The Roots of Us

by Candace Knoebel

  Shit.

  He took a bite, but didn’t say anything. Didn’t smirk with pride. He just picked at his food as Bilbo sat near his feet watching.

  “I can’t cook to save my life,” I said, trying to make general conversation so I could stop focusing on how much I actually liked him. “Once, when I was home after my first year at college, I tried to cook a steak for my mom… her favorite… and ended up catching the stove on fire.”

  His eyebrow quirked up, and my stomach did a small flip. He was cute. Without even trying.

  “Yeah. Crazy, right?” I continued. “It was one of those older electric stoves with the heating elements. I didn’t understand how hot they could get and I was in a hurry, so I turned it up almost all the way. Needless to say, it caught on fire after that. We ended up ordering takeout.”

  He chuckled, the sound warm, rich, and deep from his belly. The small space of the kitchen felt alive with possibilities. The air shimmered with anticipation and intrigue.

  “You have a nice laugh,” I said, casting my eyes to the cake. His presence unwound me like no other. Made my melancholy heart feel like it could take a dip in the pool of happiness.

  “So do you,” he echoed. “It’s one of my favorite things about you so far. That, and the fact you’re able to make me laugh.” He paused, and then added, “And it doesn’t hurt that you’re insanely beautiful.”

  My eyes shot up to his, heart sputtering, choking on the compliment it swallowed. That was the first time he openly flattered me.

  “So you do know how to flirt?”

  The corner of his mouth lifted slowly, almost mischievously, until he was smirking. “I can’t keep you on your toes if I give away all my trade secrets, can I?”

  THE NEXT HOUR PASSED EFFORTLESSLY in a blur of light conversation and laughter as we moved from the cake to the pasta he cooked. Pasta that made me do a happy dance because it was so delicious. There was an easiness with him I hadn’t felt with anyone before. He understood my quirkiness. Watched me while I spoke with an amused twinkle to his eyes.

  We drank our way through an entire bottle of wine as I told him about my travels, and he told me stories about his mom and the diner. Days filled with sun-stained skin and late-night takeout. I learned he liked the smell of salt and fish. It reminded him of home. He learned I liked the scent of plastic. Thick, rubbery plastic. He broke his nose once when he was fourteen when he tried to land a trick on his BMX bike. I’d yet to break anything… except my heart. He was a Scorpio. I was a Leo. His water to my fire.

  When he let me in, it felt like I was looking into a mirror, our souls reflecting at each other.

  Tipsy Hudson was fun. The curtains had raised in his eyes. The atmosphere lifting a bit from his shoulders, allowing him to settle in. He was a simple man. No games. No stringy emotions to get tangled up in. He was a straight shooter. A walk-the-line kind of guy.

  And every once in a while, when he thought I wasn’t looking, I caught him watching me with an ache in his eyes I could relate to on so many levels.

  “You don’t have many decorations,” I noted, sitting on a stool at the island counter. He was pouring me another glass of a delicious red wine, the bottle as empty as the holes left in our hearts from our pasts.

  “There hasn’t been a feminine touch since my mom died.”

  “No family portraits?” I fished, dying to see a childhood photo of Hudson. He had to have been adorable with those big, sad eyes and perfectly pouted lips.

  He shook his head. “My dad burned them. It was after the first time he’d been released from prison. He pawned my mom’s heirloom ring that had been passed down for many generations, so he could buy drugs. When she found out, she told him to leave, promising a divorce.

  “My dad was a spiteful man. He didn’t like being told he was wrong. And he especially didn’t like decisions being made for him. He left, but not before he took everything she held dear and burned it out back. That included the photo albums she’d put so much of her time into.”

  He stared into his glass of wine, memories floating along the surface. The heartbreak that wove within his eyebrows put a dent in my heart.

  “After that…” he continued, “Mom was too busy keeping us afloat to get behind a camera. It’s like… like a piece of her burned in that fire that day. A piece he knew only he could take.”

