Page 109 of Where I Should’ve Been

Straddling the stack of clothes I just knocked off the bar, I wobble like a newborn deer and grab the top box from the leaning tower of chaos before it topples. “My gosh, this is like Monica’s secret closet on Friends,” I mutter, shimmying back and trying not to fall or break something. “Who knew Tad was such a packrat when he’s so neat everywhere else.”

My phone chimes from the nightstand, and I detour through the mess, climb over a stray boot, and grab it.

A text message from Tad is the only notification on the screen, drawing my cheeks up and out as I click to read it.

Tad: Coming back into Red Bridge now. Dropping off Randy, and then I’ll head toward home. Want me to pick up lunch on the way back? I can get nachos if they’re still calling to you, or something else if that craving joined the witness protection program.

I laugh under my breath. The nacho craving has, in fact, fled the country and assumed a new identity somewhere in Fryville.

Me: Nachos are out, Farm Daddy. Cheeseburger and fries are in. The greasier, the better.

Tad: Understood lol. I’ll call the diner and put in a to-go order. See you soon, Farm Mommy.

Me: Oh my God. Don’t even try to go there. That nickname doesn’t hit the same for me.

Tad: But you’re a mommy on my farm…feels kind of apt.

Me: How about you just focus on my food?

Tad: Farm Daddy’s on it.

Reinvigorated by the promise of food, I turn back to the heap of clothes like a woman on a mission. It’s me versus this closet, and right now, the closet’s winning.

I start scooping hangers by the handful, stacking shirts like I’m competing in some sad domestic Olympics. After a few trips from the closet to the bed, I’ve unearthed a mix of flannels and coats and old sports teams’ T-shirts. I silently wonder about a younger, obviously trimmer Tad who used to wear all these and why he didn’t get rid of them when he outgrew them.

Funnily enough, they look like they might fit me pretty well, and with a belly I know will be growing by the day, I’m going to be in desperate need of some temporary wardrobe additions.

Red Bridge isn’t exactly a shopping paradise like New York.

I tug one of the flannel shirts on, pulling it up and over my shoulders and cinching the front. It’s about two sizes too big, but for right now, loose is perfect.

I set it to the side and try on another and another and another until I have a stack of fifteen shirts to add to my options for the next couple of months. And I fold and organize the other pile to ask Tad about donating when he gets back home from Molene.

Perfect, I think, until I reach the back corner and drag out a box heavy enough to make me regret my life choices. Tad’s muscle is definitely needed for this one, I think as I swap it out for a lighter one.

But when I fold back the flap, I pull out a nondescript photo album and open it to the first page to find a picture of Tad.

He’s handsome as ever, smiling and standing in front of a firehouse in a navy pair of pants and a T-shirt, and he’s holding his hand up to the camera as though the photographer is a member of the paparazzi.

I study the photo a little closer.

His body is still fit and his arms still tanned like now, but his smile is different somehow—bigger and brighter. It’s weird to see, considering Tad comes across as one of the happiest-go-lucky guys on the planet, but in this photo, his eyes are different.

I lean in slightly, intent on examining the lettering of the embroidery on the chest pocket of his tee, but I startle hard when a question comes from out of nowhere.

“What are you doing?”

The voice is harsh and close and jump-scares me so much I drop the album right back into the box as I turn abruptly.

When I see it’s Tad, my shoulders relax a little bit.

The to-go bag from the diner still hangs from the fingers of his right hand, his coat in place and his keys in his left hand as though he sought me out as soon as he arrived. I don’t know how I managed to miss hearing him come in.

“Oh, shoo, you scared me,” I tell him, rising to my feet. “I got bored earlier, and I don’t know if it’s nesting or just anxiety, but I got the urge to start figuring out a potential space for the baby, and when I got in here, the closet surprised me with how packed it was. I figured I’d start there.”

“This is my stuff.”

“I know,” I say carefully, trying not to read too much into his clipped tone. “I was going to ask you about all of it before I did anything, but I thought if I went ahead and presorted everything, it’d save you some time and heartache. No one likes cleaning out closets—”