Rootbound by Tarah DeWitt (Excerpt)

Prologue 

TAIT

As I sit at the café on the most beautiful day of the year thus far, with a crystal clear view of the snowcapped Sierras, sipping on a perfectly foamy cappuccino, I can’t help but think of . . . wounds.

 

The festering, infected, gaping kind that are notoriously hard to heal—to be precise.

 

When I was in nursing school we learned about wound debridement: the act of removing the dead or damaged tissues in order to improve the healing potential of the remaining tissue. I can’t help but find it darkly ironic that, broken down, that word is de-bride-ment —exactly what the process of divorce is: un-becoming the bride. The wound happens, that initial break, the injury that calls for the divorce. Could be a sudden, forceful injury. Could be something small and almost indiscernible—something that turns putrid. Whichever it is, the wound is there, and needs to be addressed.

 

Then, the painful debridement continues each time you need to take apart a piece of that marriage—property division, monetary division, closing and changing every damn account you ever had. It’s a necessary process, because as petty as it might be, I refuse to share a Netflix account with my ex-husband and his new fiancée—lest my wounded self be infected further by knowing what shows they’re enjoying together, on the sectional we painstakingly picked out after three months of sitting on every option within a fifty-mile radius.

 

Then there’s the restaurants you most enjoyed, the hobbies, the photos . . . that one dress he loved with the tiny hole in the seam . . . the one you haven’t yet mended since it reminds you of the time you both dressed up and cooked a three-course meal at home, got wine drunk together and ended up having sex in the dining room. That rip happened when, even after eight years together, he got worked up enough to almost tear that dress off of you.

 

Some of the more painful, more necrotic “tissues” to remove are the subsequent relationships: our entire friend group, the in-laws that were my family. After all of that, when the wound is this big, it’s no wonder a complete amputation is what many recommend.

 

“Let that shit go,” my sister, Ava, says. “Cut them all off completely, because you know that keeping them around will inevitably lead to them dumping info on you about him that you don’t want or need. I know it’s painful now, Tait, and I know how much you loved them, too, but you have to get protective of yourself here. You already decided the same thing with the house—that it’s not worth the memories. I think you need to decide that with everything else, too.”

 

Ava is ferocious, free-spirited, and despite being just under four years younger than me, has suddenly become the big sister in our dynamic since the divorce began. I hate that.

 

I hate that I haven’t been able to hold my head high and push through like so many other problems in life—with copious amounts of sarcasm, distractions, overeating and then over-exercising, perhaps even some girls’ nights mixed in. My “girls” are nonexistent now. Sure, some still called and made an effort for a bit, but I knew it was out of guilt. After all, no one really wants to take the adulterer’s side, so of course they wanted to seem like they chose me, instead.

 

But I’m not the witty, fun friend they once knew anymore, anyway. I was half of a whole and now I’m just . . . half. I can’t even recall the last time one of them called or texted, and don’t know what I would say at this point if they did . . . I barely know how to attach my thoughts to my feelings these days, anyway.

 

But as much as my family life may have lacked, I thank the universe that I was given a sister, and that she has the family she has. I think we both had the same idea when we found the people we wanted to be with forever; that our family had been broken, and that the most cathartic thing for us was to relish in establishing our own. The only problem is that mine is . . . no longer, and she has been forced to absorb me into hers. So, of course, she worries excessively, and feels responsible for me now.

 

She is actually responsible for my favorite person on the planet, my nephew Jack. Jack was born the day after Cole had told me he was leaving me. I’d been getting out of the shower (had not even wrapped myself in a towel yet) when he told me. I remember every word of that conversation vividly. I remember how it felt like my head was going to explode because of the blood rushing to it; I remember not absorbing his words entirely because I was blindingly fucking pissed that he couldn’t wait until I was at least not naked to shatter my world. How when the words did sink in, I bawled and yelled like a wounded animal. How he knew me and my pride well enough to just leave.

 

The next day, my brother-in-law, Casey, called and told me that Jack was on his way—two weeks early. Because that’s the singular constant in life, isn’t it? That one minute you are completely obliterated by it, and then in the next moment, it carries you toward something else, regardless of whether or not you’re still emotionally reeling.

 

So, I took off the towel (that I had managed to wrap myself in), got off the top of bed that I had cried myself to sleep on, dressed and went on my way. I arrived at the hospital, and as I walked into Ava’s room, Jack made his screeching debut. He was a sturdy, eight-pound boy in spite of his earliness, with dark brown hair, his father’s nose, and his mother’s ears. He stole the remaining shard of my heart instantly. He is now just over one, and I’m absolutely certain he’s the smartest and greatest one-year-old to ever live.

 

I let out a dark chuckle to myself, thinking about my whole debridement thing, when Cole shows up.

 

“Care to let me in on the joke?” he says with complete sincerity. And while his tone is casual, he wears a desperate look on his face.

 

I pause for a second, trying to get past the knee-jerk reactions that still happen. We were together from the time that I was sixteen up until twenty-six, so I suppose it will take more time for them all to fade . . . There’s the dip in my stomach when I see his classically handsome face, his broad shoulders and size, just over six feet and strong as ever, I’m sure, despite the fact that he’s thinned out a bit. He looks more like he did when we met at sixteen this way, still clean-shaven since he can’t grow a great beard, black hair, kind brown eyes, a strong nose, and a wide mouth that always looks like it’s on the verge of a smile. He’s in his station uniform, which I’ve always loved. Every time I see it, I can’t help but be proud of him: the youngest battalion chief in the history of our county’s fire department. Like riding a bike, I want to grab his hand as I would have before, yank him down, and plant a kiss on his lips, pulling out that dimpled smile. Taking a beat to return to reality, I manage a closed-lip smile and say, “Hi. Did you want to wait for your drink?”

