Page 28 of Bitter Truth

But the longer we sit there, side by side, enjoying the silence and the late-evening spring breeze and comfort of being alone, together, the less I can seem to muster up the ability to care.

Chapter Seven

MURPHY

When I moved to LA nine years ago, just twelve days after my high school graduation, I stayed for a few weeks with a friend of a friend while I searched for a job and an apartment.

I’d been saving every single penny I could manage from my part-time job waitressing at The Carlisle, babysitting, and working for a few hours each Saturday morning at the Trager family’s veggie stand. But I still didn’t have much, and I ended up answering an ad on Craigslist for a roommate.

The place was a one-bedroom, and my “room” for almost two years was a corner of the living room that had shower curtains hung over PVC piping to create a modicum of privacy.

It was a nightmare.

Eventually, I managed to make friends and get connected with three people who had extra space in their two-bedroom apartment. Still, four people in an eight-hundred-square-foot box is tight. I grew accustomed to wearing earplugs because my roommate’s boyfriend spent the night fairly often and they were completely unconcerned with privacy.

And yet, I still think either of those situations would be preferable to returning home. If circumstances were different, if I thought I might have ever been able to figure out how to get things to work out in spite of what happened, I would have stayed. I would have continued waitressing, continued signing up for open-mic nights and trying to make connections to get a different agent.

But I knew—hell, Paul flat-out told me—there was no future for me in LA.

So I left.

The quickness of it was jarring. I went from celebrating my sudden success to grieving my rapid fall within such a short period of time.

It felt like whiplash, the pain of it still reverberating through me months later.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

I look out to the pathway that leads up to the back patio, smiling when I see my aunt approaching. She’s wearing a big hat that shades her from the sharpness of the early-summer sun, but the hard labor of a vineyard worker is still apparent in sweat on her flushed skin.

My aunt Sarah has been a mother figure for as long as I can remember, and when I lived in LA, she called me regularly to ask all about my life and hear how my pursuit of a music career was going.

She never talked about my father, though, and rarely about my brothers. Instead, she shared details about the vineyard in general, about her new quest to use dating apps to find love, and the different hobbies she picked up here and there.

I’m glad I had her to talk to when I was away. She allowed me to feel somewhat connected to my home without guilting me into returning. And for that, I’ll be eternally grateful.

I haven’t told her why I’m home, though. The only people who know are my friend Vivian and my brother Micah, and outside of them, I have no plans to share.

“I’m heading into town to run some errands. Wanna come?” she asks, dropping down into one of the other patio chairs and taking a long swig from her water bottle. “I’ve missed our shopping trips since you’ve been gone.”

I think back to all the times she did this while I was growing up. She’d take me into town to do whatever she needed to do, then we’d stop at Rosewood Café and get coffees or ice cream or something. There, she’d get me to open up about whatever was going on in my life at the time.

I have a feeling today she’ll try to get me to share why I moved home, and I’m not sure I have the strength to keep everything bottled inside.

So I shake my head.

“No thanks, but maybe another time.”

She twists her lips, my answer clearly disappointing her.

“You know I’m here whenever you need to talk, right?”

I nod, and my voice comes out as a whisper. “I know.”

I feel bad for turning her down, but I don’t change my mind. I’ve been a people pleaser for most of my life. Most middle children are. It’s something to do with the fact that we don’t get enough attention, and my life is nothing if not a cliché example of a middle child wishing she felt more loved.

There have been only a few times I can remember doing things that intentionally went against others’ desires.

One is when I left Rosewood.

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