out another can of beer. “I needed a place off the beaten path to go to deal with some shit and he needed someone to repair this place, so we both agreed to help each other.”
“A few weeks ago Darcy told me they’d finally decided on which carpenter to hire. I was going to help facilitate—”
“Yeah, they did. Then Smitty found out that he and every other carpenter who works here on the island is booked solid through the end of the year. He wanted to get the repairs going sooner than that so they can flip the house and get it back on the market before next tourist season starts. So . . .” He shrugs with a sheepish smile. “Me.”
“And what if you’re in over your head?”
He shrugs his shoulders at my comment, a forced smile on his face as if I’ve just touched a nerve somehow. “We’re all in over our heads at some point, aren’t we?” he says cryptically before lifting his hat, running his hand through his hair, and putting it back down. And for some reason I don’t think he expects a response to his question, so I just remain quiet and study him out of the corner of my eye. “I’ll figure it out. Can’t be that hard. I promised him I’d get the job done, and I’ll get the job done. Prove to him that my word is good again.”
“Again? Did something happen that—”
“Boundaries, Getty.” His voice is an even warning that I’m pushing him too hard when he backed off from asking me questions. And I know there is more hidden in his words, an underlying meaning I don’t understand, and yet, I give him the same respect he did me.
I shift back to neutral ground: the repair issues. “So you just plan on wielding a hammer and winging it?”
“It’s better I wield a hammer than a mini-blind wand,” he deadpans, and then snickers.
“Touché,” I laugh with a roll of my eyes, already knowing it was not one of my prouder moments. “But being a bartender and making a deck so it doesn’t crash to the ground when you walk on it are slightly different skill sets. At least I can’t kill someone if I mix a drink wrong.”
“Oh, I’ve been killed plenty of times at the hands of a bartender,” he says with a chuckle.
