Down Shift

by K. Bromberg

  “I got you something.” His eyes are mischievous, his smile sweet.

  “I saw,” I laugh out. “Strawberries and strawberries and more strawberries.”

  “Oh. You saw those, did you?” His smile widens, while his thumb rubs back and forth casually on my skin.

  “Yes. And I even tried one just for you.” The face of disgust I make must be funny because he belts out a laugh.

  “Well, I guess all that matters is you tried . . . but I’m still determined to make you like them. Maybe I’ll smother them in chocolate or something.”

  I shake my head. “I’d just lick the chocolate off.”

  “Mmm.” And there’s something about the way he responds, deep and guttural, that makes me think his mind has ventured way past licking chocolate off strawberries and on to licking it from somewhere else. When our eyes hold, mine must be telling him I know where his line of thinking has gone, because his lips quirk into a smile.

  The silence holds. Tension builds. And I welcome it. The snap of desire between us. The welcome ache in my lower belly. It’s been a week since he’s looked at me this way. Or touched me other than pulling me against him at night to sleep, a sweet kiss pressed against the crown of my head.

  The bruises on my arms, my back, my legs, were too much for him to bear. So I’ve allowed him to hold me at arm’s length, with kid gloves, when all I’ve wanted was to lose myself in him again. And to let him make me feel.

  Maybe the space has been for the best. In order not to taint the bed we’ve made together with the marks Ethan made on my skin. Not to have Zander reminded of it when he touches me. Those bruises are almost gone, though—the ones that can be seen anyway—and thank God for that, because it’s torture sleeping beside a man you’re craving to have again.

  And as if our thoughts are in perfect sync, Zander breaks me from mine by leaning ever so slowly and brushing his lips to mine in the sweetest way.

  With one hand on my cheek and the thumb and forefinger of his other hand holding my chin still, he deepens the kiss. A soft seduction ensues, of tongues and sighs and tenderness that steals my breath and sends chills racing over my skin strong enough to rival the ache deep in my lower belly of irrefutable desire.

  As the kiss continues, the intimacy of the action is rivaled only by the first time Zander and I had sex. But maybe this feels even more powerful, because so much more has happened since then. Or maybe just for me, since I’ve confessed to myself the feelings I have for him.

  Because a man doesn’t kiss a woman like this if there isn’t something there.

  And just as I start to believe my own propaganda, he breaks the kiss and leans back. “I bought you something.”

  It takes me a minute to respond with my head feeling foggy from his intense kiss. “You didn’t have to buy me anything.” I shift on the couch and sit up, my mind flickering to the cigar box still in my room to give him.

  “It’s nothing major really,” he says with a shrug as if he’s suddenly turning shy, “but I saw it and . . . I don’t know.”

  “What is it?” I ask with total curiosity as to what has him blushing.

  He reaches down on the floor in front of the couch to a little white box with a blue ribbon around it. “Here.” He hands it to me without meeting my eyes, so I make sure my fingertips graze over his hands during the exchange. A touch. A little something I can offer in return.

  “Thank you.” Noticing the small card taped to the top sans envelope, I set the box on my knees and lift open the flap of the card.

  Socks—

  Just in case you ever want to be found . . .

  —Zander

  My eyes flash up to his and all I see is complete kindness in his gaze—all I feel is the sincerity of his gesture—as my mind returns to that conversation we had weeks ago. Even before I untie the ribbon and open the box, I already know what’s inside.

  And when I do open it, the brand-new iPhone sits nestled in the packaging.

  He’s given me a way to ask directions if I should ever want to be found. The importance of this moment, his words, the gift he’s offering—it’s all so heavy it takes a minute for me to blink the tears from my eyes before I can look up to meet his.

  “Zander.” Hopefully the sound of my voice can convey what I can’t quite put into words—appreciation, surprise, humility. “You shouldn’t have. You didn’t have to—it’s—wow.”

  His face breaks into a dimple-territory smile. “There was this great promotion. Buy a phone and get two years prepaid for all services, so I couldn’t resist.”

  “Zander . . .” And I know he’s lying. Know he’s trying to save my pride and my budget by prepaying for the service and the phone. “Thank you, but I can’t accept this. It’s too expensive.”

  He takes the box I hand to him and sets it down before grasping my hands in his. “This isn’t about money or pride, Getty. This is about me being a man and”—he looks out to the storm outside—“and knowing that if you need help, if you’re lost, or as the card says, if you want to be found, you can be.”

  Only if you’re the one finding me.

  I swallow over the lump in my throat, wondering in this world of friends without long-term possibilities if he gets how much his words mean to me. Like maybe he wants there to be a future for us. And then I realize I’m getting this all wrong.

  The damn to-do list . . . the one I refused to look at earlier today. Well, now I desperately want to know how many tasks are left to complete. Because this gift suddenly seems like his way of telling me the end is near, that he’s going home soon and he wants to make sure that I’m okay when he leaves.

  I fight the immediate panic, the urge to reject the gift because if I don’t take it, then he can’t leave, and instead just meet his eyes, while he’s completely oblivious to the silent war of emotions going on inside me. So I do the only thing I can, nod my head, try to take the gift for what it is, and not read too much into it.

