Down Shift (23 page)

The nervous smile that slowly spreads on my lips is mirrored on his. I subtly nod my head, not wanting to agree with him but realizing I want to live this new life without regrets just like he does. I want to be spontaneous and push past my comfort level and own my fears. And he's completely right—what better time to prove it to myself than right here, right now, the day I have to face everything I never want to be again?

“Don't you think you should have sprung this on me before we ate breakfast?” I ask with a nervous laugh, eyes wide, and not ashamed to stall any way possible.

“I'll hold your hair for you if you puke.” He winks, grin widening as he just shakes his head back and forth. “What do you say, Socks?”

And how can I resist that?

“Okay,” I agree, followed by an unsteady breath. “No regrets.”

“There's my girl,” he says with a flash of grin that lights up his face, and while I should be knocked on my ass by his sheer handsomeness, it's the words he said that make my heart jump.
My girl.

“All set?” Russell asks as he steps forward and breaks up the moment.

After we've been debriefed, signed our life away with waivers—which I'm not sure really matter because how can you sue when you're dead?—we are strapped into our harnesses and helmets. They've explained the five-tiered zip line course to me: You go from one platform to another, five times, until you reach the bottom of the canyon.

“So,” Russell says as he slaps his hands together and rubs them back and forth, “Doug is on the other end waiting for you.”

Maybe it hasn't all sunk in yet, but when he says those words, followed by his smug smirk, I can feel the bottom drop out of my stomach. I thought I was fine with it after the safety rundown. I really did. I listened to Zander laugh as he retold a few funny stories about some of his previous zip-lining experiences. They made me comfortable enough; I even opted to go first after much internal
debate. I know myself well enough to know that if I was second, I probably wouldn't step off the platform without Zander standing behind me.

The nerves kick in. My hands tremble, and my legs test my weight against the thick cable I'm tethered to, as I question my sanity. I refuse to shift my gaze from Zander to look forward at the forest valley above which I'm standing about one foot from the edge of the deck.

“C'mon, Socks. You know the first step is the always the hardest.”

My heartbeat is so loud in my ears. Goose bumps cover my skin, pinpricks of awareness that I'm alive. My knees feel like rubber. But it's Zander's reassuring smile and the belief in me that shines in his eyes that have me turning to face my fear.

The valley spreads out wide before me in a painted canvas of greens and browns. The cable runs from above my head all the way to a platform I can barely see in the distance. It's breathtaking. It's terrifying.

Don't look directly down.

My slow, deliberate exhalation, like audible courage, fills the space around us as I talk myself into this, and take the final step forward, toes perched on the edge. I hear the clank of Zander's harness a beat before his hands squeeze my shoulders.

“Let go, Getty. Just jump.”

Just jump.
The words replay in my mind, their meaning encompassing everything about my new life as Getty Caster.

And about how I want to continue to live it.

I close my eyes, inhale a calming—if there is such a thing—breath, take the first step into empty air . . . and
just jump
.

J
ust jump.

I'll never forget the sensations. The drop of my stomach. The wind on my face. The frozen silence when I tried to scream, followed by the exhilarated sound of my laughter. The feeling of flying. Then the obvious pride on Zander's face when he came zipping along minutes later to see me standing there, grinning ear to ear, and shouting to him that I couldn't wait to take the next line down.

My reflection in the mirror shows how alive I felt today. How after the incredible sex last night and the rocky start this morning, this day turned out to be one I'll never forget.

And I hate that now it might be marred by the dinner with my father.

I have almost two hours yet, but I attempt to lose myself in the preparations, trying to think of this more as getting ready for Zander than to see my father. It makes the whole thing a little more tolerable.

The knock on my bedroom door startles me. It seems so weird to have doors shut and privacy like we're roommates when we've already seen each other naked. But at the same time, we still need to figure out the whole context of whatever we are together and so the time to myself is appreciated.

“Come in.”

Zander opens the door and walks into the room, eyes doing a lazy walk up my bare legs where my robe has fallen open before he meets my gaze. That half-cocked smile is on his lips and damn if parts of me don't react immediately.

He walks over to the vanity and sets his cell phone down. “You need to call your father and let him know his car won't need to pick us up. We'll meet him at Piedmont's instead.” Our eyes meet and I question him silently. “You're not her anymore. Obedient. Compliant. You're Getty Caster. You set your own terms. Not your father.”

Taking a deep breath, I find myself wondering if he has any idea that this is the first time anyone has ordered me to do something with my better good in mind. It seems so silly but means so very much.

“How did you—?”

“It's a small town, Getty. People talk. All it took was for me to make a call to my new friend Mable to get the town gossip about the obviously well-to-do man who stayed at the PineRidge Inn last night. How his driver asked the clerk at the gas station for directions to the restaurant. And how he complained about the low thread count of the sheets, among other things, and the lack of Nespresso machines in each room.” He rolls his eyes. “Cars with drivers are rare here and they stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Right. I'm still not used to the
everyone knows your business
aspect.” I shake my head, more for my father's elitism than anything else.

