Late-Night Drive (chapter)

The road out past the county line was empty at this hour—just gravel hum and headlights stretching out into darkness. Clyde gripped the wheel loosely, arms tired but restless. The windows were down enough to let in the cool night air, and Tyler’s elbow rested on the sill, fingers drumming absently to a tune that wasn’t playing.

They hadn’t said much since leaving the diner. Just a shared glance over the check. A quiet “Wanna drive a while?” from Clyde. And now here they were—suspended somewhere between farmland and forest, the kind of in-between that made it easier to say things you couldn’t in daylight.

Clyde broke the silence first. “Used to think if I kept busy enough, I’d never have to sit with what was underneath.”

Tyler didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. Just turned slightly in his seat, watching Clyde’s profile in the dim glow of the dash lights.

“I didn’t grow up with language for any of this,” Clyde went on. “Didn’t have categories. Just a gut full of fear and a church that said ‘don’t’ louder than it ever said ‘belong.’” His voice cracked faintly. “So I shoved it all down. Called it victory.”

The truck bumped over a stretch of washboard road, but neither of them flinched.

Clyde’s hands tightened on the wheel. “There was this preacher once—revival tent kind. Said somethin’ like, ‘Holiness is when you stop wantin’ the wrong things.’ I held onto that like it was gospel truth. Figured if I could just hate the ache hard enough, I’d be holy.”

Tyler shifted, his voice low. “Did it work?”

Clyde’s laugh was dry. “I got good at denyin’. Real good. Thought wantin’ made me weak. Turns out denyin’ it made me bitter.”

They drove a few more beats in silence, the sound of tires and cicadas filling the gaps.

“I think I ruined some good things,” Clyde said. “Pushed folks away who might’ve stayed. Punished myself for wantin’ to be known.”

“You weren’t wrong to want it,” Tyler said gently. “Just… wrong to think you had to kill it to be worthy.”

Clyde blinked, eyes fixed on the road. “Then what do I do with it now? That ache, that pull. It’s still in me.”

“You bring it to the fire,” Tyler said. “Let it burn what needs burnin’. But don’t throw yourself on the flames to prove you’re faithful.”

Clyde swallowed hard.

“You don’t have to keep punishing yourself to prove you’re holy,” Tyler added, voice even softer. “That’s not the kind of holiness God’s after.”

They reached a bend in the road and Clyde pulled off, gravel crunching beneath the tires as he eased the truck to a stop. They sat there, engine idling, facing a stretch of trees silhouetted against the moonlit sky.

Clyde stared out at nothing. “I’m tired of bein’ scared of my own soul.”

Tyler nodded slowly. “Then maybe it’s time to stop runnin’ and start lettin’ it be healed.”

The engine ticked as it cooled. Somewhere in the distance, a barred owl called once.

Clyde exhaled, long and slow. “I ain’t got the answers.”

“I don’t need you to,” Tyler said. “I just need you not to walk off again.”

A pause. Then Clyde reached for the keys and turned the engine off. The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

They sat there for a long while in the stillness. Two men, shoulder to shoulder in the dark, finally letting the ache breathe.

And for once, neither tried to fix it.

(From Held Fast, from the Tyler and Clyde series. Contact me if you’d like to read the whole story!)