Page 72 of Where I Should’ve Been

Your bones tell you. Your skin tells you.

The fucking clock tells you when it clicks over and you’re forced back on the ride to hell.

28

Breezy

Sunday, March 14th

By the time the sun drags itself over Red Bridge, the world feels wrong.

Not bad, exactly. Just…off.

Maybe it’s because I didn’t sleep much. My sweet little Autumn decided last night was the perfect moment to test how many times she could roll across a queen-size bed.

For the record? It was a lot.

I’m pretty sure her cute little butt didn’t fall asleep until nearly midnight.

Thankfully, she didn’t wake up until eight thirty.

Once we get out of bed and make our way into the kitchen, I cook her breakfast, put some of her curls up in a half-pony, and pretend not to check my phone every five minutes. No text from Tad. No “Morning, Betsy.” No smartass sheep memes or dirty innuendos. Nothing.

It’s weird. We’ve talked every single morning for nearly two months straight now.

By ten a.m., I’m telling myself he’s probably busy. Feeding the sheep, fixing a fence, doing whatever rugged farm stuff he does that somehow always ends with me naked in his bed.

By noon, the logic stops working.

I call him. It rings four times and kicks to voice mail.

I text. Nothing.

I text again. Still nothing.

Me: You alive, Farm Daddy?

Me: Or did the sheep finally revolt?

Me: Answer your phone, Tom. Betsy is trying to call you.

When Autumn goes down for her nap, and Bennett and Norah are back home, and I’ve texted Tad more messages than I can count, I finally give up pretending I’m chill and grab my keys.

But Tad’s truck isn’t in the drive when I pull up to his place. The house looks dark.

I knock. No answer.

I knock again. Nothing.

I circle around back, boots crunching in the snow. His barn’s quiet except for a few soft bleats from the sheep. I half expect him to pop out, grin tugging at his mouth, and a funny explanation about whatever chaos his sheep brought for the day, but the only thing I find is Randy tossing feed, his breath a cloud in the cold.

“Hey,” I call. “You seen Tad?”

Randy glances up, his expression flickering—surprise, then something else I can’t name. He wipes his hands on his jeans. “No. But he’s probably gonna be unreachable for the rest of the day.”

“Unreachable?” I echo. “Did he go somewhere?”

Randy hesitates, eyes darting toward the house and back. “Yeah. I guess that’s one way to put it.”