Page 5 of Rootbound

“Nope, sure not.” I offer her a saccharine smile.

Ava throws me an anxious look, orders the breakfast sandwich and her own side of gravy, and Bubbles floats away.

“You know, it’s rudethat you stay as fit as you do,” Ava says, as if all it will take is a thinly-veiled compliment.…

“I’m hungry and going on no sleep. Leave me be. And you’re one to talk.”

I work out to keep the demons at bay which usually means I work out five days a week, sometimes twice a day. I’m an active hobby addict because digging into a dark place and sweating my ass off means I’m out of my thoughts, frankly. The subsequent endorphins don’t hurt, either. Still, I am equally passionate about good food so I’m certainly not thin. Ava is five foot ten with long, willowy, graceful limbs, while still not lacking in the curves department. I’m five foot five with a similar shape plus a healthy amount of muscle, just shoved onto a shorter frame. I’m not complaining—I am admittedly self-conscious about my legs at times, and would happily take a few inches from Ave, but I’ve got a trim waist and physical strength, and I do what I need in order to be happy in my own skin. I’ll never deprive myself of a good meal. This world hands out enough shit sandwiches, so I’ll enjoy a tasty one whenever I can get it.

“So, the letter from Dad, huh? Who actually sends letters still? The man can clearly afford a cell phone, or send a damn email,” I say.

“Yeah, it was a little different this time, but mostly the same as always. He thanked me for my response again, even though my responses are,again,mostly just short answers and telling him not to feel obligated to continue to write. He asked me to send my best to you. He still sent us all plane tickets, one for Jack to have his own seat and everything. He apparently set up an account for Jack, and gave me all the info for that which caught me off guard… I haven’t looked at it yet or anything. The only thing different was that heactually asked if he could come here, if we would see him if he did, rather than just asking if we might consider visiting them. He stopped asking for your address a few letters ago. It was stillhim,but sounded a little… desperate, rather than mostly aloof like normal. He even signed it ‘Dad’ this time.”

“Wow. Reeks of desperation,” I reply.

She flaps a hand. “Yeah, I don’t know. Just small differences I suppose. Casey being Casey and the eternal sap that he is wants us to go out there. He tries to convince me that regardless of the awkwardness ‘it would still end up being a cool vacation.’” She includes the air quotes, which come off a bit forced, and I can’t help but get the sense that she might actuallywantto go.…

I don’t really have a response for that. I can’t sort through my feelings about Ava and her family getting reacquainted with our estranged father, and I suppose it’s not my place to even have feelings about what she decides with that, anyway. I know my feelings and my experience, and that’s all I need to know.

My mother was never the happiest person, and she didn’t always make the best choices. The consequences of those choices sometimes fell on us, to be sure. But, she had been left, too. She had been abandoned, and never recovered. The only difference between her then and me now is that I don’t have two daughters to drag down into my despair with me. She moved us to California, putting a few states of separation between her and my father, and to be closer to our grandparents. I haven’t seen Charlie Logan since. I was seven, and Ava was three. He started writing to Ava and I when she was fourteen, and I was eighteen. At that time, I had no desire to write back. I didn’t need to. Up until that point I had craved a family environment; one witha mom who wanted to be involved, who was warm, or just a bit more interested. Mom was damaged, somehow, but did her best… I wouldn’t be who I am if she hadn’t been who she was. And she was there, which is more than I can say for Charlie.

But at eighteen, I’d fallen in love and was busy making memories with a new family. I felt complete and excited about the rest of my life—plus, I was still being a teenager. So, I never wrote back. I was finally enjoying feeling like I had something good andwholein my life, and had zero desire to dwell in my broken home’s past. Charlie occasionally called, but I never had anything to say, and he was stoic at best. I never wrote back to his letters like Ave did.

Ava has always seemed to care more about her origins than I, though. She recently got into the idea of us doing those DNA kits, and pitched it to me with feigned nonchalance. It was under the guise of knowing our ethnicities “for Jack,” but it occurs to me now that maybe she just has alwayscaredmore. I suspected that she was interested in it segueing into a connection with Dad’s family. Like, maybe, an online thread would lead to a real-life one, or something. And, maybe, doing it together gave us collective permission to do so.

