Page 30 of Buried Roots

We take in the star-filled sky, the smell of freshly cut grass, and the chirping of the crickets in symphony with the rustling of the branches. All things you don’t get in Queens.

The full moon glows, and the cloud cover gives it a violet hue. I nod up. “I see where this town gets its name.” The sky is magical, and I love being this close to Owen, breathing his scent, feeling his warmth. My body heats up instantly, and I haven’t even had a drink yet. I hold out my empty shot glass, saying, “I could get used to this.”

“Get used to what, exactly?” Owen pours me a nip.

“This view. The fireflies. The stars. The peacefulness. And that moon.”

The breeze flicks a strand of my hair on my face. Owen brushes it away, saying, “There’s something about this place. And the simple life.”

“There is.”

He sighs, looking away. “Just think—you could stay here and eat fried pickles, fried everything, for the rest of your life.”

“Fried pickles are nothing. I put cayenne pepper in my smoothies. And everything else.”

“So, you like it hot.”

I lick my tingling lips. “Touché.” Man, now that Owen Brooks has dialed up his flirt, I might as well skip the small talk and get naked.

But then I hear a rustle in the bramble, and I grab my pepper spray.

Owen looks at me, then follows my gaze. “It’s okay. That’s just Demon.” He cranes his neck and calls out, “Demon! Git home. Now!”

After a bark of protest, the rustling fades as Demon appears to do what he’s told. Impressed, I say, “Wow, you’re really getting him trained.”

“Sort of.” He groans before looking at me, his brows furrowing. “You’re pretty jumpy and suspicious.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I put the spray back in my pocket.

His face turns serious, his tone quiet when he says, “What happened to you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

I look away, listening to the chirping birds as I think about my response. Then, I say, “I could just be a jumpy person. By nature. How do you know something happened to me?”

“You have that way about you. That you’ve been broken apart. Had to put yourself back together again, and you’re stronger for it.”

“You’re good.”

He looks down, tapping his fingers together. “I’m not that good. I’ve just been there.”

I want to ask him how, but I realized he asked me first. Instead, I say, “I don’t like talking about it.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

I chew my lip, deciding I’m comfortable enough with Owen to let him in… a little. I take a deep breath, deciding to start at the beginning. “In high school, I was just a normal teenager. A roof over my head, loving parents, a lot of friends. Then, one night when I was sixteen, my parents took a drive to Long Island for a party. They were so excited—it was all bougie, at an investment banker’s house. My mom got the invite as one of his administrative assistants.” I stop to steady my voice. “My parents’ car hydroplaned, and they crashed on the way home.” Releasing the clench in my jaw that happens whenever I tell this story, I say, “I never even got to hear if they had fun. I hope to god they did.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Owen takes my hand and rubs his thumb across my palm, featherlight. “So what did you do?”

“My parents had no life insurance. I couldn’t afford the rent for their apartment. They weren’t irresponsible, but they had no savings or retirement after the housing market crash of 2008. I was penniless. So, suddenly, there was a crevasse between me and my friends. They were worried about designer clothes and proms, and I was grieving the loss of my parents and my life as I knew it, not to mention I had to figure out how I was going to eat. When you become an orphan at sixteen, you don’t have to go into foster care, but maybe I should have. I ended up living in my car for a while.”

“Oh, shit.”

“I started working any and every job I could get. I wasn’t quite an adult, but I had to become one overnight. I took my dad’s place as the super at our old apartment, and as soon as I had enough cash, I started RevitaHome and threw myself into work, one renovation at a time. It’s a predominantly male-run industry, so most of the people I work with either want to date me or be professionals—there’s no middle ground.”

“Makes sense.” Owen scoots closer and moves his hand to my back, which is warm, comforting.

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