“I know, but we'll use it to our advantage tonight. Everyone here assumes we're dating, so be prepared that your father thinks the same thing.”

“Okay.” I'm not sure why that phrasing bugs me, but I shrug it off, shift in my seat, and reach for my phone.

“No. Use mine. Unless you want him to have your phone number.”

I freeze momentarily, understanding the implications of what he's saying—the possible tracking of my phone—before sitting slowly back down and picking up his phone.

*   *   *

With a fortifying sigh and Zander's hand firmly wrapped around mine, we enter the restaurant. I focus on remembering Zander's reaction when I entered the family room earlier, instead of acknowledging the nerves humming through my system.

His quick inhalation. The widening of his eyes. The whistle he blew out. All three made for the confidence-building reaction I needed in order to do this.

It's unsettling for me to walk into the most expensive restaurant on the island looking like the woman I used to be—hair in a chignon, the Stepford makeup on, wearing a classically cut dress more expensive than most people's rent—when I'm nothing like her anymore.

I glance over to Zander for reassurance—strange to see his styled hair when I'm used to it messy, face smooth when sometimes he goes days between shaving, his button-down shirt and khaki trousers when he's typically in gym shorts or jeans and a T-shirt. And while I like this dressed-up version of him, I like the everyday look better.

“Here goes nothing,” I murmur as the hostess leads us to a table on the far side of the crowded restaurant. It is by far the best seat in the room with the table perched against the wall of glass facing the ocean. My father sits with his head angled down, attention on his cell phone, a bottle of wine already open, and the tables immediately surrounding his are void of customers. I have no doubt he heavily greased some palms to make sure it remains that way during our dinner.

We're ten feet from the table when he lifts his silver head of hair and meets my eyes. And there's a moment—quite brief, but it's there—when he jolts in surprise and narrows his eyes in shock over the unexpected guest beside me. Between the dismissal of his driver earlier and now Zander's presence, I know he's already irritated with me. Displeasure owns his expression as he shifts his gaze back to me, that subtle sneer I know all too well gracing his mouth.

“Gertrude,” he says after clearing his throat as he stands up, always the polite gentleman.

“Father.” I nod and bite back the comment on my tongue, for him to call me Getty. Because as much as I want him to acknowledge the new me, I also don't want to have the memory of his voice saying my nickname in that tone of utter disdain like he does my birth name.

I hate that for a split second, I still want him to be the father I remember him being when I was a little girl. Smiling. Cuddly. Caring. But that was before my mother died and I think I'm remembering even those times through the eyes of a child wanting her father's unconditional love. Desperate for his affection.

When I really look closely at him, his hand motioning me to have a seat without any overtures to hug me after he hasn't seen me for months, a small part of me dies, one I hated anyway for wanting that gesture from him.

“You can go now,” he says to Zander with an indifferent flick of his wrist and without so much as looking at him. “Please, Gertrude, take a seat.”

My lips pull tight and before I can gather an acceptable response for the formidable Damon Caster, Zander responds for me. “Zander Donavan.” He reaches his hand across the table in an open-ended offer of a shake. “And thank you, but I'll be staying for dinner.”

My father looks down to Zander's hand and then back up to his eyes while they have a silent battle for control of the situation. As the seconds stretch out, my heart pounds like a freight train. My body is so riddled with adrenaline that I have to clasp my hands to prevent any trembling from showing.

Sitting down without shaking Zander's hand or saying another word, my father makes a show of sharply snapping his napkin and placing it in his lap. Zander turns and places his hand on my back—a simple gesture of warmth as he ushers me into the chair he's pulling out farthest from my father. As I step past him to sit down, we make brief but reassuring eye contact. His smile is encouraging as he mouths,
“Just jump.”
And I welcome that subtle reminder that I can in fact face my fears.

When I look up to my father, he's directing his glare solely at me.

“Thank God you still know how to dress like a lady. I was afraid you'd lost all sense of class and your responsibility to uphold the Caster name when I saw you in that disgraceful outfit yesterday, Gertrude.”

“Well, if someone hadn't manipulated my accounts, there wouldn't be the need for me to have a job that requires a uniform. . . .” I shrug, finding strength to stand up for myself with each word. Beneath the tablecloth, Zander's hand rests on my knee and squeezes ever so slightly in silent support.

“Hey, I kind of like the socks,” Zander says with a smirk, eyes darting to my father with an unapologetic lift of his shoulders before he returns his look to mine. And then without preamble he leans in and unabashedly plants a kiss on my lips. It's a simple brush of lips, but the statement it makes packs quite a punch.

