Page 52 of Where I Should’ve Been

Tad: Then hypothetically, I’d have to frisk you for weapons.

Me: Oh boy. That sounds dirty.

Tad: Farm Daddy better see your ass tonight.

The fact that I’ve now got him referring to himself as Farm Daddy has me cracking up. Out loud.

Me: LOL. I’ll be there.

Eventually, I pick my knitting back up, yarn sliding through my fingers as my heart thuds lighter than it has all day.

Outside, Autumn’s laughter carries through the cold air. And inside, my scarf grows by another few uneven rows.

And for the first time all day, I don’t feel so alone.

21

Tad

Monday, February 8th

“You realize this makes three times in the last two months? We’re idiots, Tad. Certified dumbasses,” he gripes, kicking at an empty sack of feed like maybe it’ll magically fill up with grain.

The farm’s feed delivery is late, and Randy’s pacing the barn like he’s rehearsing for a one-man show called We’re Doomed. It’s not even ten in the morning, and the day’s feeling like spoiled milk before the sun can burn off the frost.

“We’re not idiots, Randy. Just a little unlucky.”

He snorts and shoulders open the barn door. “Unlucky’s stepping in dog shit on your way into a restaurant. This is incompetence.”

“We’re not incompetent,” I mutter, checking the latch on a stall. “Life is just handing us some lemons, and we’re being resourceful.”

“Resourceful?” He barks out a laugh. “Tad, we’re down to one bag of feed because our sheep keep getting into the feed shed, and the delivery’s still in Montpelier. We’ve got to buy local. Again. Which costs us twice as much. Which makes us idiots. And makes this farm not profitable.”

He’s not wrong, but I’ve learned not to fuel the fire. The thing he can’t face is that this farm isn’t about profit; it’s about existing. I bought it so I’d have a reason to get out of bed every day.

I bought it to save me from myself. Because Lord knows, I’ll never be able to forget.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re loading into my truck and heading into town. By the time we arrive, Main Street’s wide awake. Josie’s chalkboard sign is propped outside CAFFEINE, the scent of fresh bread sneaks out from Melba’s bakery, and a couple of locals scrape ice off their windshields.

Red Bridge Feed & Grain sits behind the hardware store, a small, squat brick building with a tin roof that rattles in the wind, and I pull into the gravel parking lot.

“Fuck me, what a waste of money this is going to be,” Randy mutters as I shut off the engine. “How about you let me handle this one? Last time, I know we could’ve gotten him to come down on his price at least twenty or thirty bucks if you hadn’t been so nice.”

“By all means, have at it, brother.”

On a huff, he hops out of the truck and marches inside to haggle with poor Mr. Donnelly like it’s a sport. And I climb out of the driver’s side to get some fresh air and lean against the hood of my truck.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see Incoming Call Dad on the screen.

I swipe. “Hey, old man.”

“Hey, stranger,” Dad rumbles, and I can hear what sounds like poker chips clattering in the background. I guess my dad’s and Uncle Cal’s Caribbean cruise has got them spending far too much time in the casino on the boat. “You busy?”

“Depends on what you’d call busy. Randy’s in the feed store, and I’m outside waiting on him.”

“Uh-oh.” He chuckles. “You run out of feed again and have to buy local?”

I sigh. “Randy needs to stop bitching to you so much.”