Page 35 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“You don’t want me to step on your boundaries, then don’t come in my room a little tipsy and act all hell on wheels and compare me to your ex. Because he is your ex, right, Getty?”
“I said it’s none of your business.” I grit the word out between my clenched teeth. Hating myself and worrying over whatever else I said last night and at the same time needing to stop this conversation before he pushes too hard.
“Like hell it is. Don’t you think it’s important for me to know if some man is going to waltz in here to try to take you back or whatever the fuck is going on here, so that I know how best to protect you?”
Put the wall up, Getty. You need no one. That’s how you’re going to survive this—heal from this—by depending solely on yourself. Push him away. Protect yourself.
“First off, Ethan is no one to me. Secondly, no one is going to be waltzing in here, and more importantly, I’m not yours to protect.” I hold his stare, meet it with a resolve I definitely don’t feel. His words start to sink in and break a chip off the walls I have up around me. I can’t think about it now, about how a man I just met is offering to protect me when the ones that should have done it never did.
“You keep thinking that, Socks. Keep thinking that just because you’re not mine . . . whatever the fuck that means to you . . . that I shouldn’t defend you, and I’ll keep pretending you’re not running from anything, and we’ll see how far that gets us.” There’s a bite to his voice telling me I’ve offended him, and I welcome the sound. If I’ve pissed him off, then maybe he’ll keep his distance.
“Can I go now?” I’m a bitch in how I say it, put out, annoyed, but I can’t be any other way. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—hurt, distrust, disbelief. I can’t put my finger on it, but I really can’t care, because I need to escape this situation.
This time when I try to move past him, he lets me. And thank God for that, because a few seconds longer and he’d see the tears welling in my eyes and my hands shaking and I don’t want him to.
I don’t want him to know how much hearing that simple name has affected me. How in a split second it’s like Ethan is here, his voice angry in my ear, and all the progress, all the strength I’ve gained, disappears.
With my bedroom door closed at my back, I slide down it until I’m sitting on the floor.
The mental chastising begins immediately. The disbelief of how stupid I could have been to drink enough to say something about Ethan. What else did I say that I don’t remember? What other information did I give Zander to be curious about?
Then comes the worry. The fear. The doubt. Zander mentioned Ethan one time and I go into shutdown mode: lash out, be a bitch, protect myself, push away. I thought I’d gotten further than this emotionally.
Just proves the invisible scars are the ones that cut the deepest and stay with you the longest.
A part of me wants to go back, talk to Zander, apologize, thank him for his concern. But I know I can’t. I know my biggest asset right now is my isolation. My aloofness. The knowledge that I need absolutely no one.
So I hold on to my anger and fear. Hold on to the memories of the mansion in the hills where everything from the outside looked perfect, but on the inside life was as cold and controlled as a prison.
Stay strong, Getty. Stay strong and smart and alone and he’ll never be able to hurt you again.
* * *
The sky rumbles angrily as I look out the front door. Hues of gray and charcoal mar the horizon—there’s another storm about to hit PineRidge. Grateful to have heard Zander leave earlier to get his run in before the storm hits, I know I have no chance of bumping into him before I leave for work. No opportunity for him to ask more questions.
I head back into the kitchen and grab my keys out of the basket there, resigned to having to drive my car to work so that I’m not stuck walking in a downpour tonight when I get off shift. Besides, it’s probably best to run it, considering I’ve barely used it since I’ve come here.
When I put the key in the ignition, the engine turns over a few times but never starts. Panic tickles the nape of my neck. It’s just that I haven’t used it in a few weeks. That’s all.
But after the third or fourth time, still nothing.
No. No. No. The word repeats over and over in my head as I fight back the tears that sting and the emotion welling up like a dam, which I fear I’m not going to be able to stop once it starts.
Can this day get any worse? First Zander pushing boundaries with his mention of Ethan. The confrontation with him buckled my resolve, like a slap in my face, showing me how quickly I can be pulled back into that dark place I’d emerged from—the fear and the lack of control—making me realize that I’m nowhere near as strong as I thought I was. And now there is something wrong with my car when I don’t have the money to pay someone to repair it.
And I need my car. It’s my only way to run should they find me. The symbol of my freedom and a reminder of that first step I took to make my life my own.
Ethan and my father would turn their noses down at this old car and maybe that’s part of the reason I love it so very much. The symbolism. The defiance.
The fuck-you to them.
“One more time,” I murmur as I turn the key again. Once again there is nothing but the sound of my choked sob when the first tear falls. And being in emotional-overload mode, I’m mad at myself for crying. Pissed at the car. Unfairly furious with Zander because he started my day like this and the ball just kept on rolling downhill.
I get out of the car, slam the door shut, and just stare at it for a minute while I work myself up to walk to the Lazy Dog.
“Sounds like something’s wrong with your car?”
Zander’s voice has me gritting my teeth and wishing him to go away. I don’t answer, just wipe the tears from under my eyes with as much dignity as I can, and start toward the ho