  I reached for his hand and squeezed, a stinging pain pushing behind my eyes. “I know these words mean so little when stacked against the reality of it all, but I’m sorry that happened to you, and to her, Hudson.”

  His shrug was weighted. “I’m just sorry I never got the chance to kick his ass for it.”

  “How many times has he gone to prison?” His story was sadly like so many other’s I’d heard during a documentary I’d been a part of a couple of years ago. The growing number of deadbeat dads and the influence they had over our generation. A story I thought would bring some sort of solace to the many burning questions I had about my own father.

  It only left me with more.

  “Last I heard, which was a few years ago, he was back in prison, so that should put him at around five times. This time will probably stick. He was cooking meth with intent to distribute.”

  The wine had loosened our tongues, joining our words and our pasts together. I felt myself opening up, blooming, expanding before him. “My dad lost a lot of my baby stuff. He was responsible for paying for a storage unit after my parents split up and we had to move, but I guess he decided it wasn’t worth it and it ended up in auction.” I ran my fingers in a slow circle around the rim of my glass as the memory of my mom screaming into the phone bit at the edges of my mind.

  It was funny how the ugly moments of our lives could sometimes feel so much stronger than the good ones. Always shoving those good pieces down, stomping on them, stealing the spotlight.

  “That’s fucked up.” He opened his hand to me, lacing his fingers through mine. We were holding each other together while unraveling in each other’s palms, one sad story at a time. His strong, steady, open hand. My delicate, shaky, hesitant one.

  “To put it lightly,” I said. “There were heirlooms from my mother’s side of the family in there along with tons of baby pictures.”

  I sighed, studying the veins in his hands. Thick and sturdy. Found his eyes again as they waited for me to open up some more. There was that itch again. Emotions clinging too tight to my skin.

  I let go of his hand.

  “But stuff is stuff, and the list of wrongs my father did are a mile long,” I said, trying not to notice the way my skin still craved his touch. “A mile I’ve worn into the ground with how many times I’ve traveled down it.” I took in a deep breath, realizing I was going too far with the past. I never talked about my dad. Not to anyone. I needed a change of subject. “So what’s with the sheets?”

  He leaned forward, his elbows on the counter. Wine looked good on him. His smile was easier. His eyes not as heavy. “I don’t get much company,” he said. “I kind of prefer it that way.”

  “No… not you,” I joked with a smirk. I glanced around. Noted the lack of dust on the fan overhead. “Well, you were right about being tidy. I guess looks can be deceiving.” I leaned back in my seat as he picked up our plates. “So what was it you wanted to show me?”

  He sat the dishes in the sink, rinsed his hands, and then turned back to me, leaning his backside against the counter, legs crossed at his ankles. Popped another toothpick in between his teeth and began to twirl it. “It’s sort of still in the process of being made, but I figured you’d appreciate it.”

  Balloons of excitement floated in my chest. “I’m intrigued. By being made, do you mean you made it?”

  He gave a slight nod.

  I made a light giddy sound, and then hopped out of my seat. “Well, don’t keep me waiting. I have to see it!”

  Chuckling again, he told me to follow him. We passed through the back of his house, crossing through an office where the furniture wa
s covered in sheets. If I stuck around long enough, that would have to change. There was a magic to his house begging for attention. The walls crying for new memories to store.

  Rain fell in soft sheets when we approached the back door. A beautiful haze blurred the lake at the bottom of the hill.

  “You don’t mind getting wet, do you?” he asked, searching my eyes.

  I pushed the door open, and then stepped into the rain. Head tilted back, arms wide open, smiling as I turned back to him and said, “Hell no.”

  He smirked, and then pulled me across the back porch at a clipped pace. The porch seemed more lived in than the house. There was a fire pit on the grass a few feet away that had coals left in it. A trail of worn grass led from the porch to the lake. He must go there often, I thought as he guided me to a shed just off the side of the house.

