There was a bruise fading along the ridge of his left eyebrow too. Yellow-green at the edges with a darker center that said it was maybe a week old. Somebody had hit him, or he'd hit something, and neither option surprised me. Garret had never been one to back down from a fight, which was something I'd admired about him before I left. Now I wondered if that sort of influence would be good for our child.
I watched him for too long. I knew I was doing it and I couldn't stop. Every part of me that had spent four years trying to forget this man was losing the argument with the part of me that had never stopped missing him, and I needed to get out of that doorway before someone noticed me standing there staring.
I slipped through the kitchen and out the back door and crossed the small lot to the storage shed where Mom kept the overflow supplies and dry goods. It was also where I could breathe without feeling his presence pulling at me through the walls. I unlocked the shed and stepped inside and started checking shelves, counting cases of napkins and boxes of to-go containers and trying to focus on something that didn't have blue eyes and a leather cut.
I was writing inventory numbers on a notepad when I heard the crunch of boots on gravel outside and froze. His warm baritone rumbled right through me like the tailpipes on his steel, and it made my hair stand on end, and my stomach flip.
"Didn't expect to see you here."
I had to set the pen down because my hand started shaking. I turned around and Garret was standing in the doorway of the shed with his hands in his jacket pockets and his expression was a little guarded. His bike was parked a few feet behind him at the edge of the lot.
It was the first time I'd seen him since I broke it off and he left me standing in this very shed.
"I didn't expect to be here," I mumbled, looking down at the notepad, and picked at the dogeared corner of the top sheet of paper.
Four years collapsed into nothing and the distance I'd built felt paper thin with him standing right there in front of me. Every memory, every dream I'd had, rushed back in on me like I hadn't skipped out and lost four years with him. Tears threatened to well up but I blinked them back.
"I saw you come out here…" he said. "Figured you were avoiding me."
"I'm checking inventory for Mom. She's been at the hospital and things have fallen behind." I stared at his boots—new ones. It looked like maybe he'd gained a few pounds too, and preferred darker denim now. Why was I noticing these stupid little details?
He nodded. "How's Peter?"
"Not good. He's on life support and the doctors aren't giving us much hope." I knew Garret cared about my dad as much as any of us kids did. I knew his story and how my parents basically took him in. Unfortunately Dad's off-putting demeanor toward bikers probably kept him from feeling like he could go pay his respects to Mom.
When he inched toward me I looked up and saw compassion etched on his forehead in deep creases. "I'm sorry. Your dad was a good man to me. I owe him a lot."
"He'd appreciate you saying that."
The silence between us was awkward, and I filled it by looking at him more closely because I couldn't help myself. The silver in his hair suited him. The added years in his face made him look harder but not cruel. He was still the most handsome man I'd ever seen and I hated that it still caught my attention and made my chest twist. God I still loved him. After all this time, my heart was still just as stupid as ever.
"How have you been, Garret?"
"I been better."
"I can see that." I nodded toward the bruise on his eye. "What happened?"
"Feud between us and the Black Locusts. It's been going on for a while now. Things get heated and fists fly."
"I'm not surprised. That tension was building before I even left." I remembered Garret telling me he had to be careful about coming to my races. I wondered what made it spike recently.
"It's gotten worse since then. A lot worse."
"I heard about your accident too. Mom told me you were in the hospital for a while. She said it was bad."
Something shifted in his face when I said that and he turned away, like he was trying to hide his expression from me. His hand came out of his pocket and gripped the door frame of the shed, and I could see the tendons in his forearm go rigid.
"It was bad," he said, and his voice had gone flat.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Garret—"
"I said no, Sara." The sharpness in his tone made me flinch, and I saw him register it and I saw the flash of regret cross his face, but he didn't take it back. He let go of the door frame and turned toward his bike. Every step showed him limp slightly, and I took a few steps after him, wondering what I'd said wrong.
"I'm glad you're here for your folks," he said. "Peter deserves to have his family around him." He fired up his engine and revved the motor, and I took two more steps toward him.
