Down Shift

by K. Bromberg

  He rifles through the paintings stacked five and six deep against the walls. His fingers skim over my feelings. Streaks of blue and gray and black and blends of shading and different textures. Anger. Insecurity. Sadness. Loneliness. Longing. It’s as if his fingertips touching each one are acknowledging the validity of the emotions I’ve expressed on canvas. Telling me they are okay to feel when for so long I’ve been told I was being dramatic, that I needed to bite my tongue and do what a good little wife does.

  He goes one by one through the artwork. Head down, concentration etched in the lines of his face, eyes focused. And then he moves to today’s painting still on the easel; the one I’m still not sure is completed.

  The emotions are still fresh in my mind, still tacky to the touch on the canvas. I feel exposed although I’m the only one who knows what has gone into the picture, the meaning behind it, the years of distress leading up to it. The hope created when I escaped from it. Zander stares at it for a moment, the pelt of rain on the window the only backdrop noise.

  When he lifts his head and meets my eyes, the breath I didn’t realize I was holding burns in my lungs. “I don’t know shit about art, Getty, but these paintings, those sketches . . .” He shakes his head as if he’s seeing me in a whole new light and for a split second I worry he sees my weakness. My inadequacies. Everything I hide and everything I wish I was. “They’re unbelievable. It sounds lame, but it’s almost like you can feel them.”

  I don’t know what I expected to hear, but his description pulls at every part of me that still needed an ounce of validity. “Thank you.” My voice is soft, uneven, and now that he’s seen them, I don’t know what to do. I feel ten times more naked than I did the other night. Vulnerable. Like I want to kick him out of my inner sanctum and keep him here to hear him tell me more at the same time.

  “Where’s your next showing at?”

  My brow furrows and eyes narrow as I try to compute what he’s asking me. “What do you mean?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know much about this kind of thing, but it looks like you’re gearing up for an art show.” He motions to the canvases lining the walls of the alcove. “So I was asking when it is. I mean, it all makes sense now.”

  “You lost me.” I’m still recovering from someone seeing my paintings and the unexpected praise, let alone trying to follow him. “What makes sense?”

  “You renting the house. Getting ready for the show here and then moving to the next place, for the next one.”

  My laugh is long and rich with a tinge of nerves lacing its edges. “There is no show. I’m not moving on.” He angles his head and stares at me. “They’re not for sale, Zander.”

  It’s his turn to look at me funny, like he doesn’t understand. “Why not?”

  I’m not going to lie and say the confusion in his voice over my answer—like I’m crazy—doesn’t give a boost to my ego.

  “Because I paint for me.” Silence fills the room as my words settle on him. The storm outside even seems like it stops to emphasize my statement.

  “And your point is?”

  The intensity in his eyes—dark blue sparks of color searching out mine across the room—and the demand in his tone knock me off-kilter. Transport me back to that person I left behind and never want to be again. On the spot. Body flushed with heat. An apology quick on my tongue even though I have nothing to apologize for. Goddamn triggers.

  Old habits die hard.

  C’mon, Getty. Get your shit together. He’s not Ethan. He’s just asking a valid question.

  Working a swallow down my throat, I shift my feet and look out to the stormy sea—my happy place—to calm my nerves jittering out of control. I try to explain. “Is there anything you have in your life that you’re passionate about? A thing you do or place you go where you can get lost in yourself or . . . never mind.” I shake my head. Suddenly embarrassed that I sound as stupid as I feel.

  “No, I want to hear what you have to say,” he says, which causes me to turn and look back to him. He takes a few steps toward me, genuine interest on his face, not the smarmy smirk I’m used to so that I can be mocked when I finish explaining.

  “It’s stupid really. Probably makes sense only to me.”

  “No.” He takes another step closer.

  I can smell his cologne, or maybe it’s the scent of soap—it’s clean—and I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out more than a meek, “No?”

  Another slow, intentional step. If I put my arm out, my hand would be in the middle of his chest. Close. Too close—in so many ways.

  “No,” he answers resolutely. “I get it. More than you know. It’s your escape. Your way to deal with shit.”

  Nothing like a guy to put it in plain speak and have it make perfect sense. “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “If you sell them, it doesn’t make them any less yours . . . doesn’t stop the feeling you get when you paint. It just means you get to do something you love and make money from it.”

  His points are valid and yet I still see my heart and soul cut open and on display for anyone to scrutinize, so while the thought is a good one, it’s not going to happen. “Hmm.” That and a shrug are all I give him in response, because it’s food for thought but probably not something I’m ever going to take a bite out of.

  “You just need to—”

  “Boundaries,” I warn, needing him to know he’s treading on shaky ground that I don’t want to be treading on. The emotions of the morning have abraded my psyche and I don’t want to be pushed any further. I’ve already shown him too much of myself as it is.

  He nods his head, a silent acknowledgment that he’s heard me. All I can do is hope he’s going to keep on his side of the line.

  “You’re talented, Getty. There’s no doubt about that.”

  I look away from him, the room suddenly in shadow as the clouds shift outside, and his next step toward me blocks the glow of light from the lamp. The room feels way too small, way too intimate without the harshness of the desk light.

