Page 9 of Rootbound
Something pops into my head, then, because there were no pictures on the website and no specific info about their family. Vague details that I’ve avoided but know Ava’s looked into before, so I grab my phone again and fire off a text to her.
Me: Hey, I know you told me before, but what is our brother’s name?
Ava: I want to give myself credit and remind you that I really tried to remain the sullen, uninterested teenager in solidarity with you… until Jack came around and softened up this hardened heart of mine. But, his name is Grady.
Ava: I’m actually a little jealous. I know you were being sarcastic with calling him ‘brother’… but I hope you will at least try, for me. It’ll be good for you.
Me: Love you
Ava: Don’t think I don’t see your nonresponses here. Also, Charlie is going to know it is you, loser. Love you, too
I quickly fire off a text to Fletcher.
Me: I went ahead and checked into the flight. Just curious, I didn’t see on the itinerary who will be grabbing me from the airport? Not sure Uber will take me that far.
Fletcher: The Range has offered transportation. Look for someone holding a ‘Deacon Publishing’ sign.
Me: Perfect.Thanks!
I do a mental fist pump. They don’t have my name yet, otherwise I’m sure I’d be looking for a “Tait Logan” sign. All I need to do is pick a different name to go by. Simple enough.
I latch on to this hope.
Five
Tait
One air fryer kissed goodbye, an Uber ride, three flights, and two layovers later, I’m in Idaho. Last minute flights are never the most ideal, so my flight path was wonky to say the least. I’d planned on brainstorming the name plan during the time, but the anxiety has my thoughts in disarray. A tangled mess of avoidance.
I can’t go with Taitum. That’s too suspicious and might stoke an ember of a memory that’d have them looking too closely and spotting a resemblance. Responding to LeighAnn might be doable, but that presents its own issues. Picking a fake last name is making me want to scream.
Mentally setting it aside, I chose a less productive path and indulged in some in-flight cocktails in an attempt to calm my nerves. But as I’m riding the escalator down to the baggage claim area, I’m wishing I’d had about three more. The edge I had attempted to take off has been firmly put back on, and I’m no more settled on details.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and scan the drivers with signs.
It takes about a millisecond to find mine. Viking-cowboy-Thor is a head taller than the rest, even without the cowboy hat. He’s wearing a baleful look on his face, haphazardly tapping the Deacon Publishing sign against his thigh, other hand firmly planted in his pocket. He looks about as excited as I feel at the moment. I’m not shocked that he works for the ranch, since, even from his brief debut, it was blatantly obvious that he wasn’t meant to be working in television. Iamshocked, however, that he’s been sent on this particular errand rather than being put to work back on the Range—surely they have other staff for this kind of thing now?
Like calls to like as they say, and his eyes lock with mine. I feel my features arrange themselves into my typical resting bitch face, hardening, shielding over. I refuse to be the first to break eye contact, and manage to make my steps determined. His gaze turns from bored to stern, which only makes mine sharpen.
Right as I’m approaching the proximity that I’ve mentally prepared to greet him in, a ponytail whips me in the face.
“Oh my god.I totally recognize you. You were inDollar Mountainweren’t you?” Ponytail exclaims.
He nods and smiles tightly. Of course, the Neanderthal is mute. I decide to leave them to it and beeline for the luggage when I see one of my four bags dropping down the chute onto the conveyor belt. I grab the first bag and wait. Try to breathe through my nose and gain control of these anxious butterflies. Instead, to my shame, tears prick the backs of my eyes. I see the bag with my more preciouscamera equipment and step closer so that I can get it as quickly as possible.
Part of this anxiety is from the typical worry that everything made it safely, I decide. Feebly.
A hand shoots in front of mine to grab it, but before the expletive escapes me, the owner of the hand says, in a gravelly voice, “Deacon Publishing?”
Ah, I see he managed to escape his fangirl. I sniff. “Oh—yeah, thank you. Nice to meet you.” I think I forget to smile, and turn for the other bag.
“Nice to meet you too… Tait?”
My head whips around so fast I feel something pop in my neck. “Ouch—what? How did you know my name?”
He gives me a bored look and replies, “The luggage tag.”
Fuck.