I can’t think straight. Not with him looking at me with those eyes and the unknown stretched in between us. Not with my past a constant fog in my mind telling me I deserve exactly this.
I refuse to accept that this is my lot in life: for men to think I’m disposable and only good enough until they want someone better.
Like a hot blonde with a great rack who services racers in hotel suites.
My sobs are the only sound in the hollowness of the house. Both hands cover my mouth as I try to fight it off and not completely break down in front of him, but the force racks my body.
“Getty. Please. There’s an explanation.”
My laugh hitched with my sobs is all I can emit. All I can give him when I’ve already given him so much of myself. More than I should have. More than I ever intended to: my trust, my history, my heart, my desire. My truth.
“We need to—”
“I need you to leave, Zander.” My voice is serious. Quiet. Barely audible. And yet the jerk of his body, the flash of his eyes up to mine, tell me he can’t believe what I’ve just said. “Please. You can’t be here tonight.”
And I know I’m lying. Know I’m weak and can’t tell him that we’re over. That I need him to leave because I can’t breathe when he’s so close. And I need to breathe. To be able to think. To have more resolve in my voice when I tell him we’re over for good. That it’s perfect timing for him to head back to his old life.
The one without me. The one where he meets women like her.
Because I can’t stay with a man who doesn’t remember if he slept with someone. Every trip, every race, the worry will always be there. The doubt will always linger. And I can’t live like that again.
So I lie. I ask him to leave for the night, stay at the hotel, so we can clear our minds and talk when we are calmer. Tell him I need time. That I need to think.
I stay where I am as he walks down the hall and gathers some of his things. I don’t move when he stands inches in front of me with my welcome-home painting tucked under his arm and his eyes pleading for me to give him the benefit of the doubt. I refuse to cry when he presses a soft kiss to my head before resting his forehead against mine in silence.
And I hold back the confession I was going to make tonight as I watch him close the front door, climb in his car, and drive away.
I love you, Zander.
I was going to lay my heart on the line and give you the only thing of myself I had left to give you.
And as I slide to the kitchen floor, tears on my cheeks and disbelieving hurt in my heart, I wonder if I had told him last night, whether it would have changed anything.
Or if it would just mean I’d hurt that much more right now.
That’s the problem with ifs. Of living with regrets.
You always wonder.
Even when the lies were exactly what you wanted to hear.
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.
Chapter 39
ZANDER
Have patience. But not too much. When there’s something you want, go after it. But if there’s something worth your while that you want bad enough, be patient.
The words from my mom’s letter repeat in my mind. But there’s no indication of how much time is too much damn time.
Fuck.
That’s the only way I can describe my state of mind. Or the paper cut left by Getty on my heart. She was like that swift quick slice you never saw coming but that stings like a bitch when it happens. And aches even more with each passing day.
Small but mighty. Goddamn knock-me-on-my-ass is what she is.
Especially since I want to call her. Hear her voice. See if she’s made any kind of decision yet.
But I don’t. I promised her I wouldn’t. That I’d give her time. And fuck if that’s not brutally hard to do. Lost time is something you can never get back.
So I’ve tried to focus on the race at hand. Using my frustration to own the damn track instead of tear myself apart. Well, that and try to get answers to the one thing that will fix this entire situation.
Identifying the woman in the picture.
I lift my face to the sky and close my eyes for a second, let the sun’s warmth hit my skin while I take a deep breath. I stand like that for a moment, Boston Harbor spread out below me from the balcony of my parents’ suite. I soak up the view, am reminded of the deck back on the island, and hate and love that I miss it all at the same time. The island had offered me quiet solitude. The feeling of being so small against nature’s wrath. The scent of Getty’s nail polish as she painted her nails when sitting beside me. That little “Good night” she murmurs before she falls asleep.
That’s why the text on my phone pisses me off even more, because it’s telling me I might still lose everything. The investigator I hired to look into the Instagram account hit a dead wall today. His text says the only info he could find is the account and the Gmail it’s associated with were created in the last month, and all are linked to false background information.
