Putting Down Roots (Roots #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Olivia

There are a million ways someone can get into trouble at 2:30 in the morning. There’s the usual sneaking out of the house, getting kicked out of a bar, or drunkenly throwing up in an Uber. Then there’s my version of two am trouble, which is not sending a tax return up to my senior manager on time, despite my best efforts, on April 15 th , aka Tax Day.

As a Teams message chimes… and another and another, the walls of my lungs close in until I’m gasping for air. Sweat coats my palms, and my heart pounds insistently in my chest until it’s the only sound I can hear. My head spins as I scramble into the nearest empty room. I can’t let someone else see me like this.

After closing the door behind me, I fling the window open, but the cool ocean breeze floating through does nothing to help me get more oxygen into my lungs.

Another Teams message dings. I don’t need to read it to know what it says. Where is the return, Olivia? I’m waiting. This needs to be done.

I’ve never failed to get something done on time, but this spring busy season has been awful. Everyone has been working more than seventy hours a week for over a month and a half. I’m tired. I’m not performing my best. Great, now I’m wheezing.

I slide down to the floor with my back supported by the wall. Tears slither down my cheeks as I pull my legs up into my chest and hold them tight. I’m in full-fledged panic, and I know from experience it’ll take every fiber of my being to finally calm myself down again now that I’ve let myself spiral this far.

Come on. Pull yourself together. You don’t have time for this.

I desperately want to call someone, to have someone rub a soothing palm on my back while I figure out how to breathe again, but there’s no one to call. I’m alone, and it’s way too early in the morning. My old college roommate, Anna, will be sound asleep until her fifth alarm finally gets her out of bed twenty minutes before she needs to leave for work. I know better than to mess with her sleep. Besides, I haven’t done anything more than send her an occasional text or Instagram reel in the last few months. It’s tax season, so I’ve been spending every day just trying to make it to the next. I’ve closed out the world because I’ve been so focused on filing tax returns for huge companies and millionaires that don’t even know I exist. It feels unfair to call Anna after three months of near silence just because I need help.

You need to do this on your own. You have a deadline, and no one wants to see you like this.

Remembering what my mom first taught me freshman year of college, when I couldn’t think straight because I was so nervous about my final exam, I focus on my breathing.

Gradually, my pulse slows, and the sound of the wind zipping through the cracked window grounds me again. As my shoulders release the slightest bit, I think about what my mom would say if she were here. She’d probably tell me this is exactly why she didn’t want to leave me here in California. She’d probably argue she should be here taking care of her daughter, to hell with finally getting to live her dream life with my dad in Texas, where he grew up.

There’s a part of me that wishes she was still here, but there’s also a part of me that knows my mom has made too many sacrifices for me in her life. It took me years to finally get my parents to loosen their grip on me enough to go live their own lives. I’m tempted to call Mom, and let her know that I love her, that I appreciate her. But it’s 4:45 in the morning in Texas, and I have a return that needed to be sent to my senior manager about five hours ago.

I settle for a simple text, harmless.

Me

Just thinking of you. Love you

My love to dad too ??

With another swift breath out, I rise from my place on the ground, squiggling my finger across the mousepad to wake my computer back up. I just wasted fifteen minutes on a panic attack. I need to get back to work. I need to push this aside.

A wave of nausea rolls through my stomach as I swipe away my tears and type in my password on my laptop. Focus. Focus. One thing at a time. I’m close. The deadline’s today. I’m almost done.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of “The Best Day” by Taylor Swift. It’s Mom’s ringtone. Furrowing my brows, I reach for my phone and hold the screen up to my face to check anyway. Why the hell would she be awake before five in the morning?

Frazzled, and a bit concerned, I swipe my thumb across the screen. “Hello?” My voice sounds like I just gargled with thumbtacks.

“Olivia, honey, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine. I’m just trying to get some work done and thought it had been a little while since I’d sent a text.”

“You don’t sound fine. I knew something was off when I saw your text.” Before I can argue with her, my phone is ringing again. It’s the Facetime tone.

I accept the switch to video, hoping she won’t notice my swollen red eyes or the dark, puffy bags that have made a permanent home underneath them over the last several months.

“Why are you up right now?”

“I’m always up early. I was up half an hour ago.” She moves her face closer to the screen. “Ol, I need you to be honest with me. What’s going on? You look like you’ve been run over by a truck. Twice.”

Ignoring her questions, I mutter. “Gee, thanks.”

I can’t tell Mom about what just happened. She will freak out. Ever since I was little, any small thing that went wrong would send my mom into panic mode, whether it was a scrape on my knee or the hiccups. I can’t exactly blame her after losing three babies before having me, but it doesn’t change the weight it puts on me. It doesn’t take away from the constant feeling that I need to protect both her and my dad from any of my darkness.

