Chapter 38

GETTY

Days mix with nights.

I keep to myself these days. Lost in my paints. Consumed with the sadness. Burying the hurt the only ways I know how.

Stormy seas and rumbling clouds line my canvases stacked against the walls. Dark grays and blacks and blues. Endless turmoil in a sea that can only create more of it.

His knocks on the front door go unanswered. His words through the slab of wood tear me apart as I sit on the other side, heart numb, and mind in self-preservation mode.

And he waits. And he persists. Staying ten paces behind me as I walk to work. Sitting at table thirteen through my shifts. His way of reinforcing to me what his constant texts tell me:

I’m trying to be patient, Getty. I’m trying to let you know I’m right here whenever you’re ready to talk.

Or

I’ll get to the bottom of this, Getty. I’ll find this woman and prove to you, I didn’t sleep with her.

And

Don’t you see I want this to work? You’re not getting rid of me yet, Socks.

All of them sit on my phone just as his presence is constantly in my periphery. And I don’t know if it would even matter if he found this woman to prove otherwise. The trust between us has been broken. The seed of doubt planted.

The notion that I need to rely on myself and no one else reaffirmed.

But damn it to hell, the hurt persists. In his presence. In his absence. In the desperation in the tone of his texts. In the temerity with which he’s there day in, day out, so that I can’t run away and hide from him. Hiding seems the best option, because the feelings are still there. The want is still real. The desire is still ravenous.

And yet I’ve felt so much over the past few days that I’ve started to feel nothing. I’m afraid. I’m doubting everything about myself: my decisions, my choices, my own needs.

Liam eyes me across the bar when I walk in. Asks without words if he needs to suggest that Zander leave. And I can’t respond. I simply do my job. I collect my tips. All under the curious gazes of the locals, whose eyes are like a visual Ping-Pong ball between Zander and me, while the tourists are oblivious to the town gossip unfolding beneath their noses.

Then I walk home. Him behind me. Enter the house. He stands on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, eyes beseeching, and waits for me to tell him to come in. But I shut the front door. I cry in the shower. I don’t eat. I’ve lost my appetite. My stomach churns.

So I paint.

All night.

Because sleep is impossible. Without his warmth to cuddle against. Without the heat of his breath against my hair.

Without the comfort I’ve gotten used to of him just being there.

Of not being alone.

*   *   *

“I have to leave tonight, Getty. I was hoping you’d talk to me before I had to head out.” His voice behind me is like an invisible magnet pulling me toward him.

With my hand on the front door and a bone-deep exhaustion running through me after my shift, I hang my head and close my eyes. I will myself to have the strength to talk to him without breaking down and letting him see how much this is killing me. While still wanting him, still loving him, I just can’t be with him right now.

Not until I chase away my own demons, which make me question myself too easily. And him. And any possibility we might ever have at a future.

“What race are you headed to?” I ask the question although I already know the answer. Boston. A road race. A two-and-a-quarter-mile loop.

“Boston,” he says quietly. “Qualifying first part of the week. Then the race on Sunday. But I’ll be back.”

I don’t say anything. I’m too busy fighting the emotion in my voice to speak.

“Turn around. Please, Getty. Let me see your face.”

My chest constricts. It’s hard to pull in air. But I turn around and face him; his hand rests on the god-awful pink handrail and his eyes lock immediately on mine. They search, they beg, they question, and I just hope mine don’t give away any answers.

“Don’t cry.” He steps forward and wipes an errant tear I couldn’t hold back from sliding down my cheek. “It’s killing me that you won’t listen to me, Getty. You won’t let me apologize, let alone even talk to you.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I whisper.

“Bullshit. You know that’s a lie. We’re good together, Getty. Goddamn incredible. I’ve had nothing but time the last few days to think about this. To think about us. I can see that what I want has been right in fucking front of me, but I was so fixated on not letting it turn into a disaster that I made one of it myself.”

His words are too much. They cause me to feel again. And I don’t want to feel. I shake my head, try to refute him, and he reaches out and grabs my hands from where I’ve brought them to the side of my head to shut him out.

“No. You need to hear me. I’m not going until you hear me.”

“Zander, I can’t.” I look up at him with tearstained cheeks and a trembling lip and meet his eyes.

“Yes. You can.” He cups the side of my neck, directing my gaze to remain on his. His voice comes out thick with reassurance, resolve, determination. “Think about us. Think about the past few months. We’ve laughed till it hurts. Made love till it feels so good it burns. We fight. We make up. We know each other’s pasts. We accept them.”

“But that doesn’t fix—”

“You’re right. But you’re talking from fear. You’re so fucking scared right now, Getty. You’re so worried that I’m him, you’re not looking and seeing me. The man you know. Well, guess what? I’m scared shitless too. I’m afraid of taking a step when I’m typically the king of just jump. I’m scared of hurting you. I’m petrified of loving you. But fuck, Getty, more than anything, I’m terrified of not taking the chance and knowing if any of that fear is worth it.”

His words are undeniably powerful. They strike chords I don’t want to vibrate with the impact they have on me. The look in his eyes—complete conviction in what he’s saying—makes it so hard to think otherwise. My heart and head are in conflict. My sense of right and wrong on a demolition derby to see who survives with the least amount of damage.

“Do you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying?” He steps back and turns around, walking the length of the porch, hands behind his head, body energized with determination but tense because of my lack of response.

“Yes.” I finally speak. Petrified to say yes and terrified to say no. “I . . . I can’t take any more hurt, Zander.”

He turns around at my words. Walks back toward me. Smile slight, but there’s hope in his eyes. Relief that I actually responded in his posture. “Then it’s a good thing I’m here for the long haul.” He pauses. Takes a breath. “I don’t want an answer before I leave, Getty. All I want is for you to think about it while I’m gone. One week. I’ll leave you alone so you can think through everything I just said. Because I can see it in your eyes. I can feel it in your sadness. I miss it from your touch. We deserve this chance. No regrets, Socks. Let us have a shot. Will you at least tell me you’ll think about it?”

“Yes.” I nod my head.

“Thank you.” His hands are back on my cheeks, his lips pressing a kiss teeming with desperation against my forehead. We stand like this for a moment. And his lips move against my skin when he speaks in a hushed whisper. “Even if you gave me a hundred reasons why we shouldn’t be together, Getty, I’d still look for the one reason to fight like hell for you. Remember that.”

And with that comment he presses another chaste kiss to my forehead before turning and walking away without another word. I stand on the porch watching his car long after the lights have disappeared down the road, his last statement repeating over and over in my mind.

I’m breathing normally for the first time in what feels like days. And the funny thing is, I thought it was Zander’s presence that was making it hard to draw in air.

Now I wonder if it was the fear of him not being there that was causing the burn in my lungs.