I’m southbound on Ohio 83 just out of Millersburg. It’s past 9:00 P.M. and my police radio is quiet. T.J. made one stop about twenty minutes ago; a kid in a Mustang blew the stop sign out on Dogleg Road. On the west side of the county, the sheriff’s office is working on getting a loose horse back to its pasture.
I’m loath to admit it, but I want to go home; leaving the house wasn’t the most reasonable thing I could have done, especially when I’m exhausted and hungry and have a full day ahead of me tomorrow. I should have simply left the room, taken a shower, and gone to bed. I know Tomasetti well enough to know he would have given me my space.
But the fact of the matter is that this isn’t merely a lover’s spat that got out of hand and resulted in hurt feelings. The issues we’re facing are serious and far-reaching. I’ve always known we would eventually arrive at this crossroad. That we would one day have to answer pressing questions about our future and having a family. Until now, we’ve been cruising along, happy and healing and enjoying all the things that, before we met, seemed out of reach. You never expect the brick wall when you hit it.
I’ve always planned on getting married and having children, but neither of those things were pressing issues or something that I consciously thought about. It was a happy, someday thought in the periphery of my plans for the future. A someday when I’d reach some miraculous pinnacle in my life when I wasn’t so busy or so focused on my career. A point when Tomasetti wasn’t so damaged. When we were both fully healed and ready to move on to a new phase in our lives. Honestly, I hadn’t given the prospect of children much thought. But over the last months, I’d sensed Tomasetti’s reluctance. Comments he’d made or looks he’d given me during certain conversations. I’d never given his reaction a second thought. I never pursued a definitive answer or pushed him on any of it. It was the sort of thing I made light of because I knew our love would prevail.
The future arrived with astounding swiftness, and I’m no more ready now to have children than I was a month ago or six months ago or a year ago. Yes, I love Tomasetti. I love him with a desperation that’s so powerful it frightens me. Had he asked me to marry him, I would have said yes. But he didn’t, and now we’re out of time, and it breaks my heart that we’re unable to embrace what should have been a happy moment for both of us.
The only thing I know for certain is that we’re not going to get anything settled tonight. Better for me to spend it at my old house in Painters Mill. Give both of us time to cool down, do some thinking and maybe a little soul-searching.
I swing by the McDonald’s in Millersburg for a burger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake and then I head south toward Painters Mill, sipping on the cold drink and plucking fries from the bag as I drive. A sense of homecoming rolls over me when I turn onto Main Street, with its pretty storefronts and antique lampposts. I consider pulling in to the police station as I idle past, but I’m in no frame of mind to talk to anyone, even if I am feeling a little lonely. Better just to get to the house, eat and shower, and get a good night’s sleep.
I’m nearly there, when my cell phone emits a chirp. I glance down at the display, expecting to see Tomasetti’s name. I’m surprised when I see Painters Mill Police. I shove my Bluetooth over my head and catch the call on the third ring. “What’s up?” I say.
“Chief, I’m sorry to bother you at home,” my second-shift dispatcher begins, and I don’t correct her. “I just took a call from a guy using that Amish community pay phone on Hogpath Road. He says your brother was in a buggy accident and he’s hurt bad.”
“What? Jacob?” I hit the brake and pull over. “Where?”
“Out on CR 14.”
“What the hell is he doing out there?” It’s nearly six miles from my brother’s farm. “I’m on my way. Get an ambulance out there. County, too.”
“Got it.”
Glancing quickly in my rearview mirror, I make a U-turn in the middle of the street and hit the gas. I keep an eye out for pedestrians and other motorists as I speed through town, blowing the light at Main Street. The Explorer’s engine groans when I floor the accelerator. Vaguely, I’m aware of the radio coming to life as the call goes out. I think of my brother and all the things we’ve left unsaid and unfinished, and a renewed sense of urgency strikes me dead in the chest.
“Be okay, Jacob,” I whisper.
By the time I reach Delisle Road I’m doing eighty. I brake hard for County Road 14. My wheels screech when I make the turn. I drive a few yards, expecting to see lantern light or headlights or debris in the road ahead. But there’s nothing. No buggy. No horse. No sign of an accident. No indication that anyone has been here. I hit my radio. “What’s the twenty on that ten-fifty PI?”
“CR Fourteen, just off Delisle.”
“I’m ten-twenty-three. There’s no one here.” I pause. “Where’s the RP?”