The Roots of Us

by Candace Knoebel

  “You really like him, don’t you?” she said, her tone even. I couldn’t tell if the thought excited her or put fear into her heart. Even though she told me I needed to find a man, we both knew she’d never think anyone I brought home was good enough.

  No man ever was.

  “I do,” I admitted as I pulled out the only other dress I owned.

  Blah de blah.

  I tossed it to the side, then grabbed my default pair of form-fitting jeans and an off-the-shoulder top. It would have to do.

  “Well, hot damn. This is healthy for you.” Her excitement practically thrummed through the phone. I guessed she’d decided she would be happy for me. “You spend so much time running—”

  “Working,” I corrected. “My job requires traveling. We’ve been over this a thousand times.”

  “Well,” she said as if she had a sudden bad taste in her mouth, “whatever you want to call it. In the end, you hardly ever get to enjoy a social life. And, believe it or not, having a social life is important. Otherwise, you’re already a ghost.”

  I slid the pants on, clutching the phone between my shoulder and ear. “Morbid, Mom.” I paused, buttoning them. “Besides, even though everything about him has been nothing short of perfect, I imagine soon I’ll get a peek behind the curtain and he’ll be just another asshole like Oz. And then it will be time to move on.”

  The words didn’t feel right coming out. They were rehearsed. My default thoughts about anyone who had an appendage swinging between their legs.

  Maybe going there was a bad idea…

  “You know, you’ve always been like the tide. Coming and going. Never knowing whether you want to stay on land or live free in the ocean. Dragging every man through your wake. Maybe your nona was right about the roots.” She blew out a frustrated breath. “And why do you have to be so cynical?”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I retorted.

  “Because it is. If your head is always hung, how will you ever see the rainbows?”

  I rolled my eyes. I didn’t mind being cynical. Cynical was safe. Cynical was looking both ways before crossing the street. Being cynical meant I’d jumped into the flames and lived to tell the tale.

  “Anyway, back to the matter at hand. I assume you’re going to stick to your usual grungy attire?”

  I stopped in front of the mirror. The pants had a white paint stain on them from last year when I helped on a house for Habitat for Humanity while in between projects, and the top had a small hole in the armpit that I kept forgetting to sew.

  “Your judgment is strong.” I let out a sigh big enough to blow the curl off my face.

  “And accurate, I’m sure.”

  “You can’t shame me when I own who I am,” I fired back as I went to my suitcase and dug around, knowing good and well there wasn’t anything to be found. “Where’s a fairy godmother when you need one?”

  “It’s called the mall, and I’m sure you have time to stop by one if you’re that concerned.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be if you hadn’t reminded me about how unappealing my attire is.” I plopped down on the edge of the bed.

  “Honey, if a man ever makes you feel like you aren’t enough, it’s because he has a little penis and you were better off.”

  A smile broke free as I stared at my reflection in the TV. “Did you just quote Nona?”

  “Maybe,” she said flippantly, but I knew her better than that.

  Even if I was falling on my ass, Nona knew how to make that fall seem purposeful and important. I guessed she’d passed the torch on to my mom. Or maybe Mom finally let a piece of Nona in.

  “Who are you, and what have you done with my mother?”

  Mom and Nona got along as well as two beta fish sharing the same tank. Especially after my father left us. There was a short period of time when we lived with Nona in her camper so Mom could get back on her feet. Although those years with Nona were the times I held closest to my heart, they were also years I wished I could scrub away those awful fights between them from.

  Maybe things would have ended up different for me if I could…

  Nona was hard on my mom. Never let up with blaming her for dating my dad when she’d told her he wasn’t the right man. Told her she was poisoning my mind by moving us around too much. Told her I needed a mother who taught me how to plant my roots so I could grow.

