Page 22 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“It’s too personal,” I whisper, giving him the only explanation I will give. Not expecting him to understand . . . but almost needing him to.
“That’s obvious,” he says, eyebrows drawing together, head angling to the side to study me. “But no one is going to see the same thing you see. Everyone’s churning ocean is fueled by a different type of storm.”
He shifts his feet, his body now closer; our eyes don’t waver from each other’s. “What’s your storm?” The question is out before I can stop it, my own curiosity piqued.
Our proximity allows me to see the pang of hurt flash through his eyes, the sudden halt in his movements. The recovery comes quickly but not fast enough to hide that whatever he’s running from affects him deeply.
“My storm?” he chuckles, self-deprecation in his tone and a look in his eyes he doesn’t give me a chance to read. “I don’t think it’s ever really stopped churning, but there’s definitely been a few surprise white squalls thrown in.”
“Is that why you’ve come here? To escape it?” I push for answers, no longer wanting to feel like I’m the only one exposed, and curious to know more about this man before me.
“A white squall,” he murmurs. And it’s all there sitting in the depth of his eyes—the hurt, the indecision, the regret over whatever has happened to cause him to be here right now—and yet it’s also so very well protected that I’m not sure what else to say. “You’ve been crying.”
I blanch, hating that he has noticed, and at the same time, I pick up on the sudden change of topic. I’m immediately wiping my fingers under my eyes and trying to hide the evidence, although I’m not sure how much good it will do.
“I’m fine,” I say, my voice infused with much more certainty than I feel. “It was just the song I was listening to. It was sad.”
Jesus, Getty, couldn’t you thi
nk of a better lie?
“Uh-huh.” He takes another step forward. The simple sound almost an unspoken warning not to lie to him again. “Just the song,” he murmurs with a nod as he reaches out, hand to the side of my jaw, thumb brushing over the line of my cheek.
That jolt I felt last night? That was nothing compared with the start and stop of my heart at the feel of his hand on my face. Skin to skin.
My lips fall lax. The sharp intake of my breath is audible in the silence. And I hate that I suddenly feel like I don’t have a single clear thought in my mind, let alone an intelligent one.
“You’ve got paint,” he says, mint on his breath, as he leans in to get a better view through the dimly lit room, “right here.” And yet after his thumb rubs at the smudge, he doesn’t remove his hand. He just keeps it there, our faces close, our eyes questioning so many things. Time slows.
“Thanks,” I finally whisper, tongue darting out to wet my lips as I try to draw in a steady breath.
“And I’m smart enough to know it was more than just the song.” His words hit my ears, the deep timbre of his tone a soothing rebuke in a sense, because he is actually listening to me, really hearing me when I’m so unaccustomed to any man in my life caring above and beyond the surface.
Words. Thoughts. Confessions. The look in his eyes and the comfort of his touch cause my head to whirl, make me want to let him in, and use his shoulder for comfort when this isn’t even really an option I’ll afford myself. Compassion from a man isn’t something I’m used to, especially when it’s directed at me.
Thunder rumbles. We both jump at the sound, the moment instantly broken. The gasp from my lips gets drowned out. Zander steps back with a startled shake of his head before turning his back to me as he walks toward the window, shoving his hand through his hair, a sigh filling the space.
“Fucking squalls,” he murmurs as he hangs his head for a moment, the words weighing heavy in the room as I stand there trying to figure out what just happened. He turns and looks at me for a moment, eyes sincere, but the words don’t make any sense. “I’m sorry . . . I just can’t.” And with that, he strides from the room, leaving me with nothing more to look at than an empty doorway.
What the hell just happened?
I move to the edge of my bed, sit down, and try to sift through the myriad of emotions I didn’t expect to feel around him: hurt, rejection, confusion, dejection. And I hate that I feel any of these from a moment that never should have happened with a man that shouldn’t even be here in the first place.
He just can’t what? Talk to me? Be in the same room as me? Be in the same house?
Kiss me?
Oh my God, Getty, can you be any more ridiculous? The thought flickers and fades away instantly, my stupidity at an all-time high. I really have lost my mind, the emotions of the morning running rampant and killing my brain cells. Whom am I kidding thinking stuff like this? A guy who looks like he does would most definitely not be into a woman who looks like me. Never.
Ethan’s words come back to me now. Disgusting. Overweight. Pathetic. Useless. Ugly. They flicker through my mind and poke holes in the confidence I’ve slowly built from nothing.
And to think I had a moment when I wanted to let Zander in. A break in my resolve when I thought perhaps it might be a little easier to share a part of me with someone, because if we’re both running from something, then that means maybe he just might be a little more understanding.
Jesus. Did I really think that was going to happen? Making myself vulnerable to someone else before I’ve even figured myself out was a stupid move. Shows I haven’t come very far yet in this mile I’m traveling one inch at a time.
Don’t trust anyone. Trust is a false pretense. Something that’s never really real.
Well, luckily he came to his senses before I made that colossal mistake. Bolted before I unfolded my complex past like an origami bird and asked him to help me try to fold the same piece of paper back into a different shape.