 

“That’s okay, I’m not going to order anything,” he says, and sits.

 

“Okay, did you bring everything that you need me to sign?” I ask, trying for an easy, unhurried tone. He immediately looks uncomfortable, and I have to stop myself from saying something to ease it.

 

“Tait, I—yes, I did. I don’t want to use up your time . But, yeah, I did.”

 

“I have a pen this time,” I volunteer. Won’t ever make the mistake of not having one again. There’s a time limit on how long one can keep it together during these things, and, like developing a substance tolerance, over time that ability increases. But, in the beginning, not having a pen and having to frantically search for one, all to end up having to ask strangers around you, while swallowing back tears . . . well, it leads to a pretty pathetic scene.

 

He hands me the documents and I immediately proceed with the signatures. He’s had the decency to mark everywhere with those little signature tabs to make it “easy.”

 

I suppose it is the least he can do since I’m giving him what was once our home. He wanted to buy me out for a small amount, but I simply don’t need the money, and since he didn’t want any of mine, this seemed like the easiest way to just cut ties and for us all to move on. Neither he, nor his new fiancée, Alex, seems to mind that they’ll be sharing the home I helped design, on the land I helped to purchase with the inheritance given to me by my grandparents. It is a great house, if I do say so myself—so I imagine that’s why.

 

We don’t have any children together. Ostensibly, this is a blessing . . . or so I’ve been told.
I’m on the second to last page when the bastard has the nerve . . .

 

“I miss you, Tait. I—I know I shouldn’t say that and don’t deserve to, but I miss you being my best friend. Allie does, too. I am so sorry,” he says, for about the billionth time, and with enough earnestness to make me furious. My ears heat, the anger catching in my throat.

 

I have worked so, so hard to hide the anger and the bitterness. To just proceed with cleaning this wound, to do everything that I can to improve the healing potential of what’s left of me. But the pain of it just keeps coming, and it blooms all over again at his words. I simply can’t yell anymore, so I choke out a whisper: “And how do you think I feel, Cole? Don’t you think I wish that I could just be happy for you? You gave me no indication that you were even remotely unhappy, that anything was even wrong. You just up and ripped my heart out of my chest and threw away over ten years of being half of my soul—let alone my best fucking friend. I didn’t know you were even slightly less than happy, Cole. I didn’t know.”

 

Tears are falling freely from his eyes, as they normally do. I don’t want to be angry anymore. I have moments of it, but I find that it’s a useless emotion in this scenario. I’m just incredibly sad now. Sad beyond tears. The kind that goes bone deep, numbs you and makes you aware of when you need to remember to breathe.

 

“I wasn’t. I just . . . we fell in love, and it was beyond our control. I don’t want to hurt you more. I just can’t stand the thought of you thinking you should’ve done anything differently. I know you, Tait, I know you probably think you missed something, but you just have to understand that you didn’t. Please understand that. You’re fucking perfect, and always have been. After my dad died, and then your mom right after, I realized that we only get this life, and I realized I was more scared to not let myself feel than to face the consequences. I owe my life to you—I wouldn’t be who I am without you. I will always regret that I hurt you, and that I lost us, for us.”

 

I huff out a sigh. “I don’t know what you want me to say. Stop concerning yourself with what I might be thinking, or who I’m blaming and just please, please let this be the last of it all, Cole.” I hate how my voice shakes at the end of it. I want this to stop. I send up a silent prayer to be woken up, if this is all just a nightmare.

 

A tear wells over and falls from my eye, and I hate that, too. I quickly scribble the last signature.

 

He must sense my desperation for the emotional purge to stop, so he moves on.

 

“This was the last of everything for the house, so it should definitely be all of it, now. Allie’s brother is a notary and said he’ll verify everything for us. He’ll reach out for anything he needs . . .” He pauses, flicking his glance up to me and back down. “I don’t expect you to right away, but my mom has made it abundantly clear that she loves you more than she loves me right now. I hope you’ll eventually have a relationship with her again. I know she misses you, too.”

 

I can’t muster up the emotional energy to address my relationship with Clara. I don’t want to dwell on how she has been more of a mother to me than mine was, how desperately I wish I had a mother to help pull me through this time, to eventually pester me about getting out there again. I can’t marinate on how much I miss cooking with Clara, or how I miss her still wanting to take pictures of us all the time, even as adults.

 

I miss feeling cared for, feeling precious to someone, and the self-loathing that this actualization brings me is a daily dose of acid, burning and sour.

 

I can’t get further into that now, weary as I am. So I haul my body out of my seat, turn away from the view, and say, “Bye, Cole. Be well.”

 

It occurs to me that for some sick reason I do want him to be well. To grab his happiness and love with both hands and just go with it, because, despite my best judgment, despite the fact that I love myself enough to know that I deserve better . . . I still love that idiot, too. That boy who became a man, who held me through my mother’s death and the complicated grieving that accompanied it, who supported me pursuing a career (and then supported me flipping the switch and changing it, despite years of school and money going to the former). We grew up with each other. We used to joke about how lucky we were to have found great sex at sixteen—at least great chemistry that grew into great sex. To have grown up and still grown with each other. He and his family, our friends—it was all so . . . great. I never took it for granted. And now I know what it’s like to have no hopes for that kind of love again.

 

I believe him, that it was out of his hands to fall in love with her. I have to. Because believing that our life—and even more than that, our friendship—was all a lie, or just simply not enough . . . well, it would empty me out entirely.

Copyright © 2023 by Tarah DeWitt