Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
He knows what yesterday was. And he deals with it by pretending it’s just another day and gives me space. He never asks questions, even though he got a phone call from Clay to pick my drunk ass up from The Country Club at two in the morning. And yesterday, he didn’t try to track me down when I wasn’t at home all day and night and he was left dealing with the farm on his own.
Years ago, that’s not how he would’ve reacted. But now, he doesn’t try to move me out of my own way. He lets me circle the drain quietly.
When I woke up yesterday morning, hungover as fuck and March 14 staring back at me from the screen of my phone, I felt like I was going to crawl out of my fucking skin.
I left the house before seven and started driving. As if the more distance I put between myself and Red Bridge, the more oxygen I’d be able to successfully breathe into my lungs.
I ended up two hundred miles outside of town and made myself pull over and stay in a rickety highway hotel because it felt pretty fucking apt for my current state. Run-down, dusty, seen better days, it wasn’t the kind of place you’d want to take your family.
But it felt like what I deserved.
I slept like shit, tossed and turned the whole fucking night, and when the sun started to rise high in the sky, I got back in my truck and drove home.
Now I’m back, trying to bury myself in mundane farming routines.
Shovel. Feed. Water. Wrestle a few sheep from the fence. Repeat.
But my phone keeps burning in my pocket because of all the unanswered texts and calls Breezy sent me yesterday.
Eventually, I pull it out and make myself reread the messages she sent.
Breezy: You alive, Farm Daddy?
Breezy: Or did the sheep finally revolt?
Breezy: Answer your phone, Tom. Betsy is trying to call you.
Breezy: I mean, me Betsy, not sweet little lamb Betsy, by the way. Boy, that’s confusing now that I think about it. Maybe I should’ve given the twins different names.
Breezy: Probably too late now, huh? I mean, I’m certain they know their names by now, and that feels cruel to confuse them. Plus, they look like a Tom and Betsy.
Breezy: Hello? Earth to Tad? Where are you? Are you okay? I’m starting to get worried…
An hour of time passes between the last and next text.
Breezy: I talked to Randy. He said to give you space. I guess that’s what I’m doing, even though I don’t know what the hell that even means.
Guilt hits hard enough to knock the wind out of me. I stare at the blinking cursor, fingers suspended over the screen. And then I type the only thing that feels honest.
Me: I’m sorry about yesterday.
The message sits there. It’s delivered, but there’s no response.
I wait, but there are no bubbles indicating she’s responding. There’s no Breezy at all.
I shove the phone back into my pocket, jaw tight, and get back to work. I don’t know how much time passes, but I’m startled to a stop when I hear Breezy’s voice behind me.
“What are you sorry about exactly?”
It’s soft, but it cuts straight through me.
I turn. She’s standing in the doorway of the barn, framed by the cold light bouncing off the snow outside, and her phone is in her hand. Her hair’s pulled up in that messy knot she often wears whenever she’s pretending to be my farmhand.
She looks beautiful as fuck, and I feel like the world’s biggest dick for being so selfishly MIA yesterday. I could’ve at least answered her. Could’ve given her a reason not to worry about me.
But I didn’t because I was too wrapped up in my own bullshit and misery.
“Breezy,” I manage, but my voice sounds rougher than gravel.
“You didn’t answer your phone yesterday.” She steps closer, and her boots make the straw on the ground crunch with each step. “You didn’t answer my texts. You weren’t home all five times I checked. I drove around half the town, thinking maybe your truck broke down or you got eaten by your sheep. So forgive me if I need to hear your apology in person.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I drag a hand down my face.
“What happened?” she asks. “And why did Randy tell me I needed to give you space? I know you don’t technically owe me anything. I know we don’t have a label on whatever it is we’re doing, but I do care about you. A lot, actually. And I thought you cared about me, too. I thought you cared enough not to leave me hanging in the wind like that to worry.”
“Breezy, I do care about you. And you’re right. You’re completely right. I should’ve called or texted back. I shouldn’t have left you wondering like that,” I answer as honestly as I can. “But yesterday wasn’t about you. Truly. It’s…it’s me.”