Page 78 of Where I Should’ve Been

“But she doesn’t want to talk to you. When are you going to get that through your thick fucking skull? What you did was unthinkable. It was pure betrayal.”

“It wasn’t my choice!” Logan argues. “I—”

“Shut up. Just shut up! Both of you!” A sheen of sweat coats my forehead and neck, and I use my T-shirt to swipe it off my skin as I try to talk both of my brothers off the ledge. “Seriously. I need the two of you to find some way to calm down. If not for me, for the sake of your daughter, Ben. She’s in there taking a nap, and if you wake her up—”

My stomach bubbles, and my anxiety ratchets up.

Ugh. I think…I think I might get sick.

Is it the migraine?

Is it the stress of seeing Logan again after months have passed and having to be reminded of everything I’ve lost while still basically being a squatter in Bennett’s house who doesn’t seem to have the motivation or gumption or desire to leave?

Or is it the fact that our father died unexpectedly a few months ago and completely betrayed me from the grave, and my brothers can’t seem to act their fucking age whenever they’re placed in the same goddamn room together?

Or maybe, and this might be a terrifying thought, it’s all those things combined, plus a million other things that include the reality you won’t face—you’re secretly falling for the sheep farmer you swore was just a distraction—and it’s all hitting you in one big wave?

Holy fuck. My stomach gurgles and nausea climbs my throat, and I am most definitely going to puke.

Putting a hand over my mouth, I make a dash for the trash can, flipping up the lid and throwing up the coffee and eggs Norah made a few hours ago. The taste is putrid, and my whole body shakes with the unexpected upheaval.

“You okay?” Logan asks as Bennett moves to put a hand to my back. I wave them both off, trying to get my bearings and decide whether I’m done. I feel awful all of a sudden, and I swear if I don’t use all my strength to fight it, I might pass out right here on the floor.

“Dammit, Logan. You’ve got Breezy so fucking stressed with all this, she’s getting sick. When is your selfishness going to be done? When is it going to be enough?”

“Me?” Logan tosses back, his voice rising once again. “I’m trying to make things right. I’m here, hanging out in fucking Mary Poppins Land, fighting a damn flock of sheep to get to your house, trying to rebuild a bridge. You’re the one who fucking yells and takes out his fists every time you see me. Maybe you’re the one stressing Breezy out? Ever think of that?”

“Oh, screw you! I didn’t steal her fucking galleries. The ones she’s been working at since she graduated high school!”

“I didn’t steal them. Dad left them to me. And I’m trying—”

“You’re trying to ruin everything! You’re always trying to ruin everything!” Bennett yells. His voice is loud and raw with thirty-plus years of aggression. This isn’t a normal sibling rivalry—this is trauma bonding and perfidy and a powder keg load of testosterone.

Autumn’s cry is soft, but aside from Bennett’s heavy breathing and Logan’s wide eyes, it’s the only thing left in the accusation’s wake.

“Great,” Bennett growls. “You woke the baby.”

“Me?” Logan protests. “I’m not the one huffing and puffing the whole damn house down.”

“I’ll get Autumn,” I offer, willing my stomach to settle and then stepping back to the trash can when it turns again. I lose the rest of the contents of my stomach in a violent swoop that burns my throat and makes my eyes tear. Embarrassment rests on my lips atop the aftermath of throwing up. I reach for a paper towel from the roll next to the sink, falling into the counter when my legs unexpectedly go out from under me.

“Okay, fuck. Sit down, Breeze,” Bennett orders, and Logan pulls out a chair from the kitchen table and puts it behind me.

I barely manage to sit before the front door slams open with a crack that rattles the hinges. Cold air knifes through the kitchen, and Tad fills the doorway in three long strides.

His jaw is clenched, and his eyes scan the room wildly until they lock on me.

“Breezy?” His voice hits like a thunderclap—rough, panicked, protective. “Are you okay?”

Both Bennett and Logan whirl toward him, startled, but Tad’s already crossing the room. His chest heaves like he sprinted the whole way here.

“What the hell’s going on in here?” Tad demands, voice booming enough to cut through the lingering echo of the slammed door.

But before I can say something, before I can intervene, nausea grips my throat, and I have to shut my eyes as the world spins on its axis.

Which is a fucking shame because I’m basically in the middle of an old Western film and a street-style shootout appears imminent now that a third gun-wielder has arrived. And without sight, all I can do is listen.

“What the fuck?” Bennett shouts at Tad. “What are you doing in my house?”