“Gertrude.” My father's sharp warning resonates around the room. We've been here no more than five minutes and his temper has already surfaced—the hum of conversation in the restaurant stops, forks scraping against plates cease, and the uncomfortable air around us thickens with tension.

And while everyone else around can sense the underlying and unapologetic rage in my father,
including me
, Zander fights back the sarcastic smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Is there a problem, sir?” Zander's voice sounds completely innocent, but the lift of his eyebrow and the tension in his jaw say,
Try me. I have no problem making a scene.

My father refuses to acknowledge Zander or the words he's spoken. “How dare you let this grease monkey touch you when you're a married woman?”

At that, I'm quickly transported back to my teenage years. To the endless criticisms over whom I was and was not allowed to hang out with. To the genuine friends I lost, who were replaced with shells of parent-pleasing kids afraid to be themselves. Afraid to step out of their carefully constructed lines. And I'm so flustered and rattled that I don't have a clear enough head to wonder why he referred to Zander as a grease monkey, because
the tears burn in the back of my throat, his words ring in my ears, and Zander's fingers tense on my leg.

But it's not until he gets that gloating hint of a smile on his lips . . . the one I've seen countless times as he prepared to screw over a competitor and seal the deal through some type of unscrupulous means . . . that I regain my courage.
Distance is the only reason I can recognize it now.
The only way I'm able to see once and for all that the man who was supposed to kiss my scrapes and hold my hand through the death of my mother was more interested in manipulation and his success.

It hurts like a bitch. The truth often does. And I've known this, but I think when I see the smirk that I've seen countless times from him, it really hits home.

So I grab on tight to the knowledge. Push down the hurt that resurfaces. And use both to my advantage.

“I'm not married, Father. I can do whatever I please with whomever I please.” My voice is soft but sure despite what feels like a bowling ball pressing on my chest.

“Casters don't divorce, Gertrude.”

I cringe at the mantra I've heard countless times. The obligation he threw in my face the one time I confronted him about Ethan's cruelty. “You're wrong. This Caster
did
.”

“That's where you're wrong. Ethan still loves you—”

“Love?”
By this point I'm practically shrieking. My mind scrambles, trying to recall any ounce of emotion during my marriage.

“Yes. He loves you and therefore will not sign the paperwork. Your marriage isn't over. He and I talked and came to an agreement. We let you have this respite before coming to collect you. But now your vacation is over. It's time to come home.”

Heat rushes over me. His words feel like a knife scraping over my skin. The memories of all the ways my father would exert his stifling control had started to fade in the time I'd been away. Now I'm reminded how he must have control over everything in his life. People included. His daughter especially.

My hands fist into my napkin.
“An agreement?”
I grit
out as the anger makes it hard for me to concentrate on the topic at hand without throwing in every single wrong that has transpired. “My life is not an agreement. It's not something you and Ethan get to discuss and barter over while I stand by in silence. My marriage, on the other hand, was an agreement. One between Ethan and me, and frankly, it is
none
of your business. It is over—dead, done—whether you and Ethan like it or not. I filed a request to enter default over a month ago when he refused to accept the paperwork, as is my right. The divorce will finalize whether he signs it or not.”

My father
tsk
s at my tone and gives me a dismissive roll of his eyes. I should be used to his blatant disregard, and maybe before I would have let it pass, but not now. Not the new Getty Caster.

“And there will be no collecting of me. I am not a stray dog or a helpless child. I am a grown woman who you've controlled for too long, and that stops now. I have a right to go or stay or do as I please. Neither you nor Ethan
owns
me.”

He takes his time sipping his wine, rolling the liquid around on his tongue to mask his fury over my unexpected disobedience. “Haven't you disgraced this family enough?”

“Disgraced?” I whisper angrily. “Half of all marriages end in divorce. Caster or not.” My shoulders hurt, the tension so tight in them my head aches.

“You've made your point, Gertrude.” He huffs out a breath—the sound so full of disdain it feels like it's coating my skin.

“My point?” I scoff. “I know you chose to come to a public place to keep the dramatics to a minimum. To try to
control
the situation. Thinking I wouldn't dare attract attention by raising my voice, because
society ladies don't cause scenes, now, do they, Gertrude?
” I mock in his tone, mimic his expressions, the ones I've memorized over my lifetime.

“You're acting like a spoiled child. It's time you stop this charade of being Little Miss Independent and come back to your family.”

“No.”

“Do. Not. Test. Me. Gertrude.”

Zander's fingers tense on my leg at the sound of my father's hinted threat. “Or what?” My voice is just as even and spiteful as his. I've shocked myself by now at the conviction with which I speak to my father.

With perfect timing, the waiter appears and sets salads down in front of us. “Thank you,” my father says stiffly, although by the expression on his face and his rigid mannerisms, it's clear he thought I would acquiesce to his demands without much of a fight.