  “It’s too personal,” I whisper, giving him the only explanation I will give. Not expecting him to understand . . . but almost needing him to.

  “That’s obvious,” he says, eyebrows drawing together, head angling to the side to study me. “But no one is going to see the same thing you see. Everyone’s churning ocean is fueled by a different type of storm.”

  He shifts his feet, his body now closer; our eyes don’t waver from each other’s. “What’s your storm?” The question is out before I can stop it, my own curiosity piqued.

  Our proximity allows me to see the pang of hurt flash through his eyes, the sudden halt in his movements. The recovery comes quickly but not fast enough to hide that whatever he’s running from affects him deeply.

  “My storm?” he chuckles, self-deprecation in his tone and a look in his eyes he doesn’t give me a chance to read. “I don’t think it’s ever really stopped churning, but there’s definitely been a few surprise white squalls thrown in.”

  “Is that why you’ve come here? To escape it?” I push for answers, no longer wanting to feel like I’m the only one exposed, and curious to know more about this man before me.

  “A white squall,” he murmurs. And it’s all there sitting in the depth of his eyes—the hurt, the indecision, the regret over whatever has happened to cause him to be here right now—and yet it’s also so very well protected that I’m not sure what else to say. “You’ve been crying.”

  I blanch, hating that he has noticed, and at the same time, I pick up on the sudden change of topic. I’m immediately wiping my fingers under my eyes and trying to hide the evidence, although I’m not sure how much good it will do.

  “I’m fine,” I say, my voice infused with much more certainty than I feel. “It was just the song I was listening to. It was sad.”

  Jesus, Getty, couldn’t you thi
nk of a better lie?

  “Uh-huh.” He takes another step forward. The simple sound almost an unspoken warning not to lie to him again. “Just the song,” he murmurs with a nod as he reaches out, hand to the side of my jaw, thumb brushing over the line of my cheek.

  That jolt I felt last night? That was nothing compared with the start and stop of my heart at the feel of his hand on my face. Skin to skin.

  My lips fall lax. The sharp intake of my breath is audible in the silence. And I hate that I suddenly feel like I don’t have a single clear thought in my mind, let alone an intelligent one.

  “You’ve got paint,” he says, mint on his breath, as he leans in to get a better view through the dimly lit room, “right here.” And yet after his thumb rubs at the smudge, he doesn’t remove his hand. He just keeps it there, our faces close, our eyes questioning so many things. Time slows.

  “Thanks,” I finally whisper, tongue darting out to wet my lips as I try to draw in a steady breath.

  “And I’m smart enough to know it was more than just the song.” His words hit my ears, the deep timbre of his tone a soothing rebuke in a sense, because he is actually listening to me, really hearing me when I’m so unaccustomed to any man in my life caring above and beyond the surface.

  Words. Thoughts. Confessions. The look in his eyes and the comfort of his touch cause my head to whirl, make me want to let him in, and use his shoulder for comfort when this isn’t even really an option I’ll afford myself. Compassion from a man isn’t something I’m used to, especially when it’s directed at me.

  Thunder rumbles. We both jump at the sound, the moment instantly broken. The gasp from my lips gets drowned out. Zander steps back with a startled shake of his head before turning his back to me as he walks toward the window, shoving his hand through his hair, a sigh filling the space.

  “Fucking squalls,” he murmurs as he hangs his head for a moment, the words weighing heavy in the room as I stand there trying to figure out what just happened. He turns and looks at me for a moment, eyes sincere, but the words don’t make any sense. “I’m sorry . . . I just can’t.” And with that, he strides from the room, leaving me with nothing more to look at than an empty doorway.

  What the hell just happened?

  I move to the edge of my bed, sit down, and try to sift through the myriad of emotions I didn’t expect to feel around him: hurt, rejection, confusion, dejection. And I hate that I feel any of these from a moment that never should have happened with a man that shouldn’t even be here in the first place.

  He just can’t what? Talk to me? Be in the same room as me? Be in the same house?

  Kiss me?

  Oh my God, Getty, can you be any more ridiculous? The thought flickers and fades away instantly, my stupidity at an all-time high. I really have lost my mind, the emotions of the morning running rampant and killing my brain cells. Whom am I kidding thinking stuff like this? A guy who looks like he does would most definitely not be into a woman who looks like me. Never.

  Ethan’s words come back to me now. Disgusting. Overweight. Pathetic. Useless. Ugly. They flicker through my mind and poke holes in the confidence I’ve slowly built from nothing.

  And to think I had a moment when I wanted to let Zander in. A break in my resolve when I thought perhaps it might be a little easier to share a part of me with someone, because if we’re both running from something, then that means maybe he just might be a little more understanding.

  Jesus. Did I really think that was going to happen? Making myself vulnerable to someone else before I’ve even figured myself out was a stupid move. Shows I haven’t come very far yet in this mile I’m traveling one inch at a time.

  Don’t trust anyone. Trust is a false pretense. Something that’s never really real.

  Well, luckily he came to his senses before I made that colossal mistake. Bolted before I unfolded my complex past like an origami bird and asked him to help me try to fold the same piece of paper back into a different shape.

