Page 18 of Where I Should’ve Been

“What? What’s that sound mean?”

“It means you absolutely need a babysitter. How the fuck would you have gotten home the other night if it weren’t for me?”

I sigh. I want to go to war—lash out and shit. But his bringing up the other night so organically is too good an opportunity to pass up.

“I guess I wouldn’t have. I don’t fucking know.” I pull my gloves off and tuck them into my back pocket, wiping sweat and melted snow from my forehead. “Did everything…go okay?”

“Did everything go okay?” he repeats, confused. I can’t blame him. I don’t really even know what I’m asking myself. “I mean, you were drunk. So, that wasn’t ideal. But Breezy’s Range Rover got stuck in the snow, and we did our best to help her out.”

“Right,” I say, kicking at the snow. “So…when you dropped us at my place…what was the vibe?”

Randy squints at me like I just started speaking French. “The what?”

“The vibe,” I repeat, trying to sound casual.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You know—” I wave my hand vaguely “—the…energy.”

“The energy?” His brows knit tighter. “Should I know what the fuck you’re talking about right now?”

No, Randy. No, you shouldn’t. Because I don’t fucking know either.

“I just mean, how was Breezy acting that night? How was I acting?”

“Tad, it was snowing, you were shit-faced, and she was tired from driving and didn’t want to wake up Bennett and Norah’s little girl in the middle of the night. Pretty sure she just wanted to go to bed, you know? And you…you needed to sleep off the booze.”

My heart skips. “Go to bed like…?”

“Go to bed like sleep. As in, the human thing we all do when the sun goes down. Jesus.”

“Why didn’t you stay with us?”

His face scrunches. “Why would I stay at your house when I have a house of my own?”

“Forget it,” I mutter quickly.

“No, brother. You want a damn itinerary? You want me to tell you the exact times I picked you up from The Country Club and dropped Maybelline Ross off at her place because you apparently think I’m some kind of Uber driver when you’re shit-faced?”

His voice is thick with years of pent-up aggression, and it takes everything in me not to give it right back. He hates me deep down, I know it. But I damn well have reason to hate him too.

“No, Rand. I’m good,” I grind out.

He growls and storms off toward the barn, and I move toward the house to put on some dry damn clothes.

I don’t have any answers, but I have a routine. And Clay’s damn bar is the next fucking part of it.

6

Breezy

Thursday, January 14th

It’s been three days since I landed in Red Bridge, and I’ve spent all seventy-two hours feeling like a glossy Manhattan fish plopped into the drained fountain of a very snowy small town.

Out of breath, out of resources, and out of freaking water.

Three days of playing third wheel in Bennett and Norah’s idyllic farmhouse life and unpacking my stupid suitcases and putting my clothes and toiletries away in the guest room like I’m planning on staying awhile.