Chapter 20
Breezy
Another week slips by before I even realize it.
Seven more days in Red Bridge, and most of them end the same way—me tiptoeing across Bennett’s snow-covered yard long after everyone else is asleep and ending up in Tad Hanson’s bed.
Sure, sneaking out feels pretty dang juvenile for a thirty-nine-year-old woman, but the heat of Tad’s hands and how fucking good he makes me feel makes it possible for me to ignore that fact.
Of course, I could tell Bennett about it. I could definitely tell Norah. I mean, I’m a grown fucking woman. Hell, I’m older than both of them. But this is something I want to keep to myself.
The Red Bridge cemetery is about a two-mile drive from Norah and Bennett’s house, and it’s a quiet, serene stretch of rolling hills and leafless maples bowed under the weight of frost.
When we step out of the car, the morning chill surrounds us, and our breath clouds the air as we follow the gravel path that winds between the headstones. The quiet winter morning is so silent it presses into my ears and makes every crunch of gravel under our shoes feel loud.
Bennett carries Autumn on his hip, Norah is beside him, and I’m beside Norah. The four of us move slowly across the stone path until we stop at the gravestone I’ve seen a hundred times but will never get used to seeing.
Summer Beatrice Bishop
Her name is carved deep, the letters filled with shadows and ice. I kneel, brushing away a drift of snow, and the chill bites through my glove. For a moment, I swear it’s like she’s still here, like I can feel her small hand lacing with my fingers again.
Her sweet, melodic voice floats through my memory. “Aunt Breezy, I want to be a painter like my daddy!”
God, I miss that girl so much.
Norah crouches nearby, helping Autumn arrange a tiny bouquet in the vase at the base of the stone. Autumn chatters the whole time, serious and loud in her toddler way. “Pinks! Smells good! Me picks dem!”
“That’s right, Autumn. You picked out pink flowers for Summer,” Norah hums encouragement, smoothing her daughter’s curls away from her face. “And she would’ve loved them.”
Autumn grins and leans her little body against Norah’s side. And I can’t get over how natural they look together, like two puzzle pieces that always belonged.
Behind us, Bennett stands a few steps back, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets and his face carved tight.
While my brother is happy in his life, it’s a fact that losing his daughter Summer has made grief live in him permanently now.
It’s quieter than it used to be, but it’s stitched into the fabric of who he is.
I rise slowly, standing beside him, not sure if I should speak.
Honestly, words feel clumsy here. Even two years after losing Summer, I never feel like I can fully convey how I feel or how much I miss Summer or how much I loved her.
But when my sleeve brushes his, his hand shifts from his pocket and finds mine, squeezing once in a silent and steady gesture.
It undoes me more than words ever could.
After a while, Bennett steps closer to Norah and Autumn. He wraps his arm around his wife’s shoulders, and Autumn finds her spot beside his legs, hugging her daddy tightly. The three of them—grief and love and life all knotted together—make a perfect, imperfect whole.
I hover in the back. The spare piece. The ghost on the edge of their little family.
And my chest aches with something sharp and new.
I’ve never let myself wonder about motherhood.
Never really wanted to. My life has always been noise and deadlines and gallery openings and a very curated version of purpose that left no room for anything else.
I’ve measured years in profit margins and successful exhibitions, not birthdays and bedtime stories.
But watching Norah guide Autumn’s tiny hands toward the flowers again, I feel something deep inside me tug.
It’s quiet but powerful. It’s a desire I don’t know if I even want to name.
I’m thirty-nine years old. I’ve never missed what I never thought I wanted, but it’s as if I feel the sharp edge of something I’ve always ignored. The absence of a life I never gave myself the time or permission to want.
A buzz rattles in my coat pocket, jarring me out of my own head.
I glance at the screen and see Incoming Call Logan.
Without hesitation, I press the side button and silence the call without looking at the screen. He doesn’t get this moment. Not here. Not today.
We stay a little longer, silence consuming us all.
Autumn places her palm against the stone and whispers, “Summy-bee.”
It’s as close as her little toddler mouth can get to saying Summblebee—the nickname my brother always used for Summer.
Bennett turns away, blinking too fast, and Norah squeezes his hand, and I have to swallow the lump in my throat and force the liquid emotion out of my eyes.