  He pulled the doors open, and I gasped at what was on the other side. A welded metal structure resembling a feminine form holding an old camera in her hand. It stood proud and tall in the middle of the shed on a small wooden platform. Tables lined walls with various tools strewn about. The heavy scent of hot metal and fumes still lingered in the air.

  “You know how you said editing your work was therapeutic for you?” he said, nearing the statue, water dripping from the ends of his hair. He ran his fingers over her arm, carefully, lovingly. “This is what calms me. Ever since I was in high school and I learned how to weld.”

  I was right behind him, eyes gobbling up every inch of its perfection. The artistry and time that had been put into every cut. Every beaded weld was meticulous and inspiring. “It’s magnificent,” I remarked, moving around her, taking it in.

  Taking him in.

  “You can cook and you’re an artist?” I shook my head in dumbfounded awe. “What planet are you from?”

  He chuckled. “I had a cool teacher,” he said, handsomely modest. “When he knew I’d fallen in love with the craft, he let me do side jobs with him to earn some income to help my mom out. I took to welding, and then sort of made it into my own thing. Art was something I was interested in growing up. Had I gone to college, I would have majored in some aspect of it.”

  I thought about the pieces I saw around the diner as a veil of rain spilled over the edge of the tin roof, locking us inside what felt like our own world. A world of metal dreams and stifled wishes. “Wait, so the dog sitting at the man’s feet outside the diner… that was…”

  “Bilbo as a pup,” he said with a proud chuckle.

  “And the little boy inside, staring out the window?”

  His gaze shaded over. “Silas.”

  “And this?”

  “Is you…” He wore that look every artist did when they were waiting for an opinion. A look of hesitation overlapped with confidence.

  I turned back to the statue, taking in her beauty. To be included in art he so clearly made from the things that mattered to him in life… there were no words. We were only just discovering each other and yet, he found something in me that inspired him.

  There was a certain responsibility that came with being someone’s inspiration. Was I ready for that?

  “My brother… he used to stand in that spot at the diner watching the men fish out on the lake. I knew he wanted so bad to be out there, but Mom made him stay in because he was too young and could get hurt. Silas never was good at sitting still.”

  I picked up a small metal hummingbird he’d made, inspecting it. “What kid ever could?”

  He was quiet for a long moment, but the thoughts stirring in his head were screaming. The air was warm and heavy, like laying underneath a blanket.

  “Come… I want to show you something else.” He took my hand in his and guided me out of the shed toward the lake. The rain was lighter now. Stars peeked through the spots of clouds overhead, twinkling against the rippling lake. “This is where I come to think.” Bending, he began untying his boots. “Every morning, I stand shin deep in the water and watch the fog roll in over the lake.”

  He was more tender in the moonlight, as if the glow had softened his hard exterior. A sight I wanted to etch into my bus and keep forever.

  “Talking about Silas brings up things I’m not ready to deal with. I feel better when I’m in the water. Like I can finally think clearly. Mom said the water ran deep in my eyes. It’s why she chose my name.”

  I thought about his eyes, and how they always churned.

  “When I need to think, I walk,” I said, wanting to relate to him. Feeling the moon’s pull, urging my heart toward his. “I want to clean. I’m compelled to, but I won’t let myself. Cleaning is my mother’s way of thinking, so I choose walking. Don’t ask me why she chose Hartley, though. But if I could make up my own story, I’d say it was because her heart was two sizes too small before me, but when she gazed into my eyes, her heart grew three sizes that day.”

  I was laughing at my own joke, until he gave me a look that burned right through me. A look that knocked against the door of my heart, asking for a peek inside.

  “You’re so different from anyone I’ve ever known, Hartley. You’re so much… more,” he said as he forced his gaze back onto the lake.

  Something shifted in me that moment. My heart took a hesitant step closer to his. “You want to know what scares me?” I asked faintly.

  His blue eyes found mine, waiting.

  “The fact that you are, too.”

