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)
“Yeah. But it’s more than that. I don’t know… Seems like maybe you don’t take yourself very seriously either.”
“What’s the point?” I contend. “Why shouldn’t I just take shit one day at a time? Why should any of it have to be serious?”
Logan squints. “Because sometimes shit is serious. Sometimes life is fucking serious. People die.”
I purse my lips. “Yeah, I’m aware.”
I am more than aware that people die. So fucking aware I definitely should’ve switched to liquor.
Done with the conversation, I shove off my stool, dig in my pocket, and toss a ten-dollar bill on the bar for Marty. He nods at me, and I turn to leave without saying goodbye.
Logan doesn’t push it, letting me walk away without calling after me, and I’m glad because I sure would’ve hated to aggravate my sore hand again.
Cold air punches me in the throat and burns its way into my chest as I crunch across the gravel parking lot of The Country Club and climb into the single cab of my truck. I can see my breath in front of me—ragged and scattered and messy—and it’s all I can do not to get caught up in old wounds.
The first person I feel like calling or texting or going to is Breezy. But it’s no surprise. I’m still worried about her. And after having a long-ass, unplanned conversation with her brother, I can’t stop myself from sending her a quick text.
Me: Just wanted you to know I’m thinking about you. Hope you’re okay. Hope you’re getting the rest you need. And hope you know I’m here. I’m always here.
I stare down at the phone for a long moment. A part of me hoping to see bouncing text bubbles indicating she’s answering me. A part of me hoping she’ll help drown out the ghosts that are threatening to suffocate me.
But when nothing comes, I set my phone into the cupholder and crank the engine of my truck.
With a shake of my head, I grab the gearshift and pull it down into drive and aim toward home.
The farm and the sheep will be waiting.
And heading toward them is a hell of a lot better than getting sucked back into the past.
36
Breezy
Sunday, March 21st
Yesterday, after getting home from Josie’s house, I crawled straight into bed and didn’t move again until the sun forced its way through the curtains.
I just needed a moment to wrap my mind around the life-altering, I’m-going-be-a-mama news. I also needed more moments to cry and throw up and stare at the ceiling for what felt like hours, whispering the same words in my head until they finally stuck.
I’m pregnant. With Tad’s baby.
Tad texted me yesterday—twice—but I never responded. Lord knows, it had been a long day of puking, tears, exhaustion, life-changing news, and that didn’t even include the pay-per-view worthy fight that broke out between Bennett and Logan and Tad.
I still don’t know the whys and hows of Tad ending up in the fray of my brothers’ bullshit, but I can only assume the shouting carried all the way over to his farm.
So, yeah. When I woke up this morning and saw Tad’s texts still sitting there unanswered by me, I knew what I needed to do.
I don’t know exactly how I’m going to say the words—I’m pregnant with your baby doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue—but showing up with his favorite coffee from CAFFEINE feels like a decent start.
Josie’s coffee shop is busy as hell, but that’s probably because it’s Sunday morning. Besides The Diner, this is the go-to spot for the after-church crowd, and no one is ever in a rush to leave.
I put in my order with Josie at the register, and by the look in her knowing eyes, she understands what the order stands for. But she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t question or hound me about it. She just nods, types it in, and slides my change across the counter like we’re playing poker and she’s protecting my hand from the world. Too many ears in the room to say anything else.
Camille makes my two coffees, and I take them over to sit down at an empty bistro table to wait for the rest of my order. It’s only a few minutes later when Josie delivers my muffin with a wink and a smile before retreating to the counter, Clay chasing behind her while she swats his hands away from her ass.
“Get away from me, wild man!”
“Don’t tempt me, Josie. I’m all prepared to show you wild,” Clay taunts.
She giggles, and I tuck my returning smile behind a sip of coffee when she looks back over at me. Josie is the type who wants to be happy—and wants you to be happy for her—but she sure as hell doesn’t want to hear about it.
She’s a lot like me in that way; she’s tough, hardened from trauma and loss and family betrayal. Closed off with a gate and a latch and a lock and a chain to protect herself from what might happen if she lets anyone inside.