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But ninety minutes later, Kyle hasn’t responded to the scattered corn feed or the turkey call, Barrett is fading fast, my fingers and toes have gone numb, and Tatum still hasn’t replied to a single text.
My gut insisting something is wrong, I call my parents’ house. “Hey, Mom,” I say when she picks up. “Would it be okay for Sarah Beth to sleep there tonight, and I’ll come grab her first thing in the morning? I need to go check on a friend and am not sure I’ll be able to get back to your place before ten.”
“Of course,” Mom says. “We don’t have any big plans for tomorrow. I’ll get Sarah Beth set up in the guest bedroom and we’ll see you in the morning.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, smiling as Sarah Beth cheers, “Guest bedroom! I love the guest bedroom,” in the background.
“So which friend are you checking on?” Mom asks before I can end the call, proving her gossip-collecting instincts are still alive and well. “Not Harry, is it? You know I love Harry, but he’s got to get his act together. If you and your brothers keep rescuing him when he gets drunk and stuck in the mud in the middle of God knows where, he’s never going to learn.”
“The ground’s frozen, Mom,” I say. “No mud to get stuck in.”
“Is it Luke, then? Because he’s trouble, honey. He’s still got a chip on his shoulder about you winning the all-state wrestling championships your senior year of high school. He might act like he’s your friend, but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw him.”
Rolling my eyes hard enough to make Barrett chuckle on the other side of the truck, I say, “I’ve got to go, Mom. I’ll fill you in later. Thanks for watching Sarah Beth.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” Mom says, lowering her voice. “Sarah Beth says the new nanny gave her this cell phone to play math games on this weekend, but I suspect that’s not entirely true. I don’t know a single twenty-year-old who can go two hours without her phone, let alone two days.”
“She’s twenty-eight,” I correct automatically. “But you’re right. I’ll see if I can get in touch with Tatum on her landline and ask her if that’s the truth.”
“Sounds good,” Mom says. “But don’t get too mad at Sarah Beth. You know how addictive these devices are. It’s hardly her fault that she can’t resist them. And at least she’s playing math games.”
I agree, ask her to give Sarah a big hug for me, and end the call. When I explain the phone situation to Barrett, he agrees to give Wren’s cell another try, but again, he’s sent right to voicemail. And by the time he taps the red button, he looks concerned, too.
“I’ll come with you to the bar,” he says, backing out of my driveway. “You might need backup and that coffee should be enough to keep me up for another hour or so.”
We drive back through town, past the lake and the shops and restaurants huddled on the shore, and out into the pitch black of rural Minnesota on a cloudy night.
I can’t see a thing outside the glow of the headlights.
It’s disconcerting and makes the bright, ten-foot-tall neon cowboy atop Bubba Jump’s seem even more garish in comparison. Barrett finds a parking spot at the back of the already packed lot, and we weave our way through rows of pick-ups, dirty mid-winter cars, and a long line of Harley Davidson bikes toward the entrance.
We spot Wren’s SUV on our way, easing my worry a little bit. Though the clientele does seem a tad rough, so far. Barrett fits in better in his jeans and sweater, but in my suit, I stand out like a sore thumb amidst the bikers, men in tight white t-shirts in defiance of the winter weather, and women with hair nearly as tall as the neon cowboy.
It takes another twenty minutes to navigate the line to get in, making me glad I don’t have to worry about hurrying back to town to pick up Sarah Beth. Just inside the door, the crowd at the bar is so loud, I can barely hear Barrett shout—“I see them.”—over the noise.
He points and I see them, too. Wren and Tatum are tearing it up on the dance floor in tiny minidresses, surrounded by five giant men in biker vests with rainbow bandanas tied around their foreheads. They look fine—happy and carefree—and for a second, I feel like an overprotective idiot.
A second later, all I can think about is how happy I am to see Tatum, and how right the world feels now that I know she’s safe.
And that’s it. I realize I can’t do this anymore. I just fucking can’t.
I have to talk to Tatum, but…maybe not right now. Not when she’s having fun and clearly isn’t expecting an emotional bombshell from her boss.