  Sometimes, late at night, I’d wake to Mom crying as quietly as she could on the other side of the small bed we’d shared, and I’d roll over and wrap my arms around her waist. Other times, Mom would scream at Nona for filling my head with dreams of love and happiness, then threaten to never let her see me again. And she’d meant it, because shortly after, she packed our things and told me it was time to move.

  I’d begged her not to take me away. Nona was the brightest and best person I’d ever known.

  But then again, even light cast shadows.

  “Yoga has suited me well,” she said a beat later. “It’s put me in touch with my inner goddess.”

  “Inner goddess?” I said with a small giggle. “And since when did you start yoga?”

  “Hey… don’t knock it until you try it.” She paused. “I started a while ago. Wanted to make sure I could stick with it before I told you about it. There’s a lot of inner reflection. A lot of… a lot of my past I see clearly now. Mistakes that can’t be undone.”

  She was talking about Nona. About the day she left and never looked back. Nona died a few years after we moved. Neither of us had the chance to say goodbye.

  “Life is funny that way, you know. We’re born broken, ignorant pieces, waiting for life’s lessons to put us together and make us whole.”

  “I guess so,” I said, a small frown to my lips. Wondering what lessons were still in store for me.

  She inhaled. “You’ll call me tomorrow, right?” Her voice was neutral again. Enough of the mushy, dark stuff.

  “Of course.”

  “And… if things take a turn in the romantic department, you’ll be safe?”

  I laughed. Mom was an advocate for safe sex. She didn’t want me to end up like her… as she’d so often put it. “How could I not be when every care package you send me is full of condoms?”

  “And what about a gift? A bottle of something he likes as a thank you for cooking.”

  Shit.

  “I know, Mom,” I lied, looking around the room as if a gift would appear. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow to let you know how it goes. Love you. Bye.”

  I knew she was smiling on the other end as we hung up.

  I STOOD IN FRONT OF the whiskey aisle, stuck in a mental debate. Was he a whiskey man? He had that slow, sweet burn to him. Or could he be a scotch man? Bitter and burning. I didn’t know why I was making such a big deal about it. I could grab a bottle of wine. Everyone liked wine. But what if he didn’t?

  Why did it matter?

  “Having a tough time, dear?”

  “Yeah, do you think a guy would like—” I turned, and my words jammed in my throat.

  It was Martha from the diner.

  “I thought it was you,” she said with a hearty smile. “I’d spot that wild blonde hair of yours anywhere.” She had eyes that could read right through a person, and a smile that made me feel at home.

  We assessed each other for a moment. Well, more like she assessed me. It was the first time we’d been alone together, without Hudson lingering nearby.

  Her eyes peered into mine, searching for something I wasn’t sure of. I didn’t waver. Keeping my cool, I met her probing gaze head on until a bright smile overtook her face.

  I must have passed.

  “I’ve never been one for small talk,” she said, diving right in with her hands on her hips. “It takes up too much time, and the clock is always ticking. Nothing is secret at the diner. We’re a family, and family holds nothing back. Hudson has been through more than a man his age should ever have to go through. And you know what they say… a woman scarred is a woman
always suspicious. Well, the same goes for a man.”

  Gosh, she was so much like Nona it scared me.

  “You strike me as the kind of spirit that likes to fly. Hudson isn’t your run-of-the-mill man. He’s a sensitive soul. But not only that, he’s a reserved, sensitive soul, so I have to ask… what are your intentions?”

  I felt my mouth part in shock as her question took me off-guard. Blinking a couple of times, I tried to form words. “Well…” I stopped. Closed my mouth and thought about it, because it wasn’t a question I had even asked myself.

  What were my intentions? I wouldn’t be there forever. I never stayed planted in one place for too long. But there was something about him I couldn’t ignore. Like the moon, pulling my unruly tide in.

  I met her gaze as the answer materialized. “To help him work through whatever is troubling him because, when I look into his eyes, all I see is pain. And maybe he needs an outsider to get past his walls. Someone who sees through them. Someone’s who’s… who’s been through it.”