I don’t understand why Ishouldcare about my ties to Charlie, or any of the Logans, for that matter. The last real effort he ever put forth was sending me my first camera as a graduation gift—so, ten years ago now. Hell, we didn’t even invite Charlie to our weddings since that would have meant that he (and by extension, the rest of his family) would have needed to be involved in the rest of our lives. Plus, it would not have been fair to my mother, who was already in the beginning stages of illness by then.

Our meals arrive and the rest of the conversation is light and pleasant. That, combined with the striking blue of Lake Tahoe in the background, warm-yet-fresh air, and a contented, full belly, make me ready to catch up on that shut-eye by the end of the meal.

I squeeze Ava and send her on her way. Thankfully, they don’t have a far journey home—only about an hour down the hill in the foothills, where there’s no tourist seasons and it’s an easier place to raise kids. Where I also used to live.

I head back to my little A-frame on the west shore, feeling more numb than I probably should given the news of the day. I try to tell myself it’s a sort of peace I’m feeling and not that deep wave of depression getting ready to pull me under. It feels as if I’ve almost been waiting for this, though: the final confirmation that life—Cole—has moved on completely. That he’s getting what I couldn’t give him, and that however bad he may have felt for not being able to continue loving me, his happiness is too great to not sail on forward.

I get home and all but collapse on the bed, ignoring the constant vibrating of my phone, and sleep.

Two

Tait

I wake with a start, drenched in sweat, to find that it’s completely dark outside. “Great…,” I groan. The headache has arrived, and sleeping the day away will totally screw up my circadian schedule for days.

I, at least, have a flexible work schedule. Well, norealschedule to abide by, anyway, and plenty of time off. I’ve admittedly slowed down on work the last few years and am beginning to run low on funds—a fact that’s officially burrowing an anxious hole in my brain.

I currently work for a publishing company doing research assistance and photography for various journalists, authors, and their subsequent story developments. I got my “big break” on a photo that I took, which included a small piece of poetry I wrote on my (then) blog, about five years ago.

I have no idea how the blog came onto Gemma Nola’s radar, but my photo of a canyon that had been half devastated—almost perfectly split down the middle, in fact—by wildfire, with the accompanying short poem, somehow inspired a novel. Because she felt set on using the photo andpoem, she offered me credit in the foreword, as well as a stake in the profits. That angsty (but highly entertaining), epic family drama novel turned into a group of three, each of which she had me privately commissioned for. People’s reviews of the books almost always stated how they loved having photography to coincide with the settings. Adult novels with pictures, who knew? We went on to collaborate on a coffee table book that focused entirely on the photography: the inspirations behind the variety of settings featured.

I’ve since developed a suspicion that Gemma is agoraphobic, hence why she doesn’t go seek out these inspirations for herself, and I’ve never even been able to get the woman to meet in person,but,it has also worked to my extreme favor. The publishing company was so happy with the success of those books that they referred me for other jobs, which led to a healthy portfolio that resulted in more work—for the magazines it publishes, more books, digital artists and publications, etc.

It may have been too good to be true. Kept me busy for a while, but after my divorce, I have simply lacked motivation.

I am beginning to get the sense that Deacon Publishing regrets their investment in me. I’ve done a few spreads for magazines over the last two years, but haven’t exactly jumped at each opportunity they’ve thrown my way. Just enough to keep my job.

I pad off to the kitchen, scraping up the remnants of my bun that are stuck to my neck, when I hear my phone shudder.

“Shit.” I forgot to turn the sound back on. I scoop the device out of my purse, and my stomach drops. Twenty-three missed calls, thirty-seven texts, and five voicemails.What the?

I verify that none are from Ava, meaning an emergency is unlikely, but see that they’re split pretty evenly between Gemma and Fletcher, my agent from Deacon. Rather than trying to go through every text or voicemail, I go with the quicker option available and push call for Gemma.