A race bunny out for a good time hiding it from her husband or boyfriend. Great. Just what I need is another asshole to deal with if he eventually finds the picture.
“That bad, huh?” Rylee pats my shoulder as she and Colton join me out on the balcony. She sets a bowl of chips and salsa out and my first thought is of Getty sitting across from me at the restaurant, seducing me with her words.
She’s fucking everywhere I look and nowhere I want her.
I roll my shoulders, try to focus on the positive in that she said she’d think about us. Hopefully the time apart will make her miss me as much as it’s making me miss her.
“So how are you going to fix this, Zander?” It’s Colton who speaks, but my gaze flicks over to Rylee. The one person I’ve confided in, and I know she’s spilled the details of our heart-to-heart to Colton. Didn’t expect any less but at the same time, fuck.
I want to roll my eyes. I want to cover my ears and pretend I didn’t hear him. But more than anything, I want advice. Assistance. Anything to get Getty back.
“Fuck if I know.” My laughter sounds hollow. I tip the beer back up to my lips and think of what to say next. “I know there’s something there. She feels it too. I just can’t figure a way to make her really listen to me.”
“Tell her you love her.”
Colton’s comment has me sputtering out a response. Choking over the words. “C’mon, now. Those are seriously strong words.”
“You don’t love her, then?” Eyebrows raised. Lips pursed. Green eyes challenging.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, do you or don’t you, Zee? Shit or get off the pot here. If you can’t admit it to yourself, you sure as hell aren’t going to convince her.”
It occurs to me that he’s absolutely right with his blunt truth. How can I ask her to overcome her fears if I can’t even admit the one thing that scares me to voice out loud?
“I doubt saying ‘I love you’ at this point is going to make her listen. She’s going to think I’m just saying it because I’m desperate. She’s afraid—will find any reason not to believe me. Fuck.” Panic settles in. I look at him, asking for help with my direct gaze. “How do I make her believe me?”
“Convince her she’s your water.”
“What?” I pinch the bridge of my nose. Look at him like he’s losing his mind.
“What’s the one thing you can’t live without?”
“Water?” My voice hesitant. Answer hopeful.
He nods his head. “How does water taste?”
“Like nothing.” I shrug, then glance over to Rylee, who is sitting there with a knowing smile on her face like she knows where he’s going with this. She just nods
her head in encouragement. I look back at Colton as thoughts align. “Like nothing, but it’s really everything. You can’t live without it.”
“Exactly.” A lazy smile spreads on his lips. “She’s your water. Convince her you can’t live without her, son. That’s half the battle.”
It might be that easy, but still my mind is spinning on how exactly to do that when I thought that’s what I was trying to tell her before I left the house for Boston.
But I never told her I loved her.
Would that have mattered?
“What your dad’s saying, Zander, is that she’s been through a lot. You need to do something to prove to her you really mean it. Women love knowing you didn’t miss the little things. They love grand gestures that say you pay attention to all the reasons you love them.”
My heart stops. There are those two words again. Grand gestures. The same ones my mom used in her letter to me. The letter Rylee hasn’t read yet.
I’ve never believed it when people say they received a sign to do or not to do something. It’s all bullshit, if you ask me.
And yet how can it be a coincidence that both mothers in my life have said the same thing? Both used it to explain what I need to do to get the girl.
Now the question is, how grand is grand?
Chapter 40
GETTY
“This has got to stop.” There’s an exasperated smile on my lips as the delivery guy walks into the Lazy Dog with a fresh set of flowers. The fourth one in as many days. And even though I know who sent them and what the message says, I open the card anyway: Anticipation. XO Zander.
“Tell him if he keeps this up, I’m going to start a funeral parlor in the back as a side business,” Liam teases as he walks past and smells them out of reflex. The look he gives me means he’s secretly happy that Zander is proving to be the good guy he thought he was.