“You need some sleep. Whatever tax return you have to do can wait until the morning.”

“No, it can’t,” my voice shakes. “This needed to be done yesterday . You don’t understand the kind of pressure I’m under.” Tears threaten the corners of my eyes. No. No. No. Please, no. “The tax deadline is today.” I choke back a sob.

“Oh, honey! I’m so sorry! Everything is going to be okay. There’s nothing you haven’t made it through yet. You’re incredible. Not only are you my little miracle child, but you are smart and such a hard worker. You’ll get it done.”

My heart squeezes at her words, and my lungs decide it will be fun to stop taking in oxygen again. I whimper as I try to get myself back under control. Mom’s face contorts in horror. “What’s going on? Whose ass do I need to kick? I’m getting on the next flight to San Francisco right n?—”

“No! I’m just having a bad day… okay, a bad week.” She pins me with a glare, but I don’t dare let up again and tell her the truth. It’s been a bad few months.

I bite my lower lip, trying to keep it from quivering. As much as I want to be comforted by my mom right now, I know I don’t have the time for it, and I know telling her the truth about how I’ve been feeling lately won’t get me the results I want. She’d give up the world to make sure I’m happy. She already has before, and I will never let her do it again.

“I really need to go, Mom. I have work to do.”

“Oh, no you don’t! I’m your mother. You’re not fooling me. Have you been like this all night? All busy season?”

“No. Like I said, I really have to?—”

“Olivia Parker! Don’t you dare lie to me. I can see your face. I can hear your voice. You’re my daughter . I know you’re not okay. You had another episode, didn’t you?”

Even when I was younger, my mom refused to put any other kind of label on the panic attacks. I know it scares her when this happens. I know it makes her feel out of control, like she did something wrong when she was raising me. Sometimes it makes me feel like I failed her. She finally got her chance to have a kid, and she had me, this messy ball of anxiety that constantly makes her worry despite my best efforts to hide my troubles from her.

“When was the last time you had an episode?”

I shake my head, unwilling to answer. If she finds out, she is going to move back to California. I’m sure of it.

Her brows furrow and a deep crease appears on her forehead. I feel my resolve caving quickly as her anger smooths to concern. Her wide amber eyes have this little sparkle that gets me every time.

“It’s been going on for the last couple months. It’s just?—”

“ Months ?” she explodes. “This job is obviously too much for you. This is not healthy. We need to do something about this.”

“ We aren’t going to do anything about this. I’m twenty-four years old. I can take care of myself.” I glance at the clock, watching precious seconds pass by. “I have to go. I can’t argue with you about this right now.”

“No. We are talking about this now. The deadline is today. Something needs to change. It’s not healthy for you to be in this state for nearly six months out of the year.” She pauses, thinking. “Maybe your dad and I need to come back. You obviously need a better support system. We could be there for you and help you better manage your anxiety.”

“Absolutely not. You and Dad are so happy in Roots. I can’t let you do that.”

“I need to keep an eye on you though. I always worry about you, but now that I know you’re having episodes again, I’m going to worry twice as much.”

I sigh, burying my head into my hands. “You’re not coming back.”

“Yes, I am ,” she insists.

“I can’t—” I’m saved by the sound of barking on Mom’s end of the phone.

“Rhett’s here. Ugh, I need to go. We are going to discuss this more.”

“I don’t doubt it. Love you, Mom.”

“I love you with my whole heart, Ol.”

I stick my phone in my back pocket, swipe below my eyes one more time, and then slowly open the door, peeking out to see if anyone has noticed what just happened.

Feeling confident I wasn’t caught, I slither out of the little room, taking several deep breaths as I move back to my desk. I make it a full three steps before I feel an arm tugging at me. I look up to find my career coach, who is also the senior manager on my return, looking down at me with pity in her eyes.

“Are you okay?”

My lip instantly quivers. Why is it so emotional when someone asks if you’re okay?

“Yeah, I just needed to take a call from my mom in Texas. I’m getting right back on the return. I just need to do a self-review before I send it back up.”

“Olivia, I saw you.” Tears start to form in my eyes again. “Maybe you need to take some time off after the deadline, take a step back.”

“What? No. I’m fine. I can’t leave. I’m almost to senior. You know my goals.”

“It’d just be a couple of months off so you can get the help you need and learn how to control your anxiety. You’re one of our top staff. I’m certain the tax managing partner will allow you to take a leave of absence if it means keeping you around. You can probably even get promoted on time.”

“No—”

She crosses her arms in a stern way that immediately makes me stop talking. “You haven’t been producing the same quality of work I’ve come to expect from you over the last month or two, and someone needs to look out for you if you’re not going to do it for yourself. I think you should start with three months off, and we can re-evaluate after that.”

This is my worst nightmare.