Page 22 of Rootbound

“It’s fine, I don’t exactly assume the best of people myself. Especially being here.But, I’m going to be stuck here for a month and a half, and honestly, Henry, I could use some kind of friend. One who’s not related to me.” I’m not sure what about him—given that he’s especially cranky, menacing, and rude—elicits such transparency from me, but it feels almost good to be recklessly vulnerable this way. Knowing that there’s an end date, and that he’s not sharing any of my DNA, helps.

He seems a bit flustered at that too, but responds, holding out his hand. “Truce?”

I take it, shake it firmly. “Truce.” I grin, not one to miss an opportunity. “Especially if you let me have this bathroom to myself sometime, for like, three hours.”

I expect him to laugh at that, or even roll his eyes. He does neither, just intensifies his look, and his grip on my hand and says, “I think I can do that.”

I inhale sharply when a vision comes, unbidden, of those rough hands on my bare hips, piloting me as I grind on his,him seated on the shower bench, steam billowing around us. His face and chest are covered in sweat or water or both, mouth open and brow furrowed in pleasure.…

“You want another drink?” he says, and I’m jerked back to reality, where I am still holding on to his hand and awkwardly slow-shaking it. I whip away as if burned, but recover nicely with a two syllable “Ye-es.”

I go to leave when he grabs my arm with his obscenely large hand, and I very briefly wonder if the tension was felt mutually, but he says, “Your bruise—did you get a look at it?”

“OH! NO!” Overly loud and frantic, I hop over in front of one of the mirrors and lift up my shirt, turning around as much as possible. He’s right, it is an insanely perfect circle, already welted and purple with red dots.

“Oh, God.” I groan. “It’s from my lens… the one in my backpack.” The hilarity of it all—the last 24 hours, the reality of where I am, the fact that I have yet to even see my estranged father—it all hits me then, harder than in the woods, and I bust out laughing uncontrollably. It’s my ugliest laugh: cackling, bubbling, frothing at the mouth. Eventually Henry grabs me, gives me a little shake, but when I look up at him, I see him fighting a laugh too, and it begins anew—this time with him losing it alongside me. His laugh is pleasant though, deep and rumbling… Mine is a psych ward unto itself.

Spent, panting, and wiping tears from our eyes, we eventually make our way back to the living room, with the occasional aftershock chuckle between us. It’s the same feeling of old—the one like having a friend over for a sleepover, and staying up too late, when you can’t stop laughing even if it’s at nothing.

I decide to sit at the island this time and watch him as he makes us each another drink.

“Your laugh. It’s awful,” he says, but he smirks appreciatively at me.

“Thanks, I know. How long have you been working here?” I ask, feeling like the ice likely broke alongside my camera.

“About fifteen years now. Grace is my aunt.” He slides another drink on the counter in front of me. He grabs one of the stools next to me and swings it to his side so we are sitting across from one another.

“Ah, I see.” And then I recall something he said earlier. “Wait, you call your aunt ‘Mrs. Logan?’”

He lets out a disgruntled noise and shoves a hand through his hair. “No, uhhh, your grandma—Emmaline, Emma. She’s who I call Mrs. Logan.”

Oh, wonderful. Dear Grandma. I have blessedly blocked her from my mind until this point. I manage a nod and take a sip of my drink. There goes another attempt at small talk, barreling to the ground in a ball of fire.

God, I’m tired, but not tired enough. I know if I head to bed, my thoughts will keep spinning.

“You like cards?” Henry asks, looking at me beneath a raised, sympathetic brow, and I could kiss him for his deflection.

“Love them.”

We play card games for what feels like hours. Gin, 5 Card Draw, High Spade/High Hand. We even make an attempt at Cribbage until we both decide there’s too much thinking and math involved, and switch back to Gin. He regales mewith light, funny stories from some of the outfitting trips he’s guided on. One in particular leaves me in stitches, about a man from Seattle who thought he was lost and actually blew a foghorn despite being twenty-five yards away from a gravel road,andfrom Henry. I’m not sure if it’s the image itself, or the put-out face he makes while he repeatedly says, “He thought he was lost after maybe ten minutes. Ten minutes! Not to mention, it was still fucking daylight!” By the time he finishes, I’m wiping tears from the corners of my eyes.

The conversation stays light, both of us cleverly avoiding anything that could turn heavy; sticking to our work, places I’ve been to and seen. He’s an active listener, asking for pertinent details here and there, seeming genuinely interested. I find that I enjoy sharing, actually. Having the chance to talk about some of the places I’ve seen reminds me of their beauty and wonder, again.

Eventually, I simply cannot hold my head up any longer, though, and put my face to the cool countertop. Henry gets me up at some point and shuffles me to a bed, where I pass out before my head hits the pillow, and fall into a dreamless sleep.

Twelve

Henry

Despite only getting a few hours of sleep, my eyes shoot open at their typical fiveA.M.It’s as if I just laid her down, though, for how very much aware I am of Tait’s presence in my house. I could’ve listened to her happily prattle on all night, talking about some of her favorite places and experiences. Whenever she got to a particularly funny story or anecdote, her volume would increase more and more as she was telling it until she was effectively shouting by the end, completely oblivious.

She’d apologize when she realized that she’d been yelling, and instinctively I know that someone’s made her feel bad about it before—a fact that slides an angry, oily feeling through my skull.

Yet, she’s got a quiet confidence about her, never coming across as boastful or phony, just excited to share the things that I was, surprisingly, excited to listen to. As she gotsleepier, her eyelids got visibly heavier, and her tired voice took on a husky tone that shot straight to my groin. The girl can’t lose a card game sportingly, though, no matter how unaffected she tries to act.

My mind drifts back to the conversations from the night before, and shit, I smile when I remember how good we both were at keeping it light, only once turning cringe-worthy on my end.

“… Grady got me to make a Tinder profile once, but I didn’t last a week,” I said.