Page 70 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
She furrows her brow for a moment and then nods. “Sure. Of course. Right this way.”
I’m a tad dumbfounded as we follow her through the maze of tables, the customers nodding in greeting to us, before entering and ascending a short stairwell. All the while I catch partial snippets of conversation between Lynn and Zander that make no sense to me, but then again this random cabin in the woods being a restaurant isn’t really normal either so . . .
“Any openings today?” Zander asks.
“Ah, so that’s why you’re up here, then.” Lynn laughs with a shake of her head. “Just can’t let go of that need, huh?”
“It’s in my blood.” His laugh is sincere and the expression on her face when she looks back is one of adoration. He’s been here, what, a whole month and he already has women smitten with him.
Not like that’s hard, though.
“Russell’ll be here at eleven if you guys want first spots.” She glances down to her watch as we clear the top of the stairs.
“We’ll take it. And the usual for both of us, please.”
My jaw drops, mouth easily wide open, when I step out into the room around us. It’s not really a room, though. More like a covered patio open on all sides, the pine trees within arm’s reach if you tried to touch them.
I find myself wandering around the space, utterly lost in its beauty. There are tables and chairs up here too, but they are more the comfortable, outdoorsy type of sets with big cushions that sit lower to the ground. I run my hand over the back of a chair and then step up to the railing, a varnished, twisted log. The forest is stretched out before me—pine trees growing out of jagged landscape, a canopy of green.
And then I look down. I gasp in surprise and my head grows dizzy. From the entrance, the cabin looks like it’s on solid ground. From where I stand, it appears to be perched on the edge of a canyon, the hill dropping away, giving the feeling that you’re more than two stories up.
“It’s like an overgrown tree house.” I turn around to catch Lynn watching me with anticipation in her expression.
She nods, her soft smile growing wide. “I knew you were a smart girl,” she says with a wink as she glances over to where Zander is moving a set of chairs and tables closer toward one of the railings. “That’s what this place is called. The Treehouse.”
Something in the far-off distance rings a bell in my mind over the name, something from when I first arrived on the island and looked through all the tourist pamphlets on the ferry.
“Go, get comfortable,” she says as she squeezes my arm. “I’ll go get your coffee and breakfast.”
“Don’t we have—”
“Zander ordered for you.”
“Oh.” There’s not much else to say as I watch her walk back toward the stairs, not sure if I’m miffed or okay with the fact that Zander took the liberty.
I try to tell myself that it’s not a control thing on his part. He’s not Ethan, who ordered my food whenever we went out under the guise of being a good husband but really wanted to make sure I didn’t gain any more weight. Zander was just being nice.
There’s a thought—nice—considering he hasn’t said a single thing to me other than telling me to follow him. The nerves return now that Lynn is gone, and we’re alone. He’s sitting in the chair with his back to me, feet propped up on the railing, when I turn around.
I make my way to where he is, look out to the forest beyond a bit longer, and then slowly sink down into the chair he’s moved for me. It’s silent except for the birds chirping and the rustling of the trees around us.
We sit for some time, the chasm of uncertainty increasing with each passing second regardless of how peaceful the setting is. And just as I’m about to say something, Lynn comes back with a busboy carrying a tray.
“Here you go, you two! Coffee. Eggs and bacon. Sourdough toast.” She sets plates onto the small table between us, pours us some coffee, pulls silverware, napkins, and condiments off the tray, and gets us settled.
“Thank you,” we both say in unison, and when our eyes meet, I realize it’s the first time since we’ve left the house. We hold each other’s gaze, unspoken words flicker across his face, and yet I can’t read a single one of them.
“Eat before it gets cold,” he finally says, and when I break away from his stare, I realize that Lynn is long gone and I have no idea how long we’ve waged this visual standoff.
The deck fills with sounds—the scrape of a fork on a plate, the clatter of a knife, the hiss of too-hot coffee burning his tongue—but the one sound I want to hear the most doesn’t happen. His voice. And even though the food is good, I don’t taste it.
The silence eats at me until I can’t stand it anymore. There’s too much doubt. I’m feeling like we screwed things up by sleeping with each other last night. And yet I don’t think I’d want to take it back if I could. The way he made me feel was too powerful to want to wish it away in lieu of how I feel today.
So I glare at him as he takes a bite of toast, a sip of coffee, then another bite of toast, and looks anywhere but at me.
“Is there a point you’re trying to prove with the silent-treatment, moody thing you’
ve got going here? Because if this is your way of trying to make me forget about my dinner with my father tonight, I assure you this isn’t the way to do it. And if not . . . if there is something else you’re trying to tell me, it’d be much easier if you just laid it all out on the table.” I gesture to the table between us. I’m irritated, hurt, unsure, and all three come through loud and clear when all I wanted to do was sound aloof and confident.