  “I just want you to be safe. Okay? So please accept it?”

  “On one condition.” I love the quirk of his lips and the lift of his eyebrows. “If you accept a gift I have for you.”

  He starts trying to refuse immediately as I rise from the couch. “I don’t need any gifts.”

  “I got it last week,” I tell him over my shoulder as I enter the kitchen, my eyes immediately glancing toward the list as I walk by the counter. But I mask the sigh of relief and scold myself at my ridiculous melodramatic panic when I see the list has only two more items crossed off than it did last week.

  He still has time.

  The thought runs over and over in my head with each footstep down the hallway.

  “Getty . . .” The way he says my name is equivalent to an exasperated toddler throwing a tantrum. Defiant. Resolute. Wanting what he’s not supposed to want.

  “Hush.” It’s the last thing I say before I enter my bedroom and head for my closet, where I hid the humidor. Luckily its package went unnoticed on the bed in the melee with Ethan.

  “Did you just tell me to hush?” His chuckle reaches my room, telling me he followed me.

  “Hush,” I repeat with a laugh. And of course I’m bent over, ass up in the air, so I’m sure he’s taking his time enjoying the view.

  “Nice socks, Socks.” Enjoying the view, indeed.

  But I love that just like that, he brings us back to that fun, flirty banter when moments ago I was silently freaking out over him leaving. It’s like he somehow knows what I need to hear when I need to hear it, and you can’t put a price on something like that when it comes to a relationship.

  A relationship? There you go again, Getty, with rainbows and pots of gold that don’t really exist.

  When I stand up with the humidor in my hand, I turn around to find Zander leaning with his shoulder against the doorjamb, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans,
and this adorable little crease in his forehead as he tries to figure out what in the hell I have in my hands.

  “Let’s open it here,” I suggest, lifting my chin toward the bed, as that crease grows deeper.

  He steps forward, confusion still etched in his face contradicted by the little-boy smile on his lips. Within seconds we’re seated on my bed: me cross-legged with my back to the headboard, and him a mirror image of me at the foot of the bed with the bag-covered box in between us.

  He starts to open the bag and all of a sudden what seemed like an innocent purchase seems so very personal, which makes me hesitate in explaining my reasons behind selecting it. I thrust my hands out to his. “Wait. . . .” Everything I want to say dies on my lips.

  He just looks at me and links his fingers with mine. “What’s wrong? Are you finally sharing that huge box of sex toys you murmur about in your sleep?”

  “What?” I sputter out, completely taken aback by his statement. From the heat flooding my cheeks, I’m sure they must be beet red. And all he does is sit in front of me, a stone-cold expression staring at me blankly. A nervous laugh falls from my lips as I shake my head in a rapid denial, immediately rejecting his comment. “Wh-what—I don’t—are you—”

  His face transforms instantly. Smile wide, head thrown back, hand to his stomach as he laughs so loudly it echoes around the room. He falls onto the bed, trying to stop laughing except he can’t. “Your face. Oh, Getty. That look was priceless.”

  I reach for the pillow closest to me and hit him with it before he can duck out of the way. “That’s not funny at all.” Now I sound like the toddler having a tantrum. But my God, that was so not cool.

  And I do the only thing I can after swatting the pillow at him one more time: I cross my arms over my chest. And pout. And glare at him. But hell if it’s not the hardest thing in the world to be mad at a man whose face is half-covered by pillows, with a laugh so contagious I’m fighting back a smile, and who looks so damn cuddleable I just want to crawl over the bed and curl into him.

  “I’m so sorry, but everything about that was classic.” I can still hear the laughter in his words as he pushes himself back up to a sitting position, eyes now locked on mine.

  “I’m pouting.” Just thought I’d make that statement since I don’t know what else to say.

  “And you’re adorable,” he murmurs.

  “That was mean.”

  “No, it wasn’t. It was perfect timing because you were second-guessing buying whatever this is for me and so I distracted you.” My attempt to level him with a glare serves only to widen his grin farther. “And it worked, because now you’re more mad than worried. Secondly, you should know sex toys can be a whole helluva lot of fun, so never count them out, Socks.”

  “Your present . . .” I redirect the conversation with a lift of my eyebrows, because I’m not going there with him right now.

  “Hmmm.” He leans forward, giving a quiet chuckle as he reaches out and taps the tip of his finger to my nose. “Sex toys for your next present, then.” And before I can even finish rolling my eyes, he continues with impatience. “But now, tell me about mine.”

  I can only stare at him with a wide smile and a shake of my head in exasperation, but my nerves are now nonexistent. “I wanted to get you something to say thank you . . . to say I understand . . . to tell you to just jump.” My voice fades off as his eyes darken before he looks down to start unwrapping the gift.

  He takes his time. Pulls the humidor from the bag. Runs his hands over the smooth surface. His eyes glance up to meet mine momentarily before shifting back down to where he’s lifting the lid to look inside.

  “Getty . . .” It’s barely a whisper but once again, he knows how to tell me everything he’s feeling in the simple utterance of my name. Surprised. Awed. Confused. Gracious.

