Chapter 21
Tad
“You realize this makes three times in the last two months? We’re idiots, Tad. Certified dumbasses,” he gripes, kicking at an empty sack of feed like maybe it’ll magically fill up with grain.
The farm’s feed delivery is late, and Randy’s pacing the barn like he’s rehearsing for a one-man show called We’re Doomed. It’s not even ten in the morning, and the day’s feeling like spoiled milk before the sun can burn off the frost.
“We’re not idiots, Randy. Just a little unlucky.”
He snorts and shoulders open the barn door. “Unlucky’s stepping in dog shit on your way into a restaurant. This is incompetence.”
“We’re not incompetent,” I mutter, checking the latch on a stall. “Life is just handing us some lemons, and we’re being resourceful.”
“Resourceful?” He barks out a laugh. “Tad, we’re down to one bag of feed because our sheep keep getting into the feed shed, and the delivery’s still in Montpelier. We’ve got to buy local. Again. Which costs us twice as much. Which makes us idiots. And makes this farm not profitable.”
He’s not wrong, but I’ve learned not to fuel the fire. The thing he can’t face is that this farm isn’t about profit; it’s about existing. I bought it so I’d have a reason to get out of bed every day.
I bought it to save me from myself. Because Lord knows, I’ll never be able to forget.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re loading into my truck and heading into town. By the time we arrive, Main Street’s wide awake. Josie’s chalkboard sign is propped outside CAFFEINE, the scent of fresh bread sneaks out from Melba’s bakery, and a couple of locals scrape ice off their windshields.
Red Bridge Feed & Grain sits behind the hardware store, a small, squat brick building with a tin roof that rattles in the wind, and I pull into the gravel parking lot.
“Fuck me, what a waste of money this is going to be,” Randy mutters as I shut off the engine. “How about you let me handle this one? Last time, I know we could’ve gotten him to come down on his price at least twenty or thirty bucks if you hadn’t been so nice.”
“By all means, have at it, brother.”
On a huff, he hops out of the truck and marches inside to haggle with poor Mr. Donnelly like it’s a sport. And I climb out of the driver’s side to get some fresh air and lean against the hood of my truck.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see Incoming Call Dad on the screen.
I swipe. “Hey, old man.”
“Hey, stranger,” Dad rumbles, and I can hear what sounds like poker chips clattering in the background. I guess my dad’s and Uncle Cal’s Caribbean cruise has got them spending far too much time in the casino on the boat. “You busy?”
“Depends on what you’d call busy. Randy’s in the feed store, and I’m outside waiting on him.”
“Uh-oh.” He chuckles. “You run out of feed again and have to buy local?”
I sigh. “Randy needs to stop bitching to you so much.”
“In his defense, Tad, it wasn’t his idea to move to small-town Vermont and run a sheep farm. Bitching is his coping mechanism.”
“I didn’t force him to follow me here ten years ago, and I’m not making him stay now. I’m in my forties. Pretty sure I can handle my own shit.”
“He’s your big brother,” my dad tosses back. “He’s protective. And in your own damn words, it’s been ten years. His life is in Red Bridge now, whether the two of you like it or not.”
He’s not wrong. Randy’s life is in Red Bridge now, and if I’m being frank with myself, things wouldn’t feel right if he weren’t here. Though, I’d more than support his choice to leave and finally choose himself over being worried about my bullshit.
“Dammit,” he snaps, a teasing laugh preceding something unintelligible from my uncle Cal. “You’re not the only one with a pain in the ass sibling, son. Count your blessings for good old boy Rando. You could have a poker cheat for a brother like me.”
“I’m not a cheat. Your father is just inferior,” Uncle Cal says, leaning into the phone enough for me to hear him clearly.
I laugh and sigh at the same time. “There a reason you called while you’re cruising the Caribbean seas? I don’t wanna cut you short, but I’ve got shit to do.”
“Relax, son.” His responding chuckle sounds weathered but warm. “I’m just checking in while we have a day at sea. I won’t keep you long.”
Dad and Uncle Cal are retired firefighters, brothers like Randy and me, and Chicago born and bred like us too.
They were the backbone of my entire childhood.
Shifts at the fire station together, softball games on their off days, and Sunday cookouts in the backyard, they’ve been inseparable since birth.
Now they’re balls deep into retirement and spend their days on golf trips, poker nights, and vacations with other retirees from their station.
I love them both dearly, but I’m not na?ve enough to think they’re calling me from a fucking cruise for any reason other than to take the temperature of my mental state.
“So…everything all right out there?” he asks subtly, diving predictably into probing. He and Randy are two peas in a pod when it comes to checking in on me.
