The Roots of Us

by Candace Knoebel

  “Footage?” His voice was as uneven as mine. Realizing that only poured fuel onto the ache simmering in my lower stomach.

  I nodded my head, though there was no reason for me to. My nerves were getting the best of me. “I’m a film editor,” I said, resting my hand on the edge of the bus, trying to level my voice. “I do a lot of freelance work, but I’m currently sort of on a creative pause, so I’m focusing on building my portfolio.”

  My eyes grazed over the small birthmark on the back of his neck, visible only because his hair was held back in a bun. It was an asymmetric circle, jagged like the banks of a lake.

  “Are you from Florida?” He kept his gaze intent on what he was working on.

  My stomach fluttered, lifting the corners of my lips. He noticed. “No. I travel a lot in my line of work, so keeping a home base is kind of pointless.”

  There was a long moment of quiet before he said something again. Long enough I felt words pushing their way up my throat to avoid the awkward silence. But then he squashed them back down when he asked, “How long are you here for?”

  I wasn’t sure why that question made my skin turn hot. Maybe it was how he asked it. Or maybe it was the implication that could have been behind it… but inside that question, I saw a flash of us in the midst of a passionate afternoon. Arms and legs tangled as fingers grazed skin and lips tasted each other’s pain.

  I must have gotten lost in that fantasy, because when I realized he had stopped and was staring at me, I quickly readjusted my stance and said, “Oh, umm… I rented a small place. It’s a week-to-week thing. I’m giving myself two months, but it honestly depends on what project pops up next. Like I said, it’s hard for me to stay rooted in one place before the need to travel claws at me.”

  The light in his eyes dimmed. “That’s a shame. I think Florida would be lucky to have you.”

  A rich shade of red blossomed in my cheeks.

  He didn’t have any other questions after that.

  “Is it the battery?” I tried to see over his looming shoulder when I couldn’t take the silence any longer. “I tried cleaning off the connection.”

  He didn’t say anything. Just kept tinkering, keeping his words and his thoughts to himself. Moments later, he grimaced, and then there was a popping sound. I waited for him to say something… anything, but he was as tight-lipped as ever.

  “You’re not a man of many words, are you?”

  That got his attention. He stopped moving. Pondered the thought, face unmoving, before he answered, “I guess not.”

  I leaned closer, leaping on the small window of conversation. “I think I talk too much. Especially when I’m nervous.” I waited a beat, chewing on my lip before adding, “You’re not a big flirter either, huh?”

  I noticed his shoulders tense up ever so slightly. I never feared being blunt. Or being the first to engage. If I saw something or someone I wanted, I went after it. Life was too short to follow the rules of formality. I made my own rules, and I stuck by them when it came to men and sex. Three to be exact.

  1. Don’t ever let a man make me feel less than I am.

  2. Don’t wait around for a man to make a move if I’m into him.

  3. Don’t fall in love. Ever.

  “There, I think I got it.” He cranked a bolt into place. Apparently, he wasn’t going to answer my question. He pointed to the inside of my bus, telling me without words to start the engine for him as he used his other arm to wipe some of the water from his face.

  He was glorious when soaked to the bone, somehow seeming larger than life.

  With a small sigh, I left him and hopped into the front seat, swiping the rain from my face before turning the key over. A few stuttering clicks happened, and then the engine roared to life. “Yessss,” I said, smoothing my hands over the steering wheel. “Who knew all you needed was a little masculinity under your hood to get your engine going,” I whispered to her as my cheeks went pink.

  Hudson closed the hood and then turned, heading back to his car parked a few feet away.

  He wasn’t going to say bye?

  A frown crossed my lips. “Wait,” I called out, jogging over to where he stood. He was already reaching for his door handle when I asked, “Can I buy you a coffee or something? As a thank you?”

  An agony I couldn’t understand swam within his eyes. “Hartley, I can’t.”

  The way he said my name was a punch straight to my heart. Like he had rehearsed the way he wanted it to sound falling off his lips until it was a perfect syllabic blend of vowels and consonants.

