Petty Roots (Summer Weddings in Solberg #1)

Chapter 1

One

The Envelope

One hour and forty-four minutes in, and my morning study block is as good as wasted.

Unable to make sense of a single word of this case study, I glare at my laptop, as if my vacuous state is entirely the computer’s fault.

My head is too full—of doubt, hesitation, and perhaps guilt—to focus.

Despite my best efforts, my eyes keep drifting to the pink envelope on the coffee table, sitting innocently on a pile of textbooks—

A chime from the train station outside makes me jump, and I shake my head.

“Sixteen minutes left.” Squinting and blinking through the storm behind my eyes, I stare blankly at incomprehensible legalese, hoping it’ll magically click.

After two years of law school, I should be used to pushing myself.

The nagging feeling that maybe I’m not cut out to be a lawyer eats away—

My phone lights up, and the steady buzz on the coffee table brings welcome relief.

With a huff, I scramble to answer. My mom calling is a convenient excuse to give up on pretending to study. Becoming a lawyer has been my primary objective for four years; I just need a break. This inner doubt stems from the mental bedlam caused by this damn envelope, that’s all.

Stretching my neck, I practice a convincing smile and hit accept.

Mom’s calls always include video; she needs evidence that I’m not miserable and living in squalor.

Carefully, I angle the phone away from the clutter and the half-eaten food left out on the kitchenette behind me, just as her face pops on the screen.

The haphazard stacks of textbooks behind me are just as messy as the rest of my apartment, but she’ll be happier with a view of my bookshelf. “Hey, Mom.”

“Morning, Blakey-poo!” Mom beams, though I can only see the smile in her eyes because of how close the phone is to her face.

Her messy bun of frizzy red hair takes up most of the screen; she cares more about seeing me up close than how she looks.

“How’s my favorite daugh—sorry, adult offspring doing on this beautiful Saturday morning? ”

I fight to keep my smile bright. At least she caught herself today. My mother tries, even if she doesn’t quite get it. “I’m good. How are you?”

Mom tsks, endearingly dramatic as always. “I’ll be better when your father gets back. I want my cinnamon roll!”

My dad is presumably the cinnamon roll she’s referencing, but I choose to believe my mother is talking about baked goods.

That’s my parents’ Saturday routine: Dad drives to the middle of nowhere at the ass crack of dawn to sit by himself in silence and bird-watch, then picks up cinnamon rolls on his way back when loud people start scaring the birds away by midmorning.

I miss those quiet mornings with Dad in the woods and wetlands, watching the sun rise and the world awaken.

I miss Mom’s comfortable chatter, the aroma of fresh coffee while inhaling a cinnamon roll larger than my head.

“What are you up to today?” Mom asks, startling me out of my memories.

“Studying.” Same answer as always, except for the additional, “Exams are next week.”

Mom tsks again, this time in disappointment. Her sound effects are their own language. “I love how dedicated you are, Blake, but remember to relax too! Enjoy the city while you have the chance to live there.”

My face freezes into the nice mask Mom prefers, but inside, I’m squirming. This conversation should be avoided. She’s half-right; I’ve barely explored Chicago in the two years I’ve lived here, and I don’t want to move back to Minnesota before I’ve given myself a chance to enjoy it.

Or ever.

But Mom isn’t ready for the whole I’m actually not moving back talk.

I should probably tell her I already have a job lined up.

Though whether I can keep it is contingent on if I pass the bar, and she knows my lease isn’t up until September.

So really, I can delay that uncomfortable conversation for at least a month.

Maybe two. “I am! I’m actually going to brunch with Adrienne in a few. ”

For my mom’s peace of mind, Adrienne is my new best friend.

In reality, I barely know her, though I’m closer with her than anyone else in Chicago.

Adrienne took me under her wing during orientation, and she’s kept me there since.

It’s unclear if she’s merely being nice to the only other queer person in our law school cohort, or if she actually likes me.

Making friends as an adult, even a grad student, is very different from making friends in undergrad or high school.

I haven’t quite got the hang of it, not that I was ever that great at it back in Solberg either.

Adrienne’s monthly invites to brunch, with her other misfit queer friends, are my lifeline to a semblance of a social life in Chicago.

“Oh, that sounds lovely! You were always such a social butterfly!”

