Forty-seven
FORTY-SEVEN
Tag
A s I sat in my desk chair, staring at the scrap of paper in my hands, indecision rose like an angry tempest in my chest. I didn’t know what to do.
I sent that damn notebook ten days ago. Hadn’t heard a word.
Since letting the postal service worker carry it off and toss it into a shipping bin, I’d had doubts. Maybe I should’ve spent time crossing out lines or ripping out particular pages. Maybe rewriting a section or two and dumbing things down a bit would’ve been wise. I considered doing just that before sending it off, but I didn’t. Rereading the pages I’d written so long ago would’ve been pretty triggering. And I was still bouncing back from the last trigger.
As the days went by, shame’s chokehold squeezed. I couldn’t even think about those pages without feeling like I was going to die from humiliation.
I told myself I was going to give her space to think and that I wasn’t going to follow up or reach out. But I cracked on day seven. I texted her to make sure she got the package. Maybe it was lost in the mail somewhere.
The text was undelivered .
The call went straight to voicemail.
So did the rest I sent over the following two days.
Had she blocked me? Was she safe? What if something happened to her and I never knew? My thoughts followed their typical pattern—sane to insane, steady to spiraling. I hadn’t been able to sleep last night as scenarios assaulted my imagination.
Now, I sat here, staring at the scrap of paper she’d scribbled her brother’s phone number on. After talking with Bea about some of Meadowbrook’s financial troubles, she had written his number down and promised Peter would be able to help me.
I didn’t want to call out of the blue, but not knowing if Bea was alright was ripping my insides to pieces. My anxiety convinced my brain something terrible had happened. I just needed to know if she was safe.
Despite the rise of fear in my chest, I tapped his number into my phone. My thumb hesitated over the green button. If Bea was emotional about the way we parted, Peter might hate my guts. And he’d have every reason to.
But the need to reassure myself made me tap anyway.
If he hated me, he hated me. I loved Bea, and she was the bigger concern here.
My heart thumped, loud and quick. I swallowed, waiting.
Right when I thought it was going to voicemail, a man’s voice answered—much deeper in tone than mine. “Hello, this is Peter Thompson.”
“Uh, yeah, hi. This is goin’ to seem pretty random. My name’s Samuel Taggart. I, uh, run a ranch?—”
He cut me off. “Tag.”
“I guess you’ve heard of me.”
“I certainly have.”
“Bea told me lots about you, too.”
He didn’t comment on that. He took a sharp breath, his voice curt and formal. I’d have to be deaf to miss the fact that he was peeved. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“I wanted to check on Bea. I’ve called her over the past couple days, and when I didn’t hear anything, it…it worried me. Just wanted to make sure she was safe.”
“It’s nice of you to finally check in. I’m glad to report she’s safe.” He let the sentence hang, offering no explanation whatsoever.
“Oh, gotcha. Thank you. That—that makes me feel better.”
“Happy to help.”
“Is—her phone workin’?”
“Working just fine last I checked.”
“Can you tell her I called?”
He paused. “Sure.”
When we disconnected, my stomach hit my boots.
Dammit.
I never should’ve sent that thing. I never should’ve believed that anyone could read it and still…want me. The rejection felt like a hot iron pressed into my stomach and nausea traveled up my esophagus. Her cold shoulder was a wild card—absolutely unexpected and completely changed the landscape.
I’d seen Miss Simone two more times since that first visit. She graciously worked me in after her typical hours to get me quick help. After the first two visits, we met virtually. Seeing her was a step in the right direction. Miss Simone was so kind and spoke words a heart could cling to.
We hadn’t dug up all the painful things yet. Eventually we would. For now, she spoon fed me truth and I talked about the things I felt emotionally prepared to tackle.
Last time we talked, she’d said, “The evil in the heart of man is what is broken and wrong with this world. When your mind and body shut down, they are doing exactly what they were wired to do to protect you. You might feel like there’s something wrong, but I can assure you, from years of experience, this is a normal human response to trauma. You are not broken, Tag.”
I clung to her words like a life preserver.
I am not broken. I am not broken. I am not broken.
Maybe saying it enough times would make it true.
Red-eyed and dragging, I pulled Paprika back to her pasture and turned her loose after the riding schedule. Nausea pressed into my throat—my heart sick with grief. Dreams tormented me all night, and my eyes burned with exhaustion.
