Page 65 of Where I Should’ve Been

For a man who swore he’d never get too close to the sun again, I know I’m doing a piss-poor job of keeping that promise.

But it’s like I can’t fucking stop.

24

Breezy

Tuesday, March 9th

Norah has been nudging me about this headhunter call.

She hasn’t exactly been pushy, but she’s definitely offered quiet reminders and soft encouragements, all while juggling Bennett’s stuff and Autumn’s adorable chaos with the kind of grace that makes me wonder if she ever actually sleeps.

“Just take the call, Breeze,” she’d said more than once. “It doesn’t hurt to listen.”

And I brushed her off each time, because why would I want to listen? I walked away from that world. Technically, I buried it with my father when he buried me in his betrayal.

But the art world isn’t letting me off the hook so easily. Everyone knows my name. Everyone knows what I built.

And according to Norah, who still very much has her toes dipped in the art world water because of Bennett, there are a lot of people out there who want a piece of me now that Bishop Galleries stopped calling dibs.

“I don’t know how that headhunter got my number or email, but with the way he’s been hounding me over getting a chance to speak with you, I feel like you need to give in to his desperation. Maybe use it to your advantage, you know? He probably has some opportunities worth hearing. Maybe even ones that spur a little excitement in ya.”

That was the one statement that came out of Norah’s mouth that ended in me scheduling a Zoom appointment with the headhunter who wouldn’t leave my sister-in-law alone.

Though, I did let two more weeks of time fly by in Red Bridge before I hit send on the email to him. And fourteen more days in this small town have been a blur of snow and Tad Hanson. Nights in his bed and mornings sneaking back across the yard and afternoons lost to laughter in his barn.

Besides when I’m spending time with Autumn, most of my time goes to him.

Sleeves rolled up, boots borrowed, and pretending I know what the hell I’m doing, I’ve even started hanging around the Hanson Farm during the day without trying to hide it.

Randy eyed me suspiciously the first time I showed up, leaning against a fence post like I might faint if a sheep sneezed too hard. But Tad shrugged and said, “Breezy has been kind enough to offer us some temporary help while she’s in town.”

I’m not so sure Randy bought that story, but he didn’t question it. He went about his usual farming business. Though, he’s yet to assign me any chores or tasks. If anything, he keeps his distance.

And my fake gig as a temporary helper on the Hanson Farm has become the official story.

When I started disappearing for full days and coming home smelling faintly like hay and sin, I had to tell Bennett and Norah something.

So now they think I’m helping the Hanson brothers with farm chores like some kind of city-girl-does-manual-labor redemption arc. It honestly sounds like a plot from a Hallmark movie more than real life, but whatever.

Nothing about life feels real or predictable these days.

Of course, Bennett’s reaction was a mix of annoyance and hilarity. He’s never been a fan of Tad Hanson. Pretty sure being neighbors with a sheep farmer whose sheep never stay behind the fence is at the foundation of that ire. But after he’d bitched a while about how incompetent Farmer Tad is, he couldn’t stop himself from laughing at my expense. “Breezy Bishop, cleaning up sheep shit?” he’d choked out. “I fear Red Bridge might be going to your brain, sis. If you hang around here any longer, you might end up selling scarves at the farmer’s market.”

He’s not even wrong in his teasing. I mean, maybe Red Bridge is going to my brain?

However, what my brother doesn’t know would probably kill him. I mean, if there are any fresh callouses on my hands, they have nothing to do with mucking stalls and everything to do with clutching Farmer Tad’s bedsheets.

And trust me, my brother does not want to know that information.

Tad even tried to pay me money once, really make the cover story seem real, and I laughed in his face. “The only currency I’ll take comes in orgasms and late-night cuddles,” I told him.

He wasn’t exactly upset about that. Managed to give me three orgasms that very night, in fact.

Basically, I’m living a double life—fake farmhand by day and shameless sheep farmer groupie by night. But when it comes to real jobs, today, I’m officially giving the relentless headhunter my listening ears.

The house is quiet since Norah and Bennett took Autumn over to Josie and Clay’s house to have brunch. And I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for this call, sitting cross-legged on my bed with my laptop propped on a stack of art books.