Page 9 of Where I Should’ve Been

“Uh…” I pause, completely unsure of what to do. I mean, I definitely don’t want to risk waking up my little niece at two in the morning, but spending the night at Tad Hanson’s? That’s quite the turn of events.

“If you’d rather, you can stay with me,” Randy offers kindly. The idea of getting back in a vehicle right now, however, is akin to the most brutal of psychological torture.

Tad takes charge, grabbing my hand and pulling the two of us a couple steps away from the truck. I grip him tightly back, but it’s only because the ground is so freaking slippery. “Let’s go, sweetheart. You can stay here. No problem! And I’ll be very gentlemanly, okay? Make sure you got your own bed and everything.”

I hesitate for a long moment, but when I look past the tree line to where Bennett’s house sits, a wide expanse of snow-covered darkness the only thing between here and there, I exhale.

“Okay, yeah.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic!” Tad cheers.

Randy makes sure I’m good with the plan before heading on his way, even taking my keys with him and kindly offering to get my car out of the snow in the morning, and I follow Tad’s jovial lead up the porch steps and into the warm farmhouse.

It’s a sweet, old place—the kind where the wood floors bounce a little with each step—and reeks of bachelorhood in every way. The walls are bare, the couch is old, and the cords from the giant TV run unhidden down the wall.

He unearths a blanket from a cabinet in the corner of the living room, accidentally hands me his coat before realizing his blunder with a laugh, and then gives me the lay of the land.

“This here’s the living room. And the kitchen’s over there. This woodstove’ll keep you hotter than any electric heat ever could, but if you need the extra blanket, you’ve got it.” He shrugs. “I’ll be in my bedroom down the hall, but you can sleep in the guest bedroom or here on the couch because I’m not in the mood for any of your funny ideas. Nothing handsy from you, okay?”

I roll my eyes. “Sounds good.” I clutch the blanket to my chest and shift from one foot to the other. “Anything else I should know?”

“There’s a bathroom in the hall, and oh! Don’t get too close to the stove here, ’cause she’ll roast your ass.”

I laugh. “Noted. Goodnight, then. And…thanks. For the help in the snow and the hospitality now.”

“Anytime, Breezy Bishop. Anytime.”

As Tad stumbles down the hall, I sink onto the couch and pull off my wet shoes, leaving them by the woodstove to dry.

It’s late and I’m tired and I desperately want to sleep. But I can’t help marveling at how far the mighty have fallen.

A month ago, I was single-handedly running one of the biggest art gallery empires in the country. Now, I’m without a job, temporarily without a car, and completely adrift in all aspects of my life.

And I’m about to have a sleepover at a small-town sheep farmer’s house.

Goodness, things have certainly taken a drastic turn.

3

Tad

Tuesday, January 12th

My head pounds and my stomach turns, but the thing about sheep is…they don’t give a damn about your plans or your hangover.

I’ve just finished up with the morning feed routine, and some of my flock is already trying to find a way to get into trouble—which isn’t new, but it is inconvenient.

“Back in!” I yell, clapping my hands like an idiot as three woolly little bastards try to shove through a sagging section of fence. Again.

They scatter into the snow, bleating like they’re in on some private joke at my expense. Good one, Tad. How about we shove a giant rod in the middle of your already vibrating brain? Sheep have that smug, blank look that says we win, you lose, and they’re usually right.

Or at least, my sheep have that look. I don’t know about other farmers because I’ve never researched it.

Randy keeps telling me we need dogs. Border collies, heelers—apparently, it’s a must for people who take this shit seriously. Every shepherd worth his salt has dogs, Tad, he lectures almost daily, all the while missing the whole fucking point.

I’m not in this business to succeed. I’m in it to forget.

Plus, my general inclination when it comes to my older brother is to do the opposite of what he wants me to do because it’s his fault we’re in Red Bridge in the first place. The whole state of our lives today, as it were, is his own damn fault, even if he doesn’t see it that way.