  I swallowed the fist rammed in my throat. “You can’t drink coffee? Or you can’t drink coffee with me?” I pushed, the rain pelting down on us from all sides.

  Torture invaded his dark eyes.

  I softened my tone, but kept my resolve. “It’s just coffee, Hudson. Nothing more.”

  His eyes found mine, and the bright shock of fear and pain felt like a knife through my soul.

  No. He can’t drink it with me. His answer was there like a brick wall between us.

  Someone or something had damaged him beyond anything I’d ever encountered.

  I planted my hands on my hips, determined to get some kind of reaction out of him. Just for kicks. “Well, are you at least going to let me thank you before running off?”

  His eyes stared past me, past where we were, as if there was a ghost of pain looming in the hazy distance. When he finally lowered his head to focus on me, he said, “You just did. Don’t mention it.”

  He was in his car the next second, leaving me standing there in the rain as confused about him as ever.

  THE SCENT OF LEMON CLEANER reminded me of heartache.

  That was what I returned to when I went home. The house I’d rented for the past week reeked heavily of it, dredging up old feelings I didn’t want to acknowledge. I tried lighting a candle to erase the scent, but it didn’t keep the memories anchored to that smell from surfacing. The images of that night when I found my mother in the kitchen on her hands and knees, strawberry red from scrubbing the pristine tiles in fervent circles, coming up to haunt me.

  “Mom?”

  I remembered calling her name as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, but she couldn’t hear me from wherever she’d gone in her mind. She liked to clean whenever she was stressed, but it was different that time. There was a madness in her circular movements. Angered stopping and starting as she repeatedly dunked her hands into the bucket of scalding water, as if she could scrub away the hurt ripping at her soul.

  Our home suddenly felt unfamiliar, as if I had stepped into a stranger’s house.

  I remembered the way the tears sloped over the hills of her cheeks, and then splattered against the porcelain. I’d never seen her cry before. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen an adult cry, and it made my stomach twist in an uncomfortable way. I wanted to reach out to her, but there was an ocean of tile between us I wasn’t allowed to cross.

  When she finished, she peered over at me hiding in the corner, her syrup-brown eyes wild and brimming with pain. Her voice, raw and angered, crawled up from the depths of my mind. “No man can ever make you truly happy, Hartley. Not a single one. They will only break you. You hear me?”

  I was twelve when I had my first sample of what a broken heart sounded like. It was spite and anger and a suffocating hollowness.

  Dad didn’t come home that night, or any night after.

  From then on, she built a fortress of cynicism around us that towered up into the clouds. Its walls were constructed out of lies and regret. Surrounded by a mote of mistrust no man could ever cross.

  I tried everything I could not to think about Hudson and the buried look in his eyes, but it was of no use. I was drawn to him in a way I’d never been with anyone else. As if my soul recognized his, and that was dangerous, because no man was worth getting lost in.

  Not even the kind that saved lives.

  SEPTEMBER 13, 2015

  MY BODY WAS FINALLY ADJUSTING to Florida’s thi
ck heat. It was unrelenting, even in September. Miserable, I’d hear most locals saying, but I loved misery. Like anything in life, the bad had to be embraced so the good would be that much sweeter. Being miserable only made those rare moments of happiness that much better. Like the afternoons when I’d sit on the back porch of my rented house and a soft breeze would blow through. I’d close my eyes and smile, grateful for the break. Or when the heat would get so intense I’d put on a bathing suit and rush down to the ocean to feel the cool water.

  Misery drove us to seek happiness.

  It was Friday, which meant I’d have plenty of opportunity to get good footage of local activity over the next two days. I liked people-watching. It made me feel smaller in some ways. Made my life take a backseat to what was going on around me.

  Royalties from my last project were still consistent, so I decided to put a deposit down for another week. The small house was owned by an elderly woman who was more than happy to have a resident. According to her, business was slow.

