Page 63 of Where I Should’ve Been

I shrug. “I guess there are some aspects of sheep farming I’m good at.”

We trudge back toward the house, boots squeaking, and a red scarf Breezy grabbed at the last second flapping out of my coat that covers her body. For a second, the flash of red steals my breath. Red. Sirens. Heat. The—

No.

I blink hard, and it’s just a scarf again, just snow, just Breezy bumping her hip against mine and saying, “Admit it, Farmer Tad. You need me on staff.”

“And how much do I gotta pay ya?” I ask.

“I accept payment in pancakes, orgasms, and your mother’s marinara,” she says through a giggle.

Inside, the house fogs up with the sudden invasion of two people and a storm. I shuck my coat, take hers, and hang them both near the door. She toes out of boots that are five sizes too big and shivers dramatically, then beelines for the kettle like she owns the place.

Once we’ve got two mugs of hot water, I doctor hot chocolate with a finger of whiskey. She takes one sip, and a combination of a cough and laugh leaves her lungs. “You trying to get me drunk?”

“I’m trying to take the edge off,” I explain. “There’s not even a shot in each of our mugs, but I promise it’ll help take the shakes away.”

The last time I drank whiskey, drank any alcohol at all, was shortly after Breezy came strolling into town in a blizzard and I was so shit-faced I didn’t know if we slept together. I guess I haven’t had the need to reach for it to numb the pain.

Truthfully, I only put it in our hot chocolates because of the way Breezy’s hands have been shaking since we helped Mabel bring her lambs into the world.

“Oh, so the fact that I feel like my body is vibrating from the inside out is normal?”

“It’s the adrenaline.” I smile knowingly at her. “Happens whenever you find yourself in an emergent situation.”

“You find yourself in a lot of sheep emergencies?”

The mere thought of an emergency has the always-in-pain, masochistic side of my brain wanting to fold like a deck of cards. But I take a sip of my hot chocolate and refuse to give in. “Well, you know how Crosby can be.”

“I sure do.” Breezy laughs.

In this moment with her, it’s easy to forget the farm exists. To forget fences and sheep and the ghosts of my past and all the ways a life can go sideways. It’s easy to just be. With her.

We make our way into the living room, curling up together on the couch.

Her phone buzzes on my coffee table, which has both of us looking puzzled at someone texting her at such a late hour. But when she grabs it to check the screen, she lets out an exasperated groan. “You’ve got to be freaking kidding me.”

“Who is it?”

Her mouth twists into a smile, but it’s more annoyed than amused. “Heyyy, so I was thinking of hosting a memorial party in Ibiza. Henry would’ve loved that. Do you want to help plan?” she reads the message aloud before turning the screen for me to see.

There’s a little champagne glass emoji. A sun. A palm tree. Three question marks. The kind of punctuation you’d expect from a teenage girl.

“That from Stepmother Dearest?”

“Yep,” she says, voice flat. “Twenty-seven going on fourteen.”

She laughs in a sharp burst, but it shatters on the second breath. Her eyes go wet, and she tips her head back like she can stop emotional gravity. “What an incredible idea, right? A memorial party…in Ibiza. I mean, we already had a funeral, and a will-reading where my father completely fucked me over, but sure, who needs grief or closure when you can have bottle service?” she says, but it’s to the ceiling.

“Breezy.” I set my mug down. “Hey.” I gently press my hand to her thigh, but she flinches a little.

“I’m fine, I swear.” She drags a sleeve over her eyes. “It’s just, some days, it’s like… How am I almost forty, and I don’t know what I want? I used to have a plan for everything. Now I’m—” she gestures around “—wearing your clothes and delivering lambs and making zero plans for my future because I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, and instead of telling anyone how I really feel, I ignore their stupid voice mails and calls and texts like a coward.”

“Or like a person who has been betrayed. A person who has been hurt deeply,” I say. “A person who doesn’t deserve any of that bullshit, and despite all of it, somehow still manages to remain strong.”

“Strong?” She snorts. “That’s debatable.”

“No, it’s not, Breeze.” I reach out and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear before grazing my knuckles gently down her cheek. “You’re incredible, Breezy. You’re strong and intelligent and brave. You’re quite literally the opposite of a coward. I mean, you didn’t have to come out there in that storm,” I remind her. “You didn’t have to help me deliver those lambs, but you did. Because you’re amazing. Because you’re an incredible person. Because you’re the kind of fucking person we all strive to be.”