Chapter 29
Tad
By the time the sun cracks over the ridge, I’m already knee-deep in the barn, trying to outwork my shame.
Every year, I know when the day is coming, and still, it always pulls the fucking rug out from under me.
The barn smells like hay and thawing earth and my own mistakes. My head pounds, my mouth tastes like regret, and my hands ache from gripping a shovel I don’t need to hold this tight.
Randy’s somewhere out back plowing the lower fields. He didn’t say much when I rolled in this morning—just a short nod and a muttered, “Snow’s still heavy in the south pasture. Gonna clear it before the lambs break a leg.”
He knows what yesterday was. And he deals with it by pretending it’s just another day and gives me space.
He never asks questions, even though he got a phone call from Clay to pick my drunk ass up from The Country Club at two in the morning.
And yesterday, he didn’t try to track me down when I wasn’t at home all day and night and he was left dealing with the farm on his own.
Years ago, that’s not how he would’ve reacted. But now, he doesn’t try to move me out of my own way. He lets me circle the drain quietly.
When I woke up yesterday morning, hungover as fuck and March 14 staring back at me from the screen of my phone, I felt like I was going to crawl out of my fucking skin.
I left the house before seven and started driving. As if the more distance I put between myself and Red Bridge, the more oxygen I’d be able to successfully breathe into my lungs.
I ended up two hundred miles outside of town and made myself pull over and stay in a rickety highway hotel because it felt pretty fucking apt for my current state. Run-down, dusty, seen better days, it wasn’t the kind of place you’d want to take your family.
But it felt like what I deserved.
I slept like shit, tossed and turned the whole fucking night, and when the sun started to rise high in the sky, I got back in my truck and drove home.
Now I’m back, trying to bury myself in mundane farming routines.
Shovel. Feed. Water. Wrestle a few sheep from the fence. Repeat.
But my phone keeps burning in my pocket because of all the unanswered texts and calls Breezy sent me yesterday.
Eventually, I pull it out and make myself reread the messages she sent.
Breezy: You alive, Farm Daddy?
Breezy: Or did the sheep finally revolt?
Breezy: Answer your phone, Tom. Betsy is trying to call you.
Breezy: I mean, me Betsy, not sweet little lamb Betsy, by the way. Boy, that’s confusing now that I think about it. Maybe I should’ve given the twins different names.
Breezy: Probably too late now, huh? I mean, I’m certain they know their names by now, and that feels cruel to confuse them. Plus, they look like a Tom and Betsy.
Breezy: Hello? Earth to Tad? Where are you? Are you okay? I’m starting to get worried…
An hour of time passes between the last and next text.
Breezy: I talked to Randy. He said to give you space. I guess that’s what I’m doing, even though I don’t know what the hell that even means.
Guilt hits hard enough to knock the wind out of me. I stare at the blinking cursor, fingers suspended over the screen. And then I type the only thing that feels honest.
Me: I’m sorry about yesterday.
The message sits there. It’s delivered, but there’s no response.
I wait, but there are no bubbles indicating she’s responding. There’s no Breezy at all.
I shove the phone back into my pocket, jaw tight, and get back to work. I don’t know how much time passes, but I’m startled to a stop when I hear Breezy’s voice behind me.
“What are you sorry about exactly?”
It’s soft, but it cuts straight through me.
I turn. She’s standing in the doorway of the barn, framed by the cold light bouncing off the snow outside, and her phone is in her hand. Her hair’s pulled up in that messy knot she often wears whenever she’s pretending to be my farmhand.
She looks beautiful as fuck, and I feel like the world’s biggest dick for being so selfishly MIA yesterday. I could’ve at least answered her. Could’ve given her a reason not to worry about me.
But I didn’t because I was too wrapped up in my own bullshit and misery.
“Breezy,” I manage, but my voice sounds rougher than gravel.
“You didn’t answer your phone yesterday.
” She steps closer, and her boots make the straw on the ground crunch with each step.
“You didn’t answer my texts. You weren’t home all five times I checked.
I drove around half the town, thinking maybe your truck broke down or you got eaten by your sheep.
So forgive me if I need to hear your apology in person. ”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I drag a hand down my face.
“What happened?” she asks. “And why did Randy tell me I needed to give you space? I know you don’t technically owe me anything.