  There weren’t many on the road since I’d beat the rush-hour traffic. The traffic there was insanity. I planned my day around trying to avoid it. I’d never seen so many drivers scared of merging.

  Sticking my hand out the window, the warm breeze laced through my fingers. A song came on the radio that pinged against my heart, so I reached over and cranked the volume.

  There was nothing like the feeling of a good song with the windows down, driving alone on my way home. It was a unique cathartic feeling, as if the world was at my fingertips and all I had to do was grasp it. As I sang, an easy smile pulled at the corner of my lips. I pulled off into the gas station for my afternoon coffee. Nearly one month in, and I was already forming habits like a local. There was only one other car in the parking lot, a Monte Carlo.

  I hated Monte Carlos.

  They signified absence and confusion. Tears and a yearly change of scenery, which meant new friends at a new school. I shoved away the memories creeping up the back of my mind and hopped out. A piece of paper was taped to the machine, noting I needed to pay inside before pumping.

  Crossing the graveled lot, I opened the door and headed straight for the cashier.

  That’s when I saw him.

  Hudson, standing at the register, digging into his pockets.

  My stomach leapt to my throat, hiding beside my heart as my feet melded to the ground. Every thought inside my head vanished like a wisp of smoke except for one—why? It had been over two weeks since I last saw him. I hadn’t even thought of him.

  So why did he have this effect on me?

  A fresh cup of coffee sat between him and the cashier. He pulled his hands free from his pockets, empty. “I must have forgotten my wallet.”

  The cashier stared at him. I’d seen her in a there a time or two. Always with smudged eyeliner and tired eyes. I didn’t take her for much of a talker. Maybe she was sick of words. Maybe they brought her no comfort; therefore, there was no need to engage in using them.

  “I’m sorry,” Hudson continued, scratching the side of his beard. “It’s been one of those days, you know?”

  The woman didn’t blink. I somehow found my senses.

  “I’ve got it.” I moved around him, his masculine scent overwhelmingly sexy, and sat a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. Looking up into those tired, blue eyes, I said, “Can you put the rest on pump one, please?” I was trying to focus on her, my ears and my chest on fire.

  He stared down at me, his face unchanged. Still stoic. Still reserved. But his eyes didn’t lie. The crystal blue color deepened with need and pain. How two small orbs could be more powerful than gravity itself boggled me, because I felt like I was floating when I gazed into them. Drifting away, to a place others had never been.

  A place he’d made clear we’d never visit.

  I cleared my throat. “Looks like I get to buy you that coffee after all,” I said, then I turned and left, my pulse skyrocketing.

  “What’s your issue?” I whispered under my breath as I reached for the pump. My hands were shaking, heart still rattling as if it were trying to be released from its cage.

  I was almost finished pumping when I heard the crunching of footsteps across the gravel, headed in my direction.

  “Hey,” he said quietly, rounding the corner of my bus.

  “Hi.” I kept my eyes forward, watching the numbers clicking past.

  “I don’t really date.”

  I flinched back as a small, surprised laugh awkwardly left my lips. “Well, there goes my cover. And here I thought I was indiscreetly pulling out all the stops to woo you.” I pinned him with a slitted look. “That means dinner by candlelight is off the table then?”

  I could almost see the words tangling in his mouth before his eyes dropped to his feet. There might have even been a slight blush to his cheeks, but it was too hard to tell underneath all that gruff. Why was he still trying it with me? Couldn’t he see I was trouble?

  “I’m… shit.” He ruffled a hand through the back of his hair before lifting his gaze to mine.

  The ice in his eyes was thawing.

  “Sorry,” he continued, his tone a bit softer. “I’m not a people person. I’ve never been good at holding a conversation. Martha, the woman who helps me run my diner, says it’s something I need to work on. She says I’m too abrasive.”

  I remembered her. The tuft of gray. The scolding, mothering words. From what I’d gathered, she was exactly right.

