Page 60 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“At some point Rylee and Colton started dating and they seamlessly included us in their relationship. All of us boys felt like we were a part of it with them. It was so cool as a kid to come from this broken life and then be a part of something we all knew was special. Fairy tales weren’t a popular topic in a house full of boys, but we knew theirs was one.” His smile flashes again, good memories leading the way. “Once I’d found my voice again, I was able to give a statement to the police about what happened. Formally identify my dad as the killer. And true to his words, he came back for me.”
Jesus. How much can one little kid take? “Zander—”
“No. Just let me finish,” he says with a shake of his head and a squeeze of my fingers. “I’m giving you the short version, but even that’s pretty fucked-up.”
“I’d say. . . .”
“I know it sounds like a soap opera, so bear with me. He tried to take me from the House. Kidnap me, in a sense. He held a gun on Rylee when she refused to let him take me. There was a police standoff and they ended up killing him before he killed her.” He pauses, his voice stoic, disassociated from the traumatic events. And while I hear it, I also attempt to fathom the selflessness of this Rylee woman who risked her life to save his. “Rylee and Colton married. And right when they were about to have a baby of their own, my long-lost uncle sought me out.”
He blows out a breath while my mind reels, trying to comprehend how he’s as normal as he is with his violent family history.
“He wanted to foster me, when all he’d ever wanted before was to chase his next high. I was petrified of going back to my old life. And luckily Colton and Rylee feared what would happen if he was successful in getting custody and so with the support of my brothers, they adopted me to save me. And then we all lived happily ever after . . . until a few months ago.”
He finally looks back up to me, face serious, eyes intense, and after being hit with all of that, I can’t even begin to imagine what he could say now to shock me. But I know whatever it is, it’s the reason he’s come here to the island and into my life.
“A package arrived at my house from that uncle’s wife. The letter attached said he’d died and enclosed were some things he’d kept that I might want to have.” He shakes his head, and I immediately want to know what was in the box. “I have nothing of that life . . . my childhood . . . or anything of my mother’s at all. No pictures, no trinkets, no proof that I even existed until I arrived at the House besides her state-written obituary. Obviously I was anxious to see what was in it.”
“You don’t have to continue.” I need him to know that this is enough. That I get why he’s doing this now. He’s crossing that boundary we set on night two. The one we don’t cross and we don’t ask about. The one he’s obliterating right now in the hopes that maybe I’ll be comfortable enough to tell him who the man was at the bar today.
I showed you mine—now you show me yours type of thing. But he continues anyway.
“The first thing I pulled out of the box kind of rocked my world. Fucked with my head to the point that I shut the carton, taped it closed, and promised myself I’d never look at it again. Didn’t need to know more. Didn’t need to open the skeletons in my closet regardless of how much I wanted one little piece to prove I existed.” He falls silent, runs a hand through his hair. His internal struggle feels palpable in the small space between us.
“I told myself what I saw didn’t matter. It wasn’t the truth. And then I started realizing that Rylee and Colton had to have known about it and they’d kept it from me all this time. They’d lied to me. And the combination of the two made me kind of spiral out of control.” His self-deprecating laugh fills the car, while his cryptic comments leave me wanting to ask about what he saw in the box. About what was so devastating it would derail him to the point he’d hurt the family that he’d been given a second chance to have. As much as I want to, I tell myself that he’s being an open book and I can’t just flip to the epilogue to see how his story ends up before he wants me to.
“I fucked up every way possible, Getty. Had no regard for my job because Colton was technically my boss. I kept my brothers at arm’s length, pushed Rylee away, was late to meetings, blew off sponsors. . . . It was bad,” he admits with a resigned sigh. “And then one day Colton stepped in and told me I’d lost my sponsor because of it. God, I was such a selfish prick to him. So fucking angry at the world, and I took it out on him. So he fired me. Told me I needed some time to sort through whatever it was that was messing me up. And once I dealt with it, then I could come back and we’d talk about what’s left of my career. If there was one left to talk about.”
“And so that’s why you’re here,” I finish for him. Shocked and hurting for him all at the same time.
“That’s why I’m here.” He nods. “I hurt a lot of people. Fucked up so many things. I was way off base in blaming Colton and Rylee for not telling me about what I learned on that damn sheet of paper. And as much as I want to make things right with my family, I can’t yet. Not until I deal with going through the contents of that box and the fallout I fear, so that I’ve proven to myself I’ve got a handle on it. Then maybe I can prove to them I’m the man they believed me to be.”
He blows out a loud breath and leans his head back on the seat. “God, you probably think I’m such a pussy that I let this one stupid thing . . . filled with who the hell knows what . . . fuck me up that much.” He keeps his eyes closed and I debate whether he wants me to answer. A man’s ego is a mysterious, fragile thing and all I’ve known are my father’s and Ethan’s and theirs are so overinflated they’d never admit anything like this.
To them, vulnerability is an emotion to be manipulated. Toyed with. Taken advantage of. And yet here’s Zander, freely telling me things—readily making himself vulnerable—when I get the impression it’s not something he does often.
So sitting here looking at him—dark hair tousled by the wind, lips pursed as he contemplates the situation, dark sunglasses hanging in the neck of his shirt, allowing me to see his eyes, and strong hands linked with my slender ones—I go with my gut.
That’s all I can do.
“No, Zander. I don’t think you’re being a wimp. At all. That’s a lot for anyone to handle. I’m just trying to figure out how you’re such a normal, functioning guy who hasn’t lost it sooner.”
His laugh rumbles through the car. It’s long and deep and I can tell a little levity was what he needed from me right now. I’m glad I could give him that.
“I’m far from normal.”
“Ah yes. Not normal at all. Just pretty.”
“Getty,” he warns, but the laugh he follows it up with has more humor than cynicism this time. When our eyes meet, I can feel a part of me—the walls I’ve kept high to guard my past, my reasons, my motivations—start to crack.
And with that simple notion, I realize the spotlight has been turned toward me. Suddenly feeling trapped, I abruptly get out of the car. The breeze is chilly but feels good on my skin. I gulp in a deep breath and try to calm my nerves as I walk toward the front of the car.
The slam of a door tells me Zander’s not going to let this go. Crossing my arms in a false pretense of toughness, I lean my hip onto the hood of the car. He follows suit.
“Are we really going to do this?” My question encompasses all aspects of our relationship: cross boundaries, tangle sheets, and hopefully not break my heart when he sorts himself out and returns to his old life.
“What this a
re we talking about?” he muses with a lift of his eyebrow while one side of his mouth curves up into a knowing smile. His eyes tell me yes, to all of it, and yet the tone of his question remains benign.
