Page 50 of Rootbound
My phone jolts me out of my trance, but I ignore Ava’s call again.
The reminder of the outside world makes me take pause, and I suddenly feel a bit spooked about the developments of the day. I should remind myself to remain cautious. Regardless of what all took place, actions speak louder than words, and at the end of the day, no one in this family has shownthroughactionthat they gave a rat’s ass about having a relationship with Ava or me.
Besides calls that turned into letters.
Besides a large sum of money that I never even knew came from them that they didn’t even care to follow up on to get credit for.
Besides the fact that you now know that many of the details surrounding the split were kept from, or misconstrued to you, and probably still are.
Besides how welcoming and genuinely kind they’ve all been since you got here.…
I roll my eyes at that inner voice and set aside those details to continue to process over the course of the trip.
On the heels of that feeling, there’s guilt over continuing to ignore Ava. All other family aside, we have always, and will always, have each other. I’ll need to get over it and quit icing her out soon.
I opt to text:
Me: Had it all out with Charlie today. I’m smoked and about to pass out. It’s all good… better than I would’ve thought, I think. Promise to call tomorrow.Love you.
The text bubbles go up and disappear a few times before she ultimately goes with:
Ava: Okay. Love you, too. Miss you.
I do the bedtime routine thing then settle in, and ultimately end up ontopof the covers with my laptop, making some (pathetic) “people notes” for the day to send off to Gemma, when my phone dings again. I sigh, expecting a demand from Ava, but am surprised to see:
Henry Marcum: Breakfast at my place or yours? Thinking mine if that’s cool. Rotisserie chicken doesn’t really hit right until noon or later…
I snort, and then look out my window like a dolt, as if I could see him all the way across the pond… and,oh.I can. His light is on, and he’s pacing in his room, bare chested, looking down at something in his hand. His phone?
Warmth floods in my chest at the sight. Crap. I feel the stupid, traitorous smile plaster itself, too.
Me: I can be convinced to forgo chicken… depending on the alternative offered, the time I’d be expected, and whether or not you’re a coffee drinker?
Oh, Jesus. He’s smiling at his phone.
Henry Marcum: Omelettes, at 7:00 a.m., and absolutely.
Me: Tits a plan, then. Sweet dreams!
Henry Marcum: Well, now that you’ve brought them up, I’m sure my dreams will be.
Me: OMG. TITS.
Henry Marcum: Yeah… I got that.
Me: IT’S, OR EVEN TIS!!!! ONE OF THOSE.
Me: You know what, I’m good with chicken. It’s going to go bad soon anyways.
Henry Marcum: Lol… Bring it and we’ll pack some for lunch. See you at 7.
Twenty-Five
Henry
I tell myself if I just don’t open my eyes, I’ll be able to sleep in. Instead, I toss back and forth for thirty minutes (I know because I keep checking my phone), and give up and roll out of bed at 5:30A.M.
I busy myself after showering with some cleaning, then debate for a few minutes on shaving before the doorbell rings at 6:15. I open up the door to a sleepy, grumpy looking Tait—rotisserie chicken tucked under one arm.