What Grows in the Dark by Jaq Evans

Author:Jaq Evans
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MIRA Books
Published: 2023-12-20T17:16:16+00:00

15: BRIGIT

She almost went to the passenger side of Ian’s car, redirecting herself at the last possible step. He hadn’t reclaimed his keys as they left the motel, and Brigit hadn’t acknowledged that she would drive; in fact, neither of them had spoken since hitting the stairs.

Brigit needed a beat to reacquaint herself with the distance of the pedals, the jimmy it took to shift out of Neutral. None of this was difficult an hour ago. Her shoulder thrummed. Not with pain, exactly, or soreness, or even an itch. What lingered there was deeper, like someone hovering a finger so close to your skin you swear you can feel it. She fought the urge to rub the spot, to knead her knuckles into the flesh as if the ghost of Ian’s hand were a stitch from lifting too much weight.

He’d never touched her like that. Even in the earliest days of their friendship, when they were young and dumb and getting drunk in their sophomore year off peach vodka and whatever other bullshit the upperclassmen deigned to buy them, Ian had always been so careful about physical contact. Brigit was used to navigating those particular waters, steeped in the irony of the fact that she was great at casual hugs and reassuring touches when it came to people she didn’t give a damn about, but as soon as there was some kind of connection, the idea of bringing their bodies close to hers triggered a bone-deep unease. But with Ian, it was a conversation they’d never needed to have. He’d gotten it from the start, had never made her feel ashamed or lacking by forcing the topic. It had taken Brigit longer than she cared to admit to understand that Ian’s respect for her boundaries didn’t stem just from his good nature, but also from something private, a scar that hurt him as much as it helped her.

And that, too, was a conversation they hadn’t had. Not really. Not more than the broad strokes, although they were damning enough. She’d always thought that was her way of showing respect as well. But now, with Ian’s handprint burning on her shoulder, those aborted conversations rose up in Brigit like bile.

It felt so wrong that contact, even tense contact, should be this sharp-edged between them, his shock at the touch as visible as hers. Max’s little scoff rose up without warning: My idea of our friendship and yours weren’t the same. Because Brigit was the one who’d set the rules, well before Ian ever heard the name Ellis Creek. She was the one who’d left him in the Dell for twelve hours too. Who’d led him in there in the first place after lying about why. Brigit didn’t know what Ian suspected about the woods, or Emma, or her own muddy brain. She didn’t know what flavor of fear he felt right now. Had been afraid to ask. That felt wrong too—but now, set against the guilt and confusion over other ways Brigit had fucked up over the years, at least it felt possible to address.

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