And is everything all right? I mean, the sheep are fine. The fences mostly hold. Randy’s still Randy. But lately, my nights don’t end alone.
Instantly, my mind pictures Breezy, her bare feet padding across my kitchen floor, my shirt sliding off one shoulder, and her laugh wrapping around me like something I shouldn’t need as much as I do. She’s still here in Red Bridge. And somehow, that feels like the best and worst kind of relief.
I still don’t know the whys or hows of what brought her here—has kept her here for the past month—or when she’s going to leave. But that probably stems from the casualness we agreed to.
Though, Breezy did say she’s just taking things day by day and doesn’t plan to become a permanent fixture here.
And I tell myself that’s a good thing. But do you actually believe it?
“You still there, bud?” Dad asks.
“Yeah,” I answer quickly, voice flat enough to hide what’s under it. “And everything’s all right.”
He hums like he doesn’t buy it. “You sure things are good in that small town of yours?”
In the background, Cal yells, “Don’t let him fool you, Freddy! That boy was always a bit of a ladies’ man. Probably busy dating half the women in that Podunk paradise by now.”
“Everything’s good, Dad,” I reassure. “Sheep are healthy. Randy’s cranky. Business as usual.”
“Hold on, Tad. Cal wants to talk to ya.”
“Tadpole!” My uncle Cal’s voice is now in my ear. “How’s the sheep biz?”
“You’d be surprised how exciting and glorious it is.”
“That’s funny. Exciting and glorious weren’t the adjectives your brother used when I last talked to him.”
“Yeah, well, Randy has a flair for dramatics,” I retort. “How about you old geezers tell me how the cruise is going?” I ask, trying like hell to change the topic of conversation.
“Well, I’m certain it’s a lot better than mucking around in sheep shit,” Uncle Cal retorts on a chuckle.
“I just cleaned out half the poker tables on this boat. You and Randy want me to send a care package when we land in Jamaica? Maybe some whiskey and cigars to take the edge off all the farming mundanity?”
Before I can answer, Dad cuts in. “Ignore him. He’s only had one good gambling day on this boat, and he won’t shut up about it.”
My dad and I continue chatting, but we both dance around the deep shit.
We don’t mention Mom or the fact that the anniversary of her death was just a few weeks ago.
We don’t talk about how Dad still hasn’t sold the house and has been splitting his time between it and Cal’s condo, the two of them basically bachelors again in their seventies.
I tell him the sheep are fattening up for spring, thanks to them basically overfeeding themselves and making us run out of grain earlier than we should. And he tells me to call more often.
All in all, it’s exactly how I’d expect a call with my dad to go. But then again, he’s always been a good man, a good dad, and everything in between.
Eventually, we hang up, and the quiet that follows feels heavier than it should. I tuck the phone into my pocket and just stare down Main Street without any real focus.
But my attention is pulled when Sheriff Peeler turns the corner and heads through the gravel parking lot on foot with a Styrofoam cup of coffee that has CAFFEINE written on the side of it.
“Mornin’, Tad,” he greets.
“Sheriff,” I nod. “How’s it going?”
“Been better,” he says through a deep sigh when he comes to a stop in front of me. “Did you hear about the vandals?”
“Vandals?”
“The graffiti artists who keep painting wieners all over the side of the high school.” He lets out another deep sigh. “I swear, this is the fourth year of this shit, and I’m growing tired of trying to track these little hooligans down.”
I bite my lip to hide my laughter. Truth be told, the dick-and-ball masterpieces that appear on Red Bridge High every year are part of an ongoing senior prank. Everyone in town knows it to be true. Everyone besides Sheriff Peeler, the man responsible for tracking them down, that is.
You’d think he would’ve figured it out by now, but Red Bridge protects its own. Also, their law enforcement is too busy flirting with the ladies at the bingo hall on Friday nights to thoroughly investigate the matter.
“That’s horrible,” I eventually say, my face as neutral as I can force it.
The sheriff shakes his head and purses his lips. “Tell me about it.”
Before he can start in on the weather or some other random Red Bridge gossip, a fire truck
blasts past the feed store, lights strobing and horn rattling the windows.
My whole body locks up.
My lungs forget how to work, my throat seizes, and it’s like the air thickens in an instant with smoke where there is none to be found.
Sheriff Peeler stands right beside me, squinting toward the lights and sirens on Main Street like it’s no more alarming than a garbage truck. “Metcalf’s Diner, I bet,” he says, casual as anything. “That oven’s older than Moses. Bastard needs to replace it before someone actually gets hurt.”