I know we don’t have a label on whatever it is we’re doing, but I do care about you.
A lot, actually. And I thought you cared about me, too.
I thought you cared enough not to leave me hanging in the wind like that to worry. ”
“Breezy, I do care about you. And you’re right. You’re completely right. I should’ve called or texted back. I shouldn’t have left you wondering like that,” I answer as honestly as I can. “But yesterday wasn’t about you. Truly. It’s…it’s me.”
Her brow furrows. “That feels vague as hell.”
“I know, but it’s not something I can really explain.”
“Well, how about you try?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Because I honestly think that if I disappeared for a full twenty-four hours, it would make it very fucking hard for you not to take it personally too.”
She’s right. With how attached-at-the-hip we’ve been the past two months, I would probably lose my mind if, all of a sudden, she went MIA for a full day. I’d think the worst. I’d scavenge the whole fucking town to make sure she was okay.
“Okay, you’re right. I can explain, but I refuse to fill your head with the dark shit that’s in mine,” I admit, quieter now.
She tilts her head. “So, what, you pull a Luke Danes and have some kind of ‘dark day’?”
“A what? A who?”
“Luke Danes. Gilmore Girls.”
“Are they from Red Bridge?”
That gets me the first smile I’ve seen on her face all morning. “No, smartass. He’s a TV character because it’s a TV show. Broody, emotionally unavailable, and wears flannel. Honestly, you’re doing a pretty good job of playing the part right now.”
“I don’t watch TV,” I say, a small smile on my lips to try to detour this conversation away from my fucking demons. “Too busy wrestling sheep.”
It doesn’t work, however.
Her brief smile fades and is replaced by something more fragile and vulnerable. “I know you don’t owe me an explanation, but…I’ve shared things with you. And I just thought maybe you felt comfortable enough to do the same with me…?”
“I do feel like I can, Breezy.” I swallow hard. “But this isn’t something I want to fill your head with.”
“I can handle dark shit, Tad.”
“I know you can, but…” I pause, completely unsure of what to say or do in this moment.
“But you still don’t want to tell me?”
“No. This isn’t shit I talk about with anyone.” Even myself. “I’m sorry.” I shake my head, avert my eyes to the ground before lifting them to meet hers again.
For a long moment, she doesn’t speak. The air between us is cold enough to see our breath, but warm enough to burn anyway. Then she takes a step closer.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “You don’t have to tell me.
Just… Can you promise me something?” she requests.
“Don’t up and disappear on me like that again.
At least…tell me it’s not a good day. Then I’ll at least understand, you know?
Then I’ll at least know you’re safe.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and it hits like a steel-toed boot to the gut.
I reach out, grip her hips, and pull her close until her chest brushes mine. “Spending time with you has made a lot of things better, Breeze. You have to know that. You’re…special to me.” I already feel like I’m telling her too much, revealing too much, but she deserves to hear it.
She looks up at me, and her eyes are a little glossy as they meet mine. “You’re special to me too.”
A tiny smile tugs at my mouth. “So special that you’ll forgive me for being an MIA asshat yesterday?”
“Yeah,” she whispers.
“You mean it?”
She nods, and that’s all I need. I lean in, pressing a kiss to her mouth—slow, grateful, still trembling with things I don’t know how to say. Things I wish I didn’t feel for her but still feel anyway.
When I pull back, she rests her forehead against mine.
“I probably should go check on Tom and Betsy.”
“I think that’s a good plan.” I smile. “Pretty sure Mabel was confused when she saw me out here but there was no Breezy to be found.”
“So, I’ll go play with them for a bit, and then you’ll make me some dinner as your final apology to me for being such an idiot?” she questions, and a soft chuckle escapes my lungs.
“I’ll even include dessert.”
“Okay. Yeah. That’ll definitely get you back in my good graces.” Breezy winks and heads for the pasture, where Mabel and her lambs are enjoying a little fresh air.
And I find myself watching her as she walks away.
A small, fragile kind of silence wraps around me, and my mind whispers, When are you going to realize that woman feels more like home than the farm, the house, or anything you’ve known in years?
But I don’t accept it. I can’t accept it.
Because Breezy Bishop doesn’t deserve to be attached to a fuckup like me, and I don’t deserve the chance to let someone down again.