  “Someone like you?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.

  I nodded.

  She wore an impressed smile, arms crossed. “You’re direct.”

  “I’m honest,” I corrected.

  She inhaled, pursing her lips, and then handed me a bottle of brandy. “He likes it on the rocks.”

  I took it from her, taken aback. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” she said as she started past me. She stopped at the end of the aisle, glancing over her shoulder. “And Hartley?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Be good to his heart.”

  I KNOCKED TWICE AND STOOD back. It was exactly like his profile picture. Two stories. Bright yellow paneling that reminded me of lemon custard. White pillars. Lots of beautiful shrubbery and flowers luring in butterflies. A stately entrance with a red door. It was the exact opposite of where I’d pictured him living. This place was warm and welcoming. Tended to, unlike the dark secrets in his soul. It took me by surprise, even with guessing the profile picture was his home. I’d pictured him living in the woods somewhere in a cabin, maybe even with a bear not too far away…

  My nerves were twisted with excitement. But as soon as the door opened and my eyes fell upon him, every bit of that nervous tension dissipated within the weight of his smile.

  “Hey,” Hudson said. He was dressed in jeans and a navy V-neck. Did his hair always fall in wayward wisps across his forehead, shielding his eyes? I wanted to move them away from the blue of his eyes, like dark clouds trying to cover the sun.

  Heat invaded my stomach. “Sorry for being late. I had a crisis with my suitcase.”

  He gave a questioning grin.

  I held out the bottle of brandy.

  His head tilted in surprise. “I didn’t take you as a brandy kind of girl?”

  “I’m not. I’m more of a whiskey girl.”

  He took the bottle, reading the label. “This is my favorite brand. How did you…?”

  “A girl can’t give away all her trade secrets,” I said with a wink as roses bloomed within my cheeks.

  There was a loud bark, followed by the most adorable English Bulldog I’d ever seen. Wrinkles so thick they nearly covered its eyes as it padded toward me. My heart was a goner.

  “And who is this adorable baby?” I asked, kneeling to offer my hand. Wanting to gobble up the cuteness overload. I was a sucker for anything with fur. And by sucker, I meant a lunatic. Show me a cute and fluffy anything, and I turned into a squealing mess.

  But I’d wait to reveal that to Hudson

  “Bilbo,” Hudson said as Bilbo plopped down next to Hudson’s feet, sniffing in my direction. “Go on,” he said to the dog.

  Bilbo got up and waddled down the steps, sniffed my hand, and then rubbed his face into it. I could die. Literally. Right there. “He’s so freaking cute,” I said as I ruffled his ears. His fur was velvet and warm. My heart expanded out of my chest. I wanted to lay there with him. Let him crawl his cuteness all over me.

  “He’s a pain in the ass and he eats too much, but… he’s my best friend,” Hudson said as he watched Bilbo lick my hand. There was a certain sadness in the way he said it. A loneliness few would understand. “Bilbo, come,” he said a beat later.

  Bilbo gave me one last lick, and then waddled back up the steps and into the house, fat and content.

  “Dinner’s almost ready,” Hudson said as I followed him and stepped inside. At first, it was his cologne I smelled. A woodsy, rich scent I wanted to roll in. And then, fragrant punches of garlic and spices hit me, luring a growl from my stomach.

  It only took a few steps to realize the inside of his home didn’t match the outside. Off to the right was an open living room with huge vaulted ceilings and a large fireplace built out of sandstone and coral. It should have been cozy and warm, but the furniture was covered in white sheets, somber and depressed. A forgotten space begging to have life breathed into it.

  The further we went, the more I realized barren was the general theme. There were hardly any pictures hanging on the walls. The one I did see was of two little boys chasing each other through the yard with the sprinklers on.

  It was the house of someone ready to pack up and leave at any moment, yet his Facebook post had said the exact opposite… I’ll be here, waiting.