I snort. I’ve never been a social butterfly. Matt was a social butterfly; he always dragged me along with him when we were kids. And the only friend I made in college was Allie.

“Are you going to fix your hair before you go? It looks like you could use a trim.”

Self-conscious, I fluff the soft black curls on my forehead and squint at my tiny picture on the phone. “I just got it cut last weekend.”

“Oh. You’re growing it out again? That’s great, sweetie!” Mom squeals. “You always looked so pretty with your long curls! I told you that pixie cut didn’t suit you, and now look, you practically have a mullet until it grows out again. Maybe they could do some layers next time you go?”

I swallow the defensive sarcasm that bubbles in my chest, like a burp that would be so satisfying to let rip.

My mullet is intentional, and my “pixie cut” was a buzz cut.

But Mom prefers to interpret my appearance through women’s styles.

When I came out as non-binary three years ago, she said she loved and supported me no matter what.

It was the same speech she gave when I came out as bi in high school.

But apparently, that hasn’t extended to hair.

I must take too long to respond because Mom hums, her signal that she’s changing the subject. “Anyway, I was calling to check in. See how you’re holding up with the news?”

“News?” I squawk. News isn’t a good word. There should be no news coming from Solberg. “What news?”

Mom exhales through her teeth, which makes me more nervous; that’s Dad’s nervous tick when he’s avoiding a sensitive subject. “You know…about Mattie and Allie. Their wedding?”

“Oh.” That’s not news. That’s been coming.

I’ve known they would get married since I moved to Chicago two years ago.

In the small town of Solberg, Minnesota—where I was raised and stayed for college—I left behind my two best friends: my high school sweetheart and my college roommate.

In my absence, the boy next door (who didn’t want to do long-distance) grew even closer to my bubbly roomie, who stayed with my parents after graduation for an internship.

By the time summer was over, Matt and Allie had moved in together.

Which I was totally fine with.

They announced their engagement in the group chat six months ago, and their other friends got invitations two months ago. I didn’t get one. But everyone else gushed about how pretty and perfect the invites were. Again, totally support them and their choices, even the choice to not invite me.

So their wedding is not “news”. I’ve just been choosing not to talk about it. Or think about it. Because it didn’t concern me.

At least, until I got the mail yesterday.

“You know, the Jacobsons didn’t want to invite us?

” Mom tsks again, this time in disgust. My parents and Matt’s parents (despite being next-door neighbors since Matt and I were in diapers) do not get along.

The Jacobsons aren’t bad people, but they’re a little obsessed with normalcy.

And that’s not my family. Allie—all five-foot-two, feminine, sweet, blonde, and painfully straight—is going to be a much better daughter-in-law than my queer, trans-masc ass ever would have been.

Love that for them.

“Mattie and Allie hand-delivered us an invite when they came over for Family Friday Game Night, since the other one had gotten ‘lost in the mail,’” Mom scoffs.

“Sounds like someone made damn sure it got lost in the mail. Allie said they were sending you another one too, since they hadn’t gotten your RSVP either. Did you get it?”

Boy, did I! The blush envelope, perfectly lovely and traditional with eucalyptus leaves, woven texture, gold accents and so so so pink, has been burning a hole in my brain since it arrived yesterday.

“I’ll have to check the mail,” I lie as I stare the damn thing down, desperate to avoid answering the inevitable question of whether or not I’ll attend. “Are you gonna go?”

Mom sighs. “No. Your father and I talked about it, and we still have to live next door to the Jacobsons. Mattie hinted that his parents didn’t know we were invited, and frankly, we just came to a truce about the chickens.

I don’t want to get them riled up again.

Your father almost quit Facebook because of her passive-aggressive bullshit in the Solberg Townie group. And you know he loves his Facebook.”

My father does love his Facebook. Luckily for bird-watching groups, instead of the usual things middle-aged dads love Facebook for.

“I invented some excuse about a vacation, so now we’re road-tripping to New Mexico to check some wildlife refuge off your father’s bucket list. He wants to see a roadrunner!”

Well, if my parents aren’t going, maybe I could safely open the envelope.

Just to RSVP no. Because I’m not supposed to go to their wedding.

I’m the ex. Exes don’t go to weddings. Even if they’ve been best friends since they were five.

Or roommates since freshman year, who clicked on a soulmate-level of clicking.