Page 112 of Where I Should’ve Been

“Listen, old man, if I was gonna talk about it, I wouldn’t talk about it with you. I’d talk about it with—”

Blunt realization hits me between the eyes like the sharp end of a pry bar. If I were going to talk about it with anyone, it’d be the very woman I’ve been boxing out. Breezy isn’t just a houseguest or a fling or a casual fucking lay like I thought she’d be—she’s my future.

She’s the spark I’ve been missing, the reason I’m willing to live again.

I fucking love her.

And holding back now isn’t protecting me or her—it’s destroying us in a bout of self-sabotage that could be studied by the world’s foremost psychologists and still not be understood.

“Pete, I gotta go.”

“Yeah.” He grins at me like he can actually see inside my fucking head. “That’s what I thought. Glad I could be of service getting your head outta your ass.”

I still have a chance to make this right. To tell her my story and beg her to forgive me for holding her at arm’s length for so long.

A chance to have her and our baby and grow old together. A chance at happiness I never thought I’d have again.

I dig in my pocket for some cash, tossing a few bills on the bar and waving at Clay and Marty with a two-finger flick. They both jerk their chins in reply, and I grab the flannel from the stool next to me and head out the front door, my eyes adjusting to the soft light of the fading sun with a jolt. I look up to the sky, stopping there and taking a deep breath.

As I let the air out, I feel cleansed by clarity. What I want, what I need to do to have it—it all seems so simple now.

Sheriff Pete bumps into my back as he comes running out the door behind me, apologizing blindly until he sees it’s me, and then freezes dead in his tracks, his eyes troubled.

“What’s up, Pete?” I ask as he rubs the top of his head frantically. Sirens in the distance catch my attention before he can answer, growing closer by the second until the fire trucks are in sight and flying by in a hurry.

I turn back to Pete, his upset making sense—too much sense—in one, soul-crushing moment.

Sheriff Peeler is contrite, doing his best to be comforting, but I’m already a mile deep on a spiral no other human on this earth could possibly imagine. “I’m sorry, Tad. It’s your place. Nor and Ben just called it in, but said your truck had come and gone, so you wouldn’t be home.”

“Fuck!”

“Tad!” Pete yells as I take off for my truck at a run.

“Breezy’s inside!” I yell back without stopping, jumping in and starting it so fast, I swear my tires are spitting gravel before my ass even hits the seat.

Time slows down into a chasm, and my nightmares take shape in the light of day.

I can’t fucking do this again.

I won’t survive it.

44

Tad

Ten Years Ago

March 14th

The first sight as I wind around the bend and come over the hill is a punch to the gut in every sense it can be, a glowing mix of orange and thick black and ash curling into the otherwise blue sky.

My memories, my things, my home, picked for its perfect, quaint setting and idyllic white fence—up in flames. My legs move first, jumping from the truck at a run before it’s even stopped, my thoughts a mask of emptiness to let my brain protect itself just a little longer. My knee jolts on the loose, snow-melted, sloppy ground, but I don’t slow.

I’m already equipped with my air tank and respirator, having strapped in during the ride, and I breathe carefully to conserve my limited supply of oxygen.

But the glow of the fire as it rolls through the broken glass of blown-out windows is all I can see—all I can feel—as I cross the distance, and before I know it, I’m gulping over the sound of my own frenzy.

I hit the front door with a shoulder, snapping the wood frame with ease and barreling into the house in what feels like a fraction of a moment.