Summer would’ve loved her little sister Autumn. And Autumn would’ve loved her too. That’s a fact. That’s the bittersweet and tragic truth. Summer was taken from us too soon, and I’m certain there will never be a time when any of us feels okay with that.
We can live through it. We can cope with it. But we’ll never be okay with it.
Eventually, we drift back toward the car. Autumn skips between Bennett and Norah, clutching both her parents’ hands while her curls bounce like springs in the pale sunlight. They look whole. Complete.
And I trail a few steps behind, my boots crunching in the frost, the sharp ache inside me still very present.
For most of my life, I told myself I didn’t need family or the love of a good man or the kind of steady devotion that roots you somewhere.
But watching them now, I find myself silently wondering if I somehow managed to miss out on my own life.
…
After Norah, Bennett, Autumn, and I left the cemetery, we stopped at the Diner to eat a late brunch.
Now, the three of them are outside, bundled in coats, helping Autumn build what she insists is a castle, though it looks suspiciously like a snow mound with twigs sticking out of it.
I’m back in the guest room, sitting cross-legged on the bed, the faint smell of syrup still clinging to my sweater and a half-finished yellow scarf pooling in my lap.
My knitting needles click quietly in the silence in a soft rhythm that’s almost meditative.
My stitches are uneven, my yarn keeps tangling, but somehow, it feels grounding.
My phone buzzes on the quilt beside me.
Logan’s name lights up the screen again, but this time, it’s a text.
Logan: Breeze. For fuck’s sake, stop ignoring me. Call me back. Clearly, I’m struggling without you, but I also really miss my sister.
I stare at his name for a long beat, the familiar frustration and feelings of betrayal coiling in my belly, but I still can’t bring myself to respond to him. I swipe the notification away and open my ongoing text thread with Tad instead.
My thumb hovers over the message bubble, and before I can stop myself, the truth spills out in typed words that feel like a confession.
We went to the cemetery to visit Summer’s grave today. I miss her so much. I don’t know how my brother survives it. And I keep wondering if I spent my life chasing the wrong things. If I let time run out on something I didn’t even realize I wanted until it was too late.
The sight of it on the screen makes my chest ache. Because it’s true. All of it. But it’s too much for what I have with Tad. Too open.
I stare at my own words for a long time, biting my lip hard enough to taste copper.
Eventually, I delete every word, backspace by backspace, until the screen is empty again.
And I start over, sending something safe and teasing and casual. Just like it’s supposed to be.
Me: Hope your sheep behaved today. Or should I be watching for your mug shot in the Chronicle tomorrow?
Three dots appear immediately, and a smile already tugs at my lips.
Tad: They’ve been plotting all day. Crosby’s their ringleader. I swear he’s one union meeting away from demanding benefits.
A laugh slips out, and I set the knitting needles aside to text back.
Me: You should probably give them dental. Or at least better snacks.
Tad: You volunteering to bring treats, City Girl? You seem to have a thing for lost causes.
Me: Oh, c’mon, Tad. You’re not a lost cause. I can name at least fifty single ladies in Red Bridge who would sign that petition.
Tad: Would you be one of those fifty ladies?
Me: Hell no. I’ve seen how badly you burn pancakes.
Tad: You LOVED my pancakes.
Me: I couldn’t even finish them, Farm Daddy.
Tad: That’s only because I distracted you with orgasms.
Me: Oh, that’s right. I forgot about that.
Tad: Woman, you best not ever forget the power of my tongue.
Me: Is that a threat?
Tad: It’s a promise. One I’d like to make good on tonight. My door will be unlocked.
Me: Door unlocked? That sounds like a safety hazard…
Tad: Only if you’re planning on breaking in.
Me: What if I am? Hypothetically.
Tad: Then hypothetically, I’d have to frisk you for weapons.
Me: Oh boy. That sounds dirty.
Tad: Farm Daddy better see your ass tonight.
The fact that I’ve now got him referring to himself as Farm Daddy has me cracking up. Out loud.
Me: LOL. I’ll be there.
Eventually, I pick my knitting back up, yarn sliding through my fingers as my heart thuds lighter than it has all day.
Outside, Autumn’s laughter carries through the cold air. And inside, my scarf grows by another few uneven rows.
And for the first time all day, I don’t feel so alone.