Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

I’ve always chalked it up to losing my mom and turning inward with his grief. It never occurred to me that the man my mother loved was always a growly bear who didn’t say much, even when they were younger.

“We used to play together over on that hill where her bench is.” He makes a huffing sound that I think is supposed to be a laugh, and shakes his head. “Well, she played. I plucked along like an idiot, just grateful to be sitting next to her.”

Something tightens in my chest at his memory of their love. Of his love.

He so rarely talks about her. And my own memories of my mother are vague, little snippets of images and random things. Mostly memories cobbled together from the few photos I have from when I was a toddler.

But nothing ever feels real or concrete. It’s a sad truth of losing her when I was so young. I envy everyone who got to know her in ways I never will.

“What is that you’re playing?” I have a feeling it’s related to Mom somehow, but I can’t place exactly why. “I feel like I’ve heard it before.”

Dad smiles at me then. A real one.

“Because you have heard it before. It’s your good night song. Your mom created one for each of you.” He pauses, his fingers stuttering on the strings. “Well, for you and Memphis. She hadn’t written one for Micah yet.”

My chest twists again. I try to imagine her playing me to sleep, wishing I had a real memory of it.

“Does it have words?”

He shakes his head, and his fingers pick up their strumming again.

“She didn’t really write songs. Not like you do. Said she didn’t want to write the words, she wanted to create the feeling.”

I nod, understanding what he means.

That’s how I feel sometimes when I’m writing music. I don’t envision myself performing the song. I imagine how others will feel when they hear it. How the words and the sounds filter into their ears and ripple through their bodies, touching their minds and hearts before traveling down into their fingers and toes.

It’s why the songwriting part has always felt more important than anything else, and why I’m so excited about this opportunity with Humble Roads. There are still all these words and feelings inside me that just have to come out, even if I’m not the one performing them.

Almost as if he heard my thoughts, my dad speaks again.

“Memphis told me about the trip to meet with that record label.” The room is suddenly far too quiet as my father stops playing and crosses his arms on top of the body of the guitar. “Said it was a big deal.”

My head tilts to the side as I regard him.

Something’s different.

I mean, I knew it when I came in here and found him playing my guitar, which I’ve literally never seen him do in my entire life.

But it’s something else.

I just can’t put my finger on it.

“Yeah. It’s a really big deal.”

It’s not in my nature to boast, but if my father is taking an unexpected interest in something I love—something that has divided us for as long as I can seem to remember—then I want him to know exactly how big of a deal it really is.

“So you’re gonna head back to LA, then?”

“Do you even really care?” My words come out harsher than I intend, barbed with the pain I’ve felt at his constant inability to be supportive of my dreams. So I don’t rush to apologize for what I said or how I said it.

My dad’s head falls just a bit, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“I deserve that,” he says, his voice soft. “But to answer the question, yes, I do care. I want …” His voice trails off and he looks toward my laundry basket, almost like he’s searching for the words amid my dirty clothes. “I want you to be happy, Murph. I do. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

My chest gets that tightness again, though this time it prickles at something behind my nose as well.

“Just … sometimes I’m not very good at saying it. I’ve missed you a lot, Murph, and I’m glad you’re here. But if heading back to LA will make you happy, then … Well, that’s the most important thing.”