  I stared at him for a moment, partly because I was baffled and still trying to catch up to his change of mood, and partly because I wanted him to suffer. But it didn’t seem to work, because his eyes remained intent and focused on me, unswayed by my attempt at seeming aloof.

  I was hot again, and I wasn’t sure if it was because of the angle the sun was cutting through, or because of the way his eyes played over me in such a familiar, intimate way. It was the palms turning clammy, cheeks building a sheen of discomfort kind of hot.

  “I had a grandmother like her,” I said, finding my voice. I wasn’t going to let him win this. I could control my emotions. I would control my emotions. “Nona. She was a walking spitfire with enough love to fill the world. Always had a way of explaining things that helped the world make sense.”

  He pulled a toothpick from his pocket, twirled it between his fingers, and then planted it between his teeth. Perfectly white teeth, I noted, as if carved out of marble. He twirled it a few times before speaking, and spoke around it without it ever falling out, as if he’d done that his whole life.

  Judging by the plain white T-shirt, jean shorts, and flip-flops he had on, I figured he had.

  I stuck my hand out. “Let’s have a do-over. I’m Hartley Fernsby.”

  A smile hitched at the corner of his mouth, his large hand enveloping mine. “Hudson. Hudson Jameson.”

  We shook, a small gesture. Simple. Endearing.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Hudson,” I said as he let go of my hand.

  He stood back, taking me in. A moment later, his lips parted and the dam was broken. “You said your nona helped you make sense of things. That’s Martha for me. She’s looked after me for as long as I can remember,” he said, opening our new metaphorical sharing circle a bit wider. “She stepped in when my dad stepped out, helping my mom run the restaurant before I took over.”

  My heart gave one big, hard heart-wrenching thump.

  He said that heavy piece of information like he’d said it a thousand times before. It yanked the little bit of control I had away from me. There was no typical middle with him. It was nothing at all, or all at once. Like a tornado sucking me in.

  “How old were you?” I asked, turning to put the pump back and close my gas tank. I kept my voice even and smooth, feeling like I was splitting clean down the middle as images of my father surfaced.

  “Seven.”

  Old enough to remember, I thought with a pang to my gut. Just like me. “Do you know why?”

  He gave a half-hearted shru
g as he leaned against the side of my bus. “He wasn’t made for it, I guess. My mom didn’t ever say much about it, and I never had the guts to ask.”

  I thought about Mom and the first night I cried for Dad when he didn’t come home. “I’m only going to tell you once, do you hear?” she’d said from where she sat at the foot of my bed in the pitch-dark room. “It’s the same piece of advice my mom gave me when my daddy walked out on us, and it got me through what you’re going through now. The only person who will never leave you is yourself, so you must love and protect yourself at all costs, because that is who should matter most. Not me. Not Nona. And most definitely not any man. Do you understand?”

  I nodded at her even though I didn’t understand. I just didn’t want to upset her anymore.

  It was the first and last time I ever cried for any man.

  I inhaled and forced a smile. “That couldn’t have been easy.”

  Hudson twirled the toothpick in his mouth. Maybe that was a part of the pain I recognized in his gaze. The loneliness left behind by an absent parent.

  “We managed. Mom was enough. She was the backbone to our family.” The pain laced in his words struck me. He spoke in past tense. Hudson must have noticed the slight flicker of recognition to my features, because he added, “She died three weeks before I was supposed to leave for college. Left the diner to me.”

  My hands found my mouth, his words splinting through my heart. “Oh, Hudson. I’m so sorry.”

  Bravery shielded his gaze. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Losing both your parents… I couldn’t imagine.” I was at a loss for words.

  The ghosts of our pasts danced within the silence between us. Like a body of water, there was an undiscovered depth to him.

  He chuckled nervously, scratching at his beard. “See what I mean? I’m not good with small talk. I say what’s on my mind, no matter if it’s appropriate or not.”

  His personality started to take shape in front of me. His lack of words. He was cautious with them. Careful. Meticulous because he understood himself to his core. Maybe he wasn’t that bad after all.