The phone buzzed in my pocket. Expecting Jesse, I pulled it out, then frowned at the screen. I wasn’t one-hundred percent sure, but it looked like Peter’s number that I dialed yesterday. I closed the gate and swiped to answer the call. “Meadowbrook Ranch.”
“Hey, is this Tag?”
“Yeah.”
“This is Peter Thompson.”
“Hey, P?—”
“Listen. I need to get something off my chest.”
“Alright.”
“I feel like a real jackass. I barely slept last night.” He took a deep breath. “I love my whole family. Honestly, we’re all thick as thieves, but I adore Bea. Aside from my bride, she is my favorite person on the planet. When she came home from Texas all messed up, it really pissed me off. I’ve made a crap load of assumptions about the kind of man you must be to send her away with a broken heart.”
My chest tightened.
“Bea called and texted and even reached out to the guy who works for you—can’t remember his name. At first, I thought she was being ridiculous, all hung up on someone she had only known for three weeks. But when I found out you two were best friends for years ? Man, I’m not going to lie, I’ve been fuming.”
I nodded, staring off into the distant pastures. The idea of Bea grieving made my stomach turn, the nausea I’d felt all day kicking up to threatening levels.
Peter continued, “But Bea told us you have some stuff from your past that you’re sorting through—stuff that makes relationships and trust complicated. And because of that, she wanted to give you space and time. Here’s the thing about Bea; she’s level, smart, knows what she wants, and is capable of making tough decisions even when they’re hard. And that’s the only reason I’m trying not to assume you’re some low life guy taking advantage of her or playing with her heart. If she says you’re the real deal, this family is going to back her up and treat you like the real deal. I was an ass leaving you hanging yesterday. Bea would skewer my head if she knew.”
“I’m pretty sure if I had a sister, I’d feel the same way.”
“Here’s the real reason I called. Bea has been at our Aunt’s cabin in the mountains, writing songs, for a week. Her phone is out of service range and apparently she’s been having trouble connecting to the WiFi at the neighborhood club house. My guess is that’s why you haven’t heard from her. Last night, after you and I talked, I got an email from her saying she planned to book a flight back to Texas because she was desperate to see you. And she has something to give you.”
A breeze hit the smoldering embers in my chest.
“And I have something to say about that. I think, if you love her, you should come to her this time. She spent three weeks in your world and got sent away empty handed. It seems really crappy to me for her to have to travel back to make things right. In my opinion, it should be you. You should be the one to fix it.”
I nodded. Thought after thought rolled through my head faster than I could grab and process them. The only one that instantly embedded into my heart was this: she wants to come back to Texas.
“I don’t know your life and responsibilities, so I have no clue if you’ll be able to drop everything and fly to Colorado, but Bea has a studio day on Friday. Unless other commitments prevent us from going, my family always goes and supports her. Sarah and I will be there this time, and I wanted to…to invite you.”
Responses vanished from my mind, stolen by the shock of witnessing impossibility.
Stories Strings wrote about her family filed through my memory at lightning speed. I didn’t know them experientially, but I’d lived vicariously through her many times. Her joy in her loved ones stirred my joy, too. The Thompsons, unbeknownst to them, had given a young, lonely man hope.
I swallowed hard as warmth pricked my eyes. Speaking through a taut throat, I asked, “How would your family feel about seein’ me there? ”
Peter huffed again. “They’d be relieved. Jackie is telling everyone you’re forever quality and made for Bea. Bea is saying you’re it for her. I think everyone will just be relieved to see stuff get worked out and see Bea smile again.”
I never would’ve made that journey without an invitation. I never would’ve assumed she wanted me without Peter’s words. Before I’d even thought through a response, one was flying from my lips. I stammered, emotions making it almost impossible to speak, “I—I can’t remember the last time I was invited to something.”
He laughed fully then, the sound unspooling the tension in me. “Well, if you start hanging with the Thompsons, there will be a lot more where that came from. That, I can guarantee.”
I didn’t think about the ranch, the horses, or the workload I’d leave Jesse and Cooper with. I didn’t worry about the anxiety of traveling alone to a new place. I didn’t consider what the Thompson family would think of me. I didn't wonder about where I’d stay or stress about where the money for a hotel would come from.
All I thought of was her sunshine stooping to untie my muddy boots, the smile in her eyes even as she hid painful blisters from me, and the tears dripping from her chin as Tillie brought her baby into this world. I thought of her standing on the rodeo fence, jumping up and down and cheering for American Pie like she just won the lottery.
Bea was going to sing. And I got invited to support her.
Peter was right. This time, it should be me.