Page 2 of Where the Darkness Goes

“No, it’s fine. I can call Pastor Charles. I probably still have his number in my phone.”

“He’ll be getting ready for the funeral, so I wouldn’t. I have Ernie’s number saved. I’ll give them a call and see if someone can come get you. Just sit tight.”

“Oh. Right.”The funeral.The reason I’m here. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Stay right there until someone comes for you, okay?”

I puff a breath of air through my lips, moving the hair from my face. “Not like I can go anywhere.”

“Says the girl who made sneaking out look like an Olympic sport.”

“Says the boy who taught me how.”

He chuckles, and before I’m ready, he’s gone. After placing my phone down, I grab my purse and haul it across the console and onto my lap, digging for one of the snacks I always keep on hand.

I’m not even hungry, I know. Just nervous. The idea of being back home, the idea of staying in my brother’s house alone while he’s gone, the idea of seeing my mom for the first time since right after her accident. Most importantly, the idea of going to the funeral?—

I cut the thought off at the root. Right now, I don’t have time to get upset. Too much is happening. Placing my purse back in the seat next to me, I turn the heat up and wait.

Through the thick, gray haze of the rain, I spot a truck slowing down at the entrance to the church parking lot, and my heart instantly hitches. It’s been years since I saw Ernie himself, and I have no idea who currently works at his shop, but I’m sure I’m about to see a familiar face. I just hope it’s also a friendly one.

The truck makes a slow turn into the empty parking lot and pulls to a stop next to me. The headlights flash as the truck is shut off, and then I try with all my might to make out the figure walking toward me.

It’s a man, I know almost instantly. Thin hips. Broad shoulders. But that’s all I can decipher through the storm. When he reaches my door, I roll down my window cautiously, just in case this isn’t actually who Will sent for me.

The inside of my door is drenched in seconds, but I barely have time to process that as I hear his voice.

“Heard you need a ride?”

My jaw snaps shut, and I stare at him as if this is a dream, as if I’ve completely lost my mind. He looks almost exactly the same—dark curls gathered around his head and those piercing brown eyes. His jaw is sharper, face thinner, and his usually clean chin and cheeks have a solid amount of facial hair across them.

I’m completely blank. Every thought, emotion, or action I’d prepared moments ago has been wiped from my mind in a split second.

“Garrett?”

“Good to see you, too,” he says with a laugh. His voice is different from Will’s. Every bit as calm maybe, but there’s a weight of conflicting emotions in his timbre. An unspoken history yet to be defined.

“What are you doing here? Do you work for Ernie now?”

His eyes drift up as rain continues to pour down his face and into his eyes, and it’s only then that I register I’m also being soaked by the storm. He squints one eye shut, raising his voice as a crack of thunder booms. “Do you mind if we get in the truck before we have this conversation?”

“What about my car?”

“Leave it.” He steps back, pulling my door open. “Mark Summers is on his way to get it. We’ll wait for him and hand off the keys. Where’s your stuff?”

I gesture toward the back seat, and Garrett pulls the door open, retrieving my suitcase and duffel bag.

Scrambling, I grab my purse and shut off the car.

“Anything else?” he calls, shouting over the storm.

“That’s it.” We shut both doors and race toward his truck. By the time we reach it, I’m completely soaked. I may as well have been plunged into a pool as I tear open the door and step up out of the ankle-deep water.

I slam the door closed, and the world feels instantly quieted, though the storm is still raging. Garrett shakes his head like a dog, reaching in the back of the truck. He grabs two T-shirts and tosses one to me, then he uses the other to dry his face and arms.

He’s tall and tanned, with more muscles in his ropy arms than I remembered. Each movement causes new lines of muscles and skin to appear underneath his drenched shirt, like a sculpture. I fight the urge to reach out and trace my fingers across him, to study him like the work of art he appears to be.

My throat is sandpaper as my eyes travel up his arms and across his collarbone. His chin, beard, lips. He’s beautiful. Every bit as beautiful as I remember.

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