Page 76 of Where I Should’ve Been

And I find myself watching her as she walks away.

A small, fragile kind of silence wraps around me, and my mind whispers, When are you going to realize that woman feels more like home than the farm, the house, or anything you’ve known in years?

But I don’t accept it. I can’t accept it.

Because Breezy Bishop doesn’t deserve to be attached to a fuckup like me, and I don’t deserve the chance to let someone down again.

30

Breezy

Saturday, March 20th

My phone buzzes against the blanket I’m pretending to knit.

Tad: How’s the headache, Betsy?

I smile as I start to type out a response.

Me: A little better. Though, I might try to take a nap soon. The twins doing okay without me?

Technically, I was supposed to “help” on the farm this morning. But I woke up with a borderline migraine and decided cold wind slapping me in the face wasn’t going to improve my condition.

Tad: How about you just worry about feeling better. Take a nap. Rest up. Tom and Betsy will be good, but you let me know if you need anything.

I stare at the message for a second too long, warmth spreading through me despite the dull throb behind my eyes. That man. The same man who not so long ago vanished for a full twenty-four hours and made my stomach twist with worry is checking on me to make sure I’m feeling okay.

Whatever that dark day was for Tad, I guess it’s behind us. For now, anyway. We’ve spent the past five days falling back into the companionship that always seems to come so easy.

I know we started out as hot sex and a casual fling, but now I don’t really know what to call it. I don’t know what to call us. But then again, I don’t even know what in the hell I’m doing with my life, so uncertainty is pretty much at the foundation of everything.

I still have questions—a million of them, actually—about Tad’s past, about what made him disappear for twenty-four hours, about whatever he feels is so dark he doesn’t want it in my head.

Maybe a lot of women would be demanding answers. Maybe I should be demanding answers. But I know what it feels like to be pushed before you’re ready, and I refuse to do that to him. He’ll talk when he wants to. Until then, I’m content with the way he shows up for me. I’m content with whatever this is between us.

And really, who doesn’t carry some darkness these days? At least Tad’s comes wrapped in kindness and quiet strength. He’s never been anything but a gentleman to me.

Well, except when we’re in bed.

But clearly, that’s an exception. A very hot, very manly, very much makes me melt faster than butter in a cast-iron pan exception.

I set my phone down beside me on the bed, glancing at the half-knit blanket in my lap. My latest attempt at domesticity. It’s soft and crooked and, like everything else in my life right now, unfinished.

Crosby still wears the yellow scarf I made, and Tad laughs every time he sees it.

But this new project is for Tom and Betsy. The twins are growing like weeds but still sleep curled together in the barn beside Mabel. Tad told me they don’t need the blanket, that sheep are supposed to be able to tolerate the cold, but I’m a you-can-never-have-enough-blankets kind of gal.

My phone buzzes again, and I see another email notification from headhunter David Smith pop up on the locked screen. I still haven’t responded to any of his messages. Haven’t even attempted to set up times to chat with all the museums and galleries he says want me. I’ve tried—trust me, I’ve tried—but every time I’ve started an email draft to him, I…close right back out of it.

It just…doesn’t feel right. And I can’t decide if it’s because that world simply doesn’t feel like me anymore or if I’m pushing it all away because I’m scared.

Or maybe it’s because Red Bridge isn’t feeling like a detour anymore, but a place you’re putting down roots you didn’t even know you had.

I don’t know what I want yet. I just know that I’m not running toward anything—or away from it.

I’m just here. In Red Bridge.

I let out a long exhale and focus back on my knitting. I’m halfway through another crooked row when raised voices break the quiet.