  It was like a light clicked on in his head. A decision was made. He caught my gaze inside his, telling me without saying it to trust him. To give this night freedom to move as it pleased.

  I took a deep breath and thought, Okay.

  A small smile formed at the edges of his mouth, and then he began removing his shoes.

  “What are you—”

  “Honesty, remember?”

  I nodded, a spiking thrill expanding in my belly.

  “The last woman I dated left because I couldn’t give her what she needed.”

  Caught up in the moment and following his lead, I removed mine. “The last guy I dated thought it was okay to sleep with someone else.”

  His socks were next. “I’m stubborn and temperamental, and I don’t know if that will ever change.”

  Mine followed. “I’m insanely cynical and pessimistic, and I refuse to change,” I said as we played this silent game of strip truths.

  His shirt flew somewhere behind him, the moonlight slashing him in silver hues. “The only person I’ve ever trusted is Martha, and that’s because she’s the only person in my life who hasn’t left.”

  My shirt, along with my words, kept his company. “My mom is the only person I trust, and who hasn’t left.”

  He unbuttoned his pants. “I don’t like boundaries.” And then down they went.

  My pants slid down after. “I don’t like limitations.”

  We were down to our underwear, the night chill the only thing between us. Shivering from head to toe from the truths we shared.

  As we undressed, we were stripping more than our clothes. We were stripping away years of regrets and mistakes, so we could bare our souls to one another.

  He stood there trembling in his underwear, more beautiful than anything I’d ever seen with eyes set only on me. “I blame myself for my brother leaving.”

  The breath ripped from my lungs. “I blame myself for my father leaving.” I never felt more raw and exposed and understood than in that moment.

  He turned then and ran to the edge of the dock, only pausing for the briefest of seconds before he dove in, head first. I ran after, every one of my muscles tightening, trying to prepare for the cold sure to come.

  The water was thrillingly frigid. It woke every nerve in my body, demanding to be felt. When I came up for air, there was a splash beside me, and then his head popped up next to me. It was freezing and crazy, and I didn’t think I’d ever felt more alive.

  “Holy fuck it’s cold.”

  “But can you think clearer?” I asked as I splashed water toward him, lips quive
ring.

  His eyes were hooded when they met mine. “Not with you in the water like you are.”

  I felt his words in my center. Could already feel the ghost of his hands devouring my skin. We had each been waiting for this moment, for this cliff dive, and it was time I grabbed him and jumped.

  His teeth were chattering when he asked, “You want to go warm up?”

  I was thankful he folded first. “God, yes.”

  WE ALL BUT RAN TO our clothes as the night air bit at our exposed skin. He bent down, scooping up our belongings, and I couldn’t help but note that he had a nice ass. No. Not just nice. Amazing. The kind of muscle I wanted to sink my teeth into.

  Yearning bloomed in my stomach.

  We made a break for the house, and I stole as many glances as I could of his glorious body. The slope of his back, muscles rippling from his every step. The small dip at the hem of his briefs I imagined kissing there slowly, nipping at his skin.

  How long had it been since I’d been inside the arms of a man? Since I felt the heat from a hungry gaze grazing over my body? I was treading in dangerous territory when I followed him inside, our underwear clinging to us, leaving nothing to the imagination.

  He reached for one of the white sheets and wrapped me up in it, then grabbed one for himself. The air felt awake. Eager. Biting its nails in anticipation for what would happen next.

  He was standing in front of me, rubbing his hands up and down my arms, trying to put some heat back into me. If only he knew how little he had to try.

  “There’s a shower upstairs if you want to grab one,” he said, standing so close I could see small, faded freckles just below his eyes. “I can start a fire for us in the meantime.”

  He was waiting on me. Waiting for that last green light.

  After all, I was the one notorious for running.

  But shivering so hard my bones felt like they rattled together couldn’t stop me from wanting him.

  Desire sat like warm, sticky candy against my tongue, offering sweet words. “Or…” I said as I dropped the sheet somewhere near my feet. “Maybe you could take one with me?”