  “We both came here escaping from something. And you’ve spent so much time helping me . . .” I struggle with the right words to say but then realize he already said it for me. “. . . want to be found again that I wanted to get you something to do the same.”

  When his eyes find mine again, I can tell he understands this has something to do with his mother, his reasons for being here, but isn’t quite sure how.

  “This is to keep the good memories in.” Something sparks in his eyes in acknowledgment, but I continue. “That box in your room might hold both good and bad. And when you choose to go through it, I wanted you to have somewhere to put the good. A safe place. A new home. That way when you leave here, you can leave the bad in the cardboard box behind you and bring the good home with you in something new.” I struggle with getting all the words out. Too much emotion for him. Too much sadness thinking of him leaving me.

  But when he reaches out over the box and cups a hand to the side of my face without speaking—his eyes swimming with emotions I can only assume are similar to what I feel inside—I know I did the right thing.

  “Thank you, Getty.” He looks down to where his hands are on top of the box, his voice rough, his fingers fidgeting. “This is perfect and thoughtful and timely.”

  “Timely?”

  His chuckle fills the room, but there is a tinge to it I don’t recognize. “Yes. Come here. I want to show you something.”

  He gets off the bed, picks up the humidor, and reaches back to grab my hand to make sure I’m following him. I’m surprised when he turns abruptly into his room and then stops. But the confusion lasts only for a second because the cardboard box sits squarely on the center of his bed.

  “I had planned on asking you to go through this with me tonight.” He twists his lips, eyes focused on a seemingly innocent cardboard box. Except I know it’s something that holds so much power over him. “I guess we were on the same page.”

  My smile is soft as I nod, but he doesn’t see it. He lets go of my hand and sets the humidor down beside the box. Silence weighs us down. Zander’s discomfort so palpable I can feel it.

  “It’s time.”

  Chapter 28

  GETTY

  “What do you remember of your mother?” Zander asks me.

  At his question, I glance over from where we both have our heads back on the pillows of his bed. The cardboard and walnut boxes sit between us, and I take in his profile as I consider the answer. His straight nose, his strong jaw, the fan of dark lashes against his tanned skin—he’s biding time, taking a moment before delving into the unknown.

  And I’m not sure why he fears it other than the fact that it is something unknown to him. But I can’t imagine it will hold anything other than parts of his past that he can piece together and then put it all behind him.

  Then again, I know better than anyone how your past can own you even in the present. Steal your hope. Taint your soul. Change your outlook, your expectations. And even after you break free from its clutches, it’s still there. In the crevices of your mind. In your reactions to everyday things. In the smile you show to the world while you cry inside.

  He turns his head to look at me, his blue eyes so solemn, prompting me for an answer I forgot to give.

  “My mom?” My smile comes quickly; although some of the memories have faded, the feelings are still fresh. “Her name was Grace. She was beautiful. Full of life. She was everything.” Quietly I sigh, hating that there’s doubt now when I think of her because of what I’ve experienced.

  “I bet you were her life.” His voice is nothing more than a murmur, but I can tell he knows I’m struggling with the truths I’ve come to learn as an adult.

  “I’d like to think that.” I nod as Ethan’s and my father’s words come back to me. The ones that were thrown in my face. Can’t you be more like your mother? Your mother never disobeyed your father. Your mother would be so ashamed of your lack of class. “But now . . . now I wonder if she really was as happy and perfect as I thought or if she was just putting on a show, hiding it all to—”r />
  “To protect you?” he adds.

  I nod, a lump lodging in my throat as distant memories hint of the truth. Of her taking me out for our special dates when my father would rage. Of impromptu sleepovers at the Four Seasons to pretend we were Eloise. Of carefully applied makeup or large-lensed sunglasses she’d even wear inside because she had migraines for a few days.

  “Yes.” My voice breaks and he reaches out and links pinkies with mine in the space between us. “I have a feeling, looking back with what I know now, that she played the part perfectly but hid so much, mostly from me.”

  “You were her truth.”

  The way he says the simple statement—quiet, matter-of-fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world—nearly undoes the waning composure I have left. But at the same time, I think it’s exactly what I needed to hear. It lights some of the darkest places within me to know that as much as I loved her, wanted to be just like her, I think she’d be proud that now I don’t want to be anything like her.

  I was her truth. My smile returns. I can handpick the memories to hold on to the best times with her. To shut out the bad. And a reminder for me to live a life, on my own, void of big sunglasses and sleepovers at the Four Seasons, because she couldn’t. And because I want to make her proud that I did.

  Nodding, my mind overloaded with emotion, I curl my pinkie a little tighter around his. He shifts some, the mattress moving as he reaches past us. The nightstand drawer opens. Closes. And then he’s handing something to me.

  I take a stack of about ten pictures from him. It’s obvious they are old—the clothing and car dated—but it’s the people on the paper that hold my attention. A brown-haired boy with skinned knees, a dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks, and blue eyes that seem to express a mixture of happy and weary.

  The eyes of a child who has seen way too much in his short life. He has a baseball glove in one picture, makes a funny face in another. Items that should denote a normal childhood, but the backgrounds of the pictures reflect something different.