Page 64 of Buried Roots

“I know—I need to talk to him.”

When we finally have the hole dug, I show Owen how to cut the broken pipe and line up the new piece to fit. Then, on either side, we’ll put braces on and clip them as tightly as we can.

It’s getting harder to work as our hole is turning into a mud puddle.

As I place the binders, my hands quickly turn red from the wet clay. My fingers ache from the chill and holding the pieces in place for so long. But I keep going because I have no choice.

As usual, Owen and I make a great team—once I’ve shown him what to do, he puts his muscles into tightening the clips, something I don’t think my fingers can do.

It takes a while, but we manage to get the replacement piece of pipe installed. To ensure everything fits correctly, I inspect each joint carefully before having Owen tighten it down one last time with a wrench.

When Owen runs away to turn back on the waterline, I have him on the phone so I can tell him to turn it back off if there’s still a leak.

“I’m turning it on,” he says.

My stomach clenches as I stare at the pipe. “Ready.” After a moment passes with no spraying water, I’m hesitant when I say, “I think we did it.” When I hear water rushing through with no leaks, I let out a cry of joy. “It’s holding!”

“Good.” There’s that curt one-word answer from him again.

I swallow back my frustration with him. “You’re free to go home now. Thank you for all your help,” I say before I disconnect.

I glance at the bricked patio to see the puddles of water creeping dangerously close. “Shit!” I have to get a trench dug. I grab the shovel again, now wishing I hadn’t sent Owen home. At the same time, I’m dead sick of his attitude.

But it all doesn’t matter because that stubborn man reappears, as usual, and grabs a shovel.

I turn to him, the rain dripping in my eyes. “I’ve got it.”

“Oh, yeah, you’ve really got it.” His sarcastic tone carries a bite.

“I do.” With no time to argue, I get busy shoveling, working as fast as my arms will allow. Owen joins me, and we dig in tense silence as we carve a trench in record time.

When it’s done, my frustration has grown to anger, and it shows in my tone when I say, “Thanks for your help. But I don’t need you rescuing me.”

He looks at me, fire in his eyes. “It’s not just about you. Ma doesn’t need a cotton plant blowing toxic fumes at her house.”

“But I told you I had it.”

“Oh, you had it all right.” Drenched and shivering, he grits, “We have two weeks left before the appraisal, and there’s a ton of work to do. And, dammit, when I say I’ll do something, I do it.”

“Right, unlike me—I get it.” He’s being an ass, and now, I don’t feel like explaining why I missed dinner. I toss the shovel down and storm past him toward my house.

When I rush onto my covered front porch, I make muddy puddles with every step, so I sit on the swing and take off my boots.

Caked head-to-toe in mud, just like me, Owen stomps onto the porch and approaches me with fire in his eyes. He must see the agony on my face because he says, “What the hell is going on?”

Anger simmers in my gut, and I want to run anywhere, just to get away from him. This is a conversation that I never wanted to have, not with Owen. But he deserves the truth.

A silence passes between us as I work up the courage to speak. Finally, I stand, clearing my throat before I say, “So…you and Dakota. Last night.”

“This again? Yeah, she’s a friend.” He looks away, his jaw clenching. “We have a long history, so she knows my shit.”

“I wish I had a friend who knew all my shit. There’s something special about that.”

“Maybe there is.” His words make my heart lurch into my throat, and I dread to hear what’s coming next. But then he says, “She and I are very different people than when we were in high school.”

I close my eyes and quietly exhale the air that was trapped in my tightening chest. “What does that mean?”

“There’s nothing between us.” For the first time today, he looks at me with hurt in his eyes instead of anger. “Is she why didn’t you come to dinner?”

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