  There were layers to each of us. Secrets buried beneath our skin, waiting for the right person to come along and dig them out, but Hudson was unlike any guy I’d ever met. He was deeper. Complicated. Stuck in the muck of something I’d yet to unravel.

  “I hope you like Italian,” he said once we were in the kitchen. He scratched at his neck. “I guess I should have asked you first.”

  “I love Italian.”

  His shoulders loosened a little.

  “Load me up with carbs and I’m a happy girl.”

  He chuckled at that.

  On the stove, a pot boiled water, and a saucepan simmered a delectable-looking red sauce. Everything was spotless. Orderly.

  And plain.

  Bilbo was right at Hudson’s feet, watching his every move for a scrap. I didn’t think Hudson noticed until he grabbed a spoon from a jar on the counter, dipped it into the sauce, blew on it to cool it down, and then bent over, offering it to Bilbo. “What do you think, bud? Is it ready?”

  The dog licked every bit off the spoon, and then barked once, his stub of a tail going wild.

  A deep flush formed beneath my skin. Sputtering notes of affection building inside my chest.

  “I think so, too,” Hudson said. He tossed the spoon into the sink. I watched in awe as he dumped the noodles into a strainer before transferring them to the saucepan. A few twirls around the pan, then he turned the stove off and moved the pan from the heat.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used a stove.

  My teeth grazed my bottom lip as I studied his every move. The wide angles of his shoulders. The roundness of his ass. “You move like the kitchen is your home,” I stated as my mouth watered for more than the food in front of me.

  His shoulders lifted slightly. “Mom was a single mother running her own business, trying to make ends meet. We were a team. She had to work a lot to keep our home, so I did what I could around the house. And when I got sick of eating TV dinners, I taught myself how to cook for me and my brother.”

  A brother? Another layer peeled back.

  “You have a brother?”

  I noticed his eyes widen ever so slightly, as if he’d realized he said more than he wanted to. “Yeah,” he said quickly before turning to the refrigerator. He pulled out a white box and set it between us.

  I leaned forward. “What’s his name?”

  He didn’t answer right away. Like he was debating if he wanted to say more or not. “Silas,” he finally said as he pulled out a knife and two forks, then sat them on either side of the box.

  There was a shift in his tone. It dropped a couple of octaves, losing the ease he had moments before the subject of h
is brother. This piqued my interest even more. “Does he live around here?”

  “No.”

  It was a flat no. A don’t ask any more questions no.

  Understanding Hudson felt like wandering into a dark room, waiting for my eyes to adjust. I was still in the adjusting period, feeling my way around. I could tell in the way he was answering that Silas was a sensitive subject for him, so I let the many questions barraging me go.

  For now.

  I pointed to the box. “What’s that?”

  He opened it. Inside was the most delectable cake I’d ever seen. The top was covered in crushed-up Oreos, and the sides were wrapped in full Oreos. It was a Godsend. A miracle.

  A…

  “Is that for…?”

  A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “You said you liked dessert before dinner, so I figured…”

  My manners escaped me as I reached for a fork and then dug into the cake.

  Immediately, I fell in love. This man. This mysterious, dog-loving, Oreo-hating man. “Oh my God,” I said with a mouthful as my eyes rolled back in my head. I swallowed. “This is… this is heavenly.”

  “You like it?” he asked. Looking pleased, he grabbed his fork and picked around the Oreos for a bite.

  “Like is putting it mildly.”

  He chuckled. “I found a recipe online. It wasn’t hard to make.”

  Jesus, someone grab me a fan. “You mean… you made this? For me?”

  He might have blushed, but it was hard to tell under the beard.

  “You should be a chef,” I said, my nerves kicking into overdrive. This man was slowly laying out his cards, and they were all aces. Maybe I was the one in danger. There hadn’t been one thing about him that set off any warning bells in my head. Nothing I could note and put in the back of my mind to use for later when it came time to run again.