Lib Novel Page 103
I swallow thickly, the time I spent getting ready for this conversation doing almost nothing to truly prepare me for how it feels to hear her say it. To know she’s going to leave.
The feelings swirling in my chest are much stronger than I anticipated, and it takes everything inside me not to beg her to—
“I told them no.”
My head swings to the side, and I hold tightly to the steering wheel, careful not to jerk us into a neighboring lane.
“What?”
Her smile is soft, and she squeezes my hand.
“I told them that I would love to work for them, but that I didn’t want to be based in LA or anywhere in Southern California.”
“Murphy . . .”
“My life is here now, Wes.”
“But that doesn’t mean you can’t rebuild a life there.”
“I know that.” She squeezes my hand again. “I know that. But it’s not just my life that’s here, Wes. My heart is here, too. And that’s something I won’t be able to find there. I just won’t.”
My own heart constricts in my chest, the overwhelming feeling of knowing I’ve found my soulmate coursing through me and out to my veins, to every part of my body.
I look over at Murphy again, and this time, I can see she has tears in her eyes.
“I love you.”
It’s a whisper when she says it, but her words have never sounded so loud and strong in my mind.
In my heart.
“I love you, too.”
We ride in silence for a little while, the lights of passing cars illuminating her face enough for me to glance over and look at her often, and I love seeing the happy little smile on her lips.
And all the while, her hand never leaves mine.
I hope it never does.
Chapter Twenty-Three
MURPHY
I pause at the threshold to my room. My hand hovers over the doorknob when I hear the faint strum of the guitar. It’s a familiar melody, though I’m unable to place it in my memory.
“I can see your shadow under the door.”
I blink a few times in surprise at the sound of my father’s voice, and I slowly push the door open, certain I must have imagined it. But there he is, sitting on the edge of my bed, my guitar in hand as he plucks idly at the strings.
I can’t decide what’s more of a shock: him sitting on my bed playing the guitar, or the soft smile on his face as he does it.
“I didn’t know you played,” I say, struggling to find the words to express how confused I am at the sight before me.
He nods, his body rocking minutely from side to side as he continues strumming.
“Your mom taught me. Said it was the best way to get something off your chest without talking.” At that, his smile turns sad. “Words never came easy to me, even back then.”
Dad has always been kind of a gruff guy. Gritty in a way I don’t really understand. He’s never been a great communicator and rarely talks about how he feels. Unless he’s irritated about something.