  I cover my face with my forearm and just listen to the storm rage on outside and take stock, try to disregard the hurt over the fact that obviously I did something wrong, that he saw my most intimate of emotions splashed over the canvas, and even though he praised me, he still rejected me.

  Stop it, Getty. Stop blaming yourself. Maybe it was him. You did nothing wrong but be you—well, the new you—so maybe it was his own issues that caused him to abruptly leave.

  I suck in a deep breath and fight through my doubt. Shed the pathetic part of me that wants to blame myself for whatever reason is behind why he walked out. Acknowledge that this is why I need to steer clear of anything and anyone until I’ve had enough time to deal with my past, forget the old me, heal from her scars, and fully embrace the now.

  Realize that I need no one and nobody. That I can exist, live, thrive, all on my own.

  They say loneliness adds beauty to life.

  I guess I’m getting a whole new makeover.

  Chapter 6

  GETTY

  “One of these days, Getty, you’re going to realize that you’re a local now and you’re going to have to step on the other side of the counter, grab a drink of your own, and watch the game with the rest of us.”

  I lift the rag in my hand to acknowledge Liam’s comment, which comes at least once a shift. I know he’s just being sweet and that I’m not really a local yet. Besides, any free time I have, I like to explore the island or lock myself away with my paints so I can learn more.

  But the idea of having a beer and relaxing with the game and a crowd of people sounds more than welcome right now. I definitely need it after my conversation today, the bad news it brought, and the pang of loneliness I feel from it.

  A cheer goes up across the tables, causing me to look up. The bar hums with the buzz of an excited crowd—there’s a tense game plus the sun is shining for the first time all week. Add to that an influx of tourists fresh off the ferry and the Lazy Dog is crowded, loud, and keeping me on my toes this afternoon with orders.

  “An Arrogant Bastard, please.”

  I know who it is the minute I hear the request; somehow my body is attuned to him even when I don’t want it to be. I don’t look up, don’t acknowledge him. Rage and irritation and everything within that range fire anew as I think about the phone call I had earlier with Darcy where I found out the bullshit he’s pulled.

  No wonder he’s been MIA since the other morning when he left my bedroom.

  “Well, that’s a self-diagnosing order if I’ve ever heard one,” I say under my breath, but even with my eyes focused on keeping the foam minimal on the pour, I can see his body jolt. Good. He heard me.

  “Did I do something wrong?” he asks pensively, his body leaning over the bar some, so that I get that quick whiff of soap and cologne that now haunts the halls of the house after he takes a shower.

  My laugh is long and low, the sound of sarcasm poured over ice. “Take your pick.” I slide his glass across the varnished bar top and finally meet his gaze. My eyebrows are arched and my lips are twisted as I’m sure my defiant derision is reflected in my eyes.

  The noise of the bar fades into the background—a groan over a bad call, a good-natured shout for a waitress—and yet his eyes hold mine in a war of wills: his asking what I’m pissed at and mine telling him he should already know. I find myself leaning in closer at the same time he does, waiting for him to fess up to his lies, but I’m greeted with a slow, lazy smirk that spreads across his mouth until it turns into a full-blown arrogant grin.

  “You’re speaking female, Socks. Can you please—”

  “Darcy. There’s a word for you.” I lean my hips against the counter behind me.

  “Technically, that’s a name, but . . .” He chuckles over the rim of his glass.

  “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “I’m assumi
ng you’ve spoken to her, then.”

  “What the fuck, Zander?” His eyes widen at my use of the word. I can hear my father’s reprimand in my head. “I never agreed to staying in the house with you. To being roommates.”

  Especially after the other morning in my room when you did whatever you did.

  “If you’re worried about me seeing you naked, we’ve already done that part, so it’s not a big deal.” He tips his glass to me, his smile unwavering.

  Every word he speaks makes me angrier. “That’s not the point!” I raise my voice in exasperation.

  “Then what is?”

  “I don’t like you.” There. I said it. But it’s a huge fat lie and I’m afraid he can see right through it.

  “Yes, you do, Getty. You don’t drink beer on the beach with someone you don’t like.”

  I glare at him, hating his reasoning. “Well, I don’t like beer either, so . . .”

  “You lost me. You don’t like beer; therefore you don’t like me?” The amusement in his voice for calling my rationality on the carpet makes me frustrated. Irritable. Bitter.

  “Why would you tell Darcy that I agreed to—”

  “Excuse me?” The voice to his left catches me off guard and prevents the verbal barb of rebuke from firing off my tongue. “Are you Zander Donavan? You are, aren’t you?” The questions are followed by a nervous chuckle and a flush of cheeks and both have definitely caught my attention.

  The orders waiting to be filled are forgotten as this gentleman piques my curiosity. Who the hell is Zander Donavan?

  Zander’s eyes stay locked on mine momentarily; a flicker of irritation at being interrupted fleets through them, telling me this conversation is far from over, before he turns toward the middle-aged man beside him.

  The smile that was an arrogant taunt to me slowly transforms into a self-assured one, slow and steady, as he nods his head and reaches his hand out to the man. “Yes, I am,” he says quietly. “Nice to meet you. And you are?”