After school most days, Baker would come to visit me in the fields, and we’d run and play.
And one day, I just decided he should come home with me instead.
Oh, and I renamed him Brownie Sundae.
I managed to hide him in our barn for two days, bringing him food and water. But my dad heard him barking and caught me red-handed when I snuck out of the house with my pillow and a blanket to sleep in the barn so Brownie wouldn’t be lonely.
Dad hadn’t yelled or gotten angry. In sleep-rumpled pajama pants and a faded white tee shirt, he’d simply sat down on a hay bale and stroked the dog’s ears while I gave a convincing argument and a laundry list of reasons why I should be able to keep Brownie for myself.
My father had then gently explained that what I’d done had been theft, and while my intentions might have been pure, Baker wasn’t content to stay in our barn.
“There’s a reason you had to trap him in here, MacKenzie,” he’d said. “If you’d opened that door, he would have run on home.”
He reminded me that because of my actions, Mrs. Landrum was probably very worried about Baker. And while she might not be able to play with the dog the way I played with him, she still loved him.
And so, at four in the morning, my father made me walk beside him through the corn field and across Mrs. Landrum’s pasture to bring her dog home. He hadn’t explained away my behavior. He’d expected me to own my mistakes and speak for myself.
I still remembered walking in frustrated silence, almost wishing my dad had yelled at me so I would have had an excuse to be angry at someone besides myself.
And that was exactly how I felt now, sitting in my Jeep, fighting angry nerves and willing myself to get out of my vehicle and go talk to Brady Judd—to own up to my bad behavior. Whether I was apologizing for animal thievery or being a remorseful ghoster, swallowing my pride never really got any easier. It still tasted like bitter regret.
I’d thought about just texting Brady. But the apologetic equivalent of ayou up?text didn’t seem like the most sincere course of action. And the simple fact was, he deserved better than that. I didn’t want to be someone who made excuses for hurting people.
So, here I was, at Abby’s on the Friday before Christmas, surrounded by more Kirby Falls High alumni than had attended my ten-year class reunion.
The holidays were always a busy time. Former classmates returned home to celebrate with their families and usually made their way here, to the bonfire, to visit old high school friends. Tonight was rowdier and louder than a normal bonfire, that was for sure.
But the last two weeks had been busy. This was my first real chance to get close to Brady. Grandpappy’s had been inundated with tourists who wanted to go on tractor sleigh rides, visit Santa’s workshop barn, drink hot cocoa, and eat peppermint bark from the Bake Shop.
I’d worked all three days of the Holiday Market downtown and had my interview for the general manager position as well. It had gone well, but they were waiting until after Christmas to select a candidate.
There’d also been a quick trip to Detroit with my family to pick up Becca and bring her back home. That was a whole different story, but it had been a frantic few days of travel with no time for sightseeing. I’d made Larry drive and kept my face plastered to the window, taking in the view while we’d been in the city.
Now, however, I was here, and I was determined to clear the air with Brady. See if he was open to another date, maybe? This time without the asterisk.
He needed to know that I was sorry for hurting him, and I wanted to earn his trust despite my shitty, selfish behavior.
I took a steadying breath and inhaled the smell of woodsmoke as I weaved my way through the parked cars overflowing the field. When I reached the barn, people were standing around in clusters everywhere. I stopped briefly and spoke to the folks who said hello, but I was too focused on finding Brady and making things right. So I promised to circle back around and catch up with them later, many of whom I hadn’t seen in years.
As I made polite conversation and scooted my way through the crowd, I searched for Brady. I stayed alert, training my eyes to pick out his tall form or puffy vest among those gathered. It wasn’t until I’d completed a pass around the bonfire and was on my way back toward the covered patio that I accidentally stepped into his path.
Brady pulled up short, and I smiled reflexively. “Hey.”
“Hi,” he replied.
“How are you?” I asked, giving myself a mental high five for managing normal conversation.
“I’m good,” he said cautiously, like this might be a trap.
“That’s good.”
Then I noticed what he was wearing. His jacket was missing and so was his puffy vest. The green flannel he wore was tucked into dark-wash jeans. But the slightly dressy attire wasn’t what gave me pause; it was the leather suspenders cresting the tops of his rounded shoulders before descending his lean torso.
“What’s this?” I asked, reaching forward and snapping one of the straps.
“Excuse you,” he scolded, leaning away.
“What are you wearing, Brady?” I couldn’t get over them. He looked even taller somehow and just ... rural fancy. He looked really good.
