Page 11 of Bitter Truth

I nearly groan just thinking about it.

The fact she’s a Hawthorne is just ... I kick lightly at the mulch on the path. What kind of a small world is that? I guess not that small since we were at a gas station less than two miles from her family vineyard.

I don’t know what kind of disruption working together will cause, or whether this attraction to each other is a small flame we can snuff out quickly. But she seemed pretty upset to find out she was going to be “reporting” to someone instead of managing things on her own, so I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.

But one thing is for certain. This job is more important to me than my attraction to Murphy, and that’s something I need to remember whenever I find myself too enamored by her golden eyes or perfect pink lips.

Eventually I hit the place where the path splits, leading off in several different directions: the brand-new restaurant building to the right, the cellars and warehouse down the middle, and the cabins to the left.

No matter what, I need to remember that I’m here to work, and that getting entangled with my brand-new boss’s sister is definitely not the right path to take.

Chapter Three

MURPHY

I stay in bed until after eleven on Saturday. The familiarity of my old twin mattress and the room I grew up in lulls me to a state of comatose bliss I haven’t experienced since high school.

Life in LA was go, go, go. Rapid pace, never stop, keep moving.

It had been jarring at first, but I quickly adapted.

I didn’t realize just how much I would enjoy the chance to have a lazy Saturday after years of pushing myself without a break.

I crawl out of bed and mosey sleepily into the kitchen. I take out a pitcher of fresh orange juice from the refrigerator, knowing that my aunt Sarah likely made it, just like she used to when my brothers and I were little. I welcome the twinge of nostalgia as I snag a slightly stale bagel from the pantry and pop it in the toaster.

Beyond the big windows that face out to the vineyard, a few workers are scattered across the fields. If we were in harvest season, there would be dozens more to help prep the grapes for crushing. But we’re in the offseason, which means the crew is much smaller. At least, that’s what it was like growing up here. My grandparents, my father, my aunt, my brothers, and two other hands that lived in the cabins on the other end of the property, Diego and Clay.

I remember people coming and going all day long, the house feeling busy and alive no matter where I was. Diego was like another father to me, and Clay was the nicest guy. I used to love practicing my Spanish with them. Or listening to their stories when they shared our table for dinner after a long day of working the soil, or setting up netting to protect the vines from pests, or any of the dozens of other tasks it takes to keep this place up and running.

But everything feels different than it did when I was a child. That familiarity is gone now, and I don’t recognize any of the faces I see outside, roaming the property. Three gentlemen I’ve never seen before are moving slowly through the lanes, pruning the vines with their little clippers and chucking the pieces they remove into buckets at their feet.

I don’t know why I expected to see Diego and Clay after nine years away, but the fact they’re not here makes my heart sad.

The door to the fields opens, and suddenly my father is standing in the living room off the kitchen, covered in sweat, his skin still the same deep tan that decades in the sun will do.

He stamps his dirty feet on the rug a few times, but then his head rises and he spots me. He pauses for a long moment, an unnamable expression on his weathered face, before turning away and walking down the hall. The only sound is the quiet taps of his work boots against the terra-cotta tiles.

When he disappears, the sadness in my heart grows.

I hadn’t ever figured out what things would look like with my dad, coming back after all this time. But I didn’t think he’d just look at me and walk off without a word.

“He’ll come around.”

I turn toward my brother’s voice, spotting him leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “He just doesn’t know what to say when his feelings are bigger than his words.”

I cross my own arms, mirroring Memphis’s stance.

“Sounds like a condition the Hawthorne men all suffer from,” I reply.

His lips flatten into a tight grin. “That would be accurate.”

Neither of us say anything as I cross the kitchen to put cream cheese on my toasted bagel, and Memphis begins pulling supplies from the fridge to make a sandwich.

Eventually, we’re sitting together at the small kitchen table, silently eating our breakfast and lunch, respectively.

Part of me wants to apologize for leaving. Or at least for going radio silent after I did leave. But I can’t bring myself to do it when I know it was the right decision for me at the time.

I’d felt so lost here, so unimportant, so confused about what any kind of future might look like if I stayed. And going to LA to pursue my dream ... It felt like the right thing.

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