Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

My lips turn up at the kind sentiment, but before I can say anything in response, my father breaks his silence.

“You shouldn’t be toasting her return, Sarah.” His voice slices through the room as his eyes laser in on me. “Because she never should’ve left in the first place.”

You could hear a pin drop it’s so dang quiet. Nobody at the table is moving their cutlery or glasses. They’re all just sitting in complete silence, waiting for what happens next.

“You might not want to hear it, Dad, but deciding to leave was the right choice for me, and I don’t regret it.” Then I turn to my aunt. “Thank you, Aunt Sarah, for the toast.”

My voice might sound confident to those at the table who don’t know me, but it’s forced, and I know my dad can tell.

“If it was such an important thing for you to leave, I guess there was no real reason for you to come back, then.”

I blink a few times, my jaw clenched tightly. “Trust me, if I’d had anywhere else to go, I would have gone there instead.”

My father stands suddenly, his chair screeching loudly on the floor as it shoots out from behind him, the noise echoing through the kitchen.

“Thank you, Sarah, for the delicious dinner. I’m sorry it was soured by poor company.”

My nostrils flare at his insult, but I don’t say anything else, just letting my father leave the table. A few seconds later, I hear the front door slam, and I know he’s probably going to eat his dinner on the front porch.

I stare down at my plate of food, my vision blurred by the water beginning to pool in my eyes. Then I feel a hand pressed against my back.

“He’ll come around,” my aunt tells me, her voice quiet and kind, as it’s always been for as long as I can remember. “He’s just a proud old fart, you know that.”

I take a deep breath and let it out long and slow, trying to cool the anger inside of me as much as I can.

“I don’t need him to come around.” I shove back from the table, my plate of food still mostly untouched. “I won’t be here long enough to need it.”

Without another word, I storm from the room, needing to be alone.

I know I’m being immature, leaving the kitchen in a huff and not even taking a moment to clear away my plate and extras from the table. But god, he just makes me so damn mad.

Between my arguments with Memphis last night and my father today, the part of me that feels like I made a mistake trying to come home continues to grow. Continues to point out all the reasons why I was an absolute idiot for coming here.

Realistically, I could have stayed in Venice Beach. I could have continued my stupid waitressing job at the Italian place I still struggle to pronounce. I could have used that money to pay the exorbitant amount of rent I paid for a shared bedroom in a shitty neighborhood. I could have continued living the little life I created for myself far away from here.

But the realist inside of me knew it would be pointless after what happened.

My dreams of becoming a singer, of making it big, of seeing my name in lights, were officially and very dramatically dashed to hell.

So all the work I did, all the sacrifices I made, all the crappy jobs and side hustles and tiny gigs that were nothing more than glorified karaoke nights, were for nothing. They resulted in nothing.

Because that’s what I am.

And even though my return home was supposed to be my way of escaping from that reality, it only seems to reaffirm it.

I’m nothing.

And now I know, my father thinks so, too.

Chapter Four

WES

“Hey, Mom. It’s Wes.” I pause, wishing I’d just hung up the phone when she didn’t answer. “Just … checking in. Give me a call sometime. Love you, bye.”

I click off and let out a frustrated sigh.

The fact that my mother didn’t answer when I called her wasn’t surprising, but there was still a part of me that hoped she might pick up. That things had gotten … I don’t know … better.