Page 111 of Where I Should’ve Been

A man who’s been through it all.

A man who’s barely hanging on.

It’s only after I’ve settled in that a thought jolts me upright. My phone—I left it in the guestroom. If Tad reaches out, I need to see it.

I climb out carefully, wrap a towel around myself, and tug a T-shirt over my still damp skin before stepping back into the hall. But the world tilts hard to the side.

“Whoa,” I whisper, catching the wall as the edges of my vision pulse gray and wooziness slaps me in the face.

I stumble to the wall just inside the bedroom, sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor.

Fuck, I should have eaten.

Head spinning and heart racing, I lie all the way down and blink up at the ceiling as the overwhelming notion that I’m about to pass out overtakes me.

Yep. This is happening.

The last thing I see before the world fades is the ceiling swaying above me like it’s underwater.

Then everything goes black.

43

Tad

Abigail’s shirt rests in my lap, the smell of her mingling with the scent of Breezy as it clings to the fabric. I fiddle with the glass of water in front of me, watching as condensation beads up and runs down on the wood surface of Clay’s bar, puddling in a ring.

Clay and Marty rush around behind the bar, serving customers, but I don’t pay much mind to anyone other than the people in my thoughts.

Breezy. Abigail. Lucy.

Two lost forever, and the other probably well and gone and on her way to somewhere, anywhere but here with me.

Fuck.

I can still hear their laughter, still see their smiles—still feel the guilt of letting them down like it’s fucking yesterday. And now, I’m failing again. Breezy and the baby. Myself. Randy. Everyone who’s ever fought for me—I’m disrespecting every fucking one. All because I can’t find a way to cope out loud.

Can’t find a way to get the stupid words out of my throat. Can’t find a way to—

I shake my head. Fuck, I need a drink.

Whistling down the bar to get Clay’s attention, I set Abby’s shirt on the stool to my left and sink my head into my hands. A million memories of all the fights we had, from big to small, run through my head like a fucking torture chamber. All the stupid reasons, all the stubborn moments I kept my head in my ass instead of apologizing, all the chances to say I’m sorry I didn’t take nearly fucking fast enough…

“Hey, kid,” a deep voice says, startling me from the right. I’m expecting it to be Clay, but instead, it’s the sheriff, sliding onto the stool next to me uninvited. “Little early in the day to be looking so much like shit, isn’t it?”

“Little early in the day to be at the bar while you’re on duty, isn’t it?” I toss back, but it only makes him laugh.

“Just came in for a glass of water, that’s all.”

“Yeah.” I snort. “Sure.”

I know Sheriff Pete’s dirty little secret—that he sneaks in here from time to time for a drink or two just to get through the day. Nobody else thinks much of it, I guess, but I know why he does it, unfortunately. I know just as well as him—sometimes it’s the only thing that’ll numb the pain. His wife passed away not too long ago, and he’s never been the same since. Sure, he plays at flirting with Eileen from time to time, but he’s never moved on to anyone else for real.

“What’s got you so churned up?” the sheriff asks, and I shake my head.

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

“Yeah, I can see that. I ain’t blind. Still. Maybe you should talk about it anyway.”