Bree

12 Years Old

Bruised knees pulled to my chest, I sit high in the old oak tree and watch my cousins and their friends laugh and splash around in the shallow waters of the lough.

“Hey, Baby Bee,” a deep voice says below me, making my belly twist the way it always does whenever Owen Gallagher talks to me. He looks up at me now, his intense, gray eyes filled with concern. “What’re ye doing up there?”

“I hate when ye call me that. I’m not a baby,” I sulk, even though I know the six years that separate us makes me a child in his eyes. And I hate it.

“Ye’re right,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips. “Why aren’t ye swimming, Beatrice?”

He over-enunciates my name, which I hate almost as much as the childish nickname his brother, Cillian, tagged me with.

I shrug, watching him as he pulls himself up onto one large branch, swinging a long leg over and straddling it, resting his back against the trunk. He runs a hand over the coarse stubble on his jaw, which is just as dark as the hair on his head.

“I hate swimming,” I lie, not wanting to admit that his brother, Cillian, had teased me about wearing my t-shirt and shorts in the water, instead of a bathing suit, then telling everyone it’s because I was really a boy and didn’t want people to know.

“Cillian, again?” Owen asks as if reading my thoughts.

I shrug. “I hate boys.”

“Hey.” His soft, full lips curve, humor shining in his gray eyes. “We’re not all bad.”

“Yer not a boy,” I say before clamping my lips shut, fire burning up my neck to my cheeks.

Owen chuckles. “Last I checked, I was.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I mumble, picking a leaf and fidgeting with it. Owen’s different. He’s nice. And good. And he doesn’t tease me like the others. He’s not a boy. He’s a man. And one day, he’ll be mine.

Owen’s smile doesn’t falter, not until I start to move down the branches towards him. “Careful, Bee.”

I roll my eyes at him. He’s always so serious. So careful. And so concerned about everyone.

“Ye don’t have to worry about me.” I balance myself on a large branch a few feet above his head, and say proudly, “I’m brave.”

“I know ye are. That’s what worries me.”

“Are ye going swimming?” I ask when he glances towards the lough, where my cousin, Emer, lets out a hoot of laughter as the boys swarm around her, vying for her attention.

“No.” Owen’s gaze stays focused on the group of teenagers, dark brows drawn down over stormy eyes as he fidgets with a folded piece of paper in his hand.

“What’s that?”

“Just some song lyrics I’ve been working on.” The way he shoves it in his pocket, and looks away, cheeks filling with color, I think he’s lying.

“Can I read them?”

His smile returns. “Maybe one day ye’ll hear them playing over the radio.”

Despite our age difference, music is one thing that connects me to Owen. Like him, I can pick up almost any instrument and play it. The piano is my favorite, though, mostly because I have to go to my Aunt Agnus’ house to play it. And since Owen is friends with my cousin, Shane, he’s often there. But recently, I’m starting to wonder if he isn’t going over there more to see Emer than Shane.

A knot of jealousy forms in my stomach at the thought. Even though I know my cousin is secretly in love with Aiden Callahan, I don’t like the way Owen looks at her.

I’d do anything to have him look at me the way he does her - just once.

Owen pulls out a pen from his back pocket, then starts scribbling something on his arm, which is already marked with ink and patterns.

“Why do ye do that?” I crawl down to his branch, trying to get a glimpse of what he’s writing.

“What?”

“Write on yer arm.”

The corner of his lips pull up. “I had a thought and I didn’t want to forget it.”

“Lyrics?”

He nods, finishing his scrawling.

“And that?” I point at a pattern of interconnected lines that he’s scribbled in black pen on his forearm.

“It’s the Dara knot. Ye’ve never seen it before?”

“Not like that.”

He takes my arm and flips it so that my palm is facing up, then starts to draw on the inside of my wrist with the black ink. The pen digs into my skin, but all I can think about is the way his fingers touch me, and the jolt of heat that runs up my arm, straight to my belly.

I swallow hard and try not to shake as he finishes the lines.

“It represents the roots of the oak tree.” He gives me a lopsided grin.

My skin still tingles from his touch, but I manage to ask without stuttering, “What’s so special about an oak tree?”

He leans back and looks up. “When ye look at the tree, what do you see?”

I shrug. “Branches. Leaves.”

“It’s what ye don’t see, what’s under the ground, that keeps the tree alive.”

“The roots.”

He nods. “If the roots aren’t strong enough, then when the wind blows and the storms come, the tree will fall.”

I run a finger along the lines, more an excuse to touch him, than interest in what it means.

“The Dara knot reminds us that as long as ye have strong roots, ye can survive even the worst storms.”

“People don’t have roots.”

“We do.”

I frown at him. “Ye mean family?”

“And friends…” His gaze drifts down to the water where Cillian, Aiden, Shane, and Emer continue to horse around.

His friends. His family. I’ve always been too young to be included in their group. Always left out, no matter how desperately I tried to join in. I kept hoping it would change when I got older, that one day they’d accept me. But once my mom and I move to Michigan next week, I’ll probably never see them again.

Tears burn my eyes and I quickly blink them away, because I won’t cry. Not in front of Owen.

“What if ye don’t have either?”

His gaze travels back to mine. “Ye’re Irish, Bee. Wherever ye go, ye’ll always have both. Our roots are all twisted and tangled together. We stand together. We fall together. But we’re never alone.”

I lift my shoulders, then let them fall heavily.

“I don’t want to move,” I grumble. “And I don’t want a new father.”

“I’m sure he’s nice.”

I shrug again, because I haven’t even met the man that we’re flying across the ocean for. My mom met him on one of those online dating sites. All I know is that he’s got a big house, and three cars, and my mom thinks he’s her soulmate.

Whatever that means. She tends to think every guy she dates is the one who’ll finally make her happy. Maybe this guy finally will. I’ve heard her and my Aunt Agnus arguing about it. About him. And about me.

I begged my mom to let me stay here. I know Agnus would let me live with her. But mom scolds me every time I mention it, then starts to cry, saying I love my aunt more than her. So, I stopped asking.

“What if I never see ye again?” I say, a frown tugging at my lips as I straddle the large branch.

“Ye’ll come back to visit.” He tugs gently on my braid. “And ye’ll have yer music. Every time ye play, just close yer eyes and ye’ll be home.”

I close my eyes now, and let out a small sigh. “It’s not the same.”

“I’ll make ye a promise.” He places a callused hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently. “I’ll write to ye. And ye can write back and tell me about all yer exciting adventures.”

“Ye promise ye’ll write.”

“Promise.” He holds out his pinky finger and I take it with my own, then shake.

For the first time since my mother told me we were moving, hope and happiness warm my chest.

“Would ye do something for me, Bee?” Owen asks as he helps me down from the tree, large hands circling my waist until my feet are planted on the ground.

“Anything.” And I would.

“Would ye give this to Emer for me.” He pulls out the folded paper he’d placed in his pocket, and fidgets with it for a few seconds before holding it out to me.

I frown, but take it. “Sure.”

“Thanks, Baby Bee.” He messes my hair, giving me another lopsided grin that stops me from correcting him again about the stupid nickname.

I clutch the letter to my chest and watch him until he disappears over the hill, my heart going with him.

One day, I’ll come back. And when I do, he’ll be mine.