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)
“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.
Three days of my brain spinning like a broken record over a million different things.
Dad’s last voice mail to me before he died.
Past conversations with my father about the galleries and his will.
Logan’s face when I told him I quit.
Logan telling me he’d known about Dad’s plan with the galleries for a whole six months and how I was painfully oblivious the entire time.
All that thinking, and still, I’ve done absolutely nothing to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do next.
For someone who’s made a career out of crisis management and high-stakes openings, this particular limbo feels like the earth’s gravity has disappeared and I’m floating around aimlessly while the world below keeps spinning.
Ugh. I really need to get my shit together.
I glance at my phone out of habit—the fast-paced life I left behind creeping into my subconscious even if I am in a small-town respite—and the three texts I haven’t read or cleared from my littlest brother taunt me once again.
Logan: Breezy, call me.
Logan: Please.
Logan: Just talk to me so I can explain. Groveling via text is so disingenuous.
It doesn’t matter how many times he texts or calls or pleads; I have no desire to respond.
Dimming the screen again, I walk toward the gurgling, faintly misting coffeepot as it finishes its brew, waiting not so patiently for the beep of finality before stealing the pot and filling a cup for myself. I sit down at the big farmhouse kitchen table across from my sister-in-law and niece and soak in the smell of dark roast and vanilla creamer.
They’re trivial in the grand scheme, but in the little moments like these, they help—as does the sight of Norah feeding Autumn breakfast while my niece giggles and smiles in her high chair.
“Bee! I eat! I eat!” Autumn exclaims as a big plop of yogurt drops from her spoon and onto the floor.
“Good job, Autumn,” I say as I flash a secret smile at Norah. “You’re such a big girl.”
“Big gurl! Me! Eat!”
This kitchen is all wide-planked wood and barely filtered sun, a mocking, far cry from my sleek Chelsea office, and there are no ringing phones, no Richters or Rothkos or Warhols, and no interns with clipboards—just my sister-in-law in one of Bennett’s favorite flannels and my giggly niece trying to feed herself yogurt with a spoon.
It’s not the gallery, but it is art. And I work hard to center myself enough to take it in.
The warmth. The comfort. The homey feel of a family and its love.