Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

Nobody in my family seemed to understand my need for something … else. Something different than what a life here would provide.

I wanted a life where I wasn’t invisible. And for that, I can’t apologize.

So instead of sharing any of that, I just stay silent.

We both do.

I spend the majority of the day unpacking my suitcase and trying to rearrange a few things in my childhood bedroom.

I don’t know why I’m shocked that everything is still here, almost untouched. I think I’d just assumed that someone would have rearranged things, made this into a guest room or set up a treadmill or something.

Instead, it just sat here, an unused memorial to my teen years.

My formal dresses are still hanging in the closet from homecoming and prom, right next to my graduation gown and choir robe. The clock radio next to my bed is still set to 101.3, the station I listened to every morning as I got ready for school. There’s even a notepad with a half-written note and pen still sitting on top of my dresser.

Apparently before I left I wanted to remember to call Quinn about Tuesday and …

But the note to my childhood friend was left unfinished, so who knows what I wanted to talk to her about.

I don’t like knowing that this room sat untouched while I was in LA. It means they always knew I’d be coming home. That I’d need somewhere to go at some point. That I wouldn’t be able to make it on my own.

And that hurts in a way I wasn’t expecting.

Once my clothes are in my dresser and closet, I begin unpacking the few boxes I brought home. I never really had excess money, so stuff wasn’t a luxury I could afford to accumulate. But I did have a few cheap picture frames, candles, and movies. Basically anything I could snag at discount stores for a few bucks that served my needs.

My movies slide onto the shelf next to the DVD player and computer monitor I used as a TV, and my candles and photos get spread around the room in various spots. I look at the last photo I set out for a long moment before finally placing it on my dresser.

It’s a photo of me and Vivian out to dinner the weekend before everything fell apart. She’d told me my world was going to change soon, and she wanted to make sure the two of us got to enjoy a dinner out without the paparazzi hounding us all night. I rolled my eyes so hard at that idea they nearly fell right out of my head.

The frame is crafted from Popsicle sticks and those little white letters from friendship bracelets. At the top it reads BEFORE SHE WAS FAMOUS.

A streak of pain lances through me, and I set the frame down on my dresser, wishing I had the nerve to chuck it in the trash.

But it was a gift from my best friend, so it stays.

I break down my cardboard boxes and take them out to the garage to shove them in the recycling bin, then grab the very last item still waiting for me in the entryway.

My mother’s guitar is a vintage 1987 Guild acoustic guitar. It’s not anything crazy special or worth more than probably a few hundred dollars. It’s still my most priceless possession. When I moved to LA, I had the original case too, covered in stickers from shows my mom went to when she was in her teens and twenties. But about two years in, it got stolen while I was playing at an open mic night.

Which is wild because who steals a guitar case?

Thankfully, I was able to find a similar one at a thrift store for way cheaper than it should have been priced. But I’ve always regretted that I hadn’t been more vigilant about my belongings. Especially something that belonged to my mother.

I lean the case against the wall in the corner at the foot of my bed, then take a seat on the carpet and stare at it.

I found it in the attic when I was ten, along with a bunch of my mom’s other things. From the first strum of my fingers over the strings, I was hooked.

I took weekly lessons for years, learned to read music as fast as I could, and constantly downloaded free sheet music online. I was insatiable. I wanted to know how to play anything and everything, by sight and off the top of my head. All kinds of genres and moods.

And when I was about fifteen years old, I finally realized I wanted to sing professionally. I wanted that Hollywood break, the chance to perform and make music and wow the world with my talent.

Now that will never happen.

So part of my brain wonders if it’s worth it to ever pick up that guitar again.

It’s remained untouched for the past two months, which is so unlike me. Even growing up, I was always lugging that thing everywhere, whipping it out whenever something came to mind, trying to figure out the right chords or melody or lyrics to a song I was sure would be a hit if only someone could hear it.

Who knew my chance would get ripped away from me before I was able to get anyone to listen?