Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

I roll my eyes, but don’t address his whole damn country comment.

“Doesn’t matter what your reputation is when you’re starting a new job,” I tell him. “You still have to show the boss that they made the right decision in hiring you.”

“That’s why you should be the boss. Open your own restaurant.”

I nibble on my lip. “Maybe someday.”

I don’t tell him that I doubt that dream will be one I’ll ever see come to fruition. That I fucked things up too bad for something like that to happen. The last thing I need to do is point out to my little brother all the ways I’ve screwed up. Not when he looks up to me like he does.

“Let me know when I can come see you,” he continues. “I want you to meet Mira.”

My eyebrows rise. “You met somebody?”

The way my brother laughs on the other end of the line … I’ve never heard him laugh quite like that. Unabashedly would be the word to describe it.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice dropping. “I met someone. And I can’t wait for you to meet her.”

I blink a few times. “If she’s special to you, I can’t wait to meet her as well.”

We talk for a few more minutes as he updates me about work. He’s an artist, my little brother, and he’s been pursuing his passion on the side while he works as a manager at a paint store. I can’t help but smile as I listen to him share about the educational programs he’s been putting together in conjunction with the community center.

He’s a good man. I’ve done my best to be there for him … to help him as much and as often as possible so that he didn’t feel the sharp sting of life the way I have. Though I know it wasn’t enough.

Not nearly enough.

“Look, I gotta jet,” he tells me a little while later. “I’m meeting Mira and her friends for brunch in a little bit.”

“No, I got you. Head on out. Love you, Ash.”

“Love you, too.”

We hang up, and I stare at my phone for a long moment.

It blows my mind that neither of us are dead or crazy-addicted to drugs with the way we were raised. Better yet, I get to sit and listen to my brother talk about his life and his work like he does.

We’re fucking lucky.

So fucking lucky.

I might be trying to pick up the pieces of my life right now, but as long as my brother is happy and healthy, I don’t care what happens to me. Not really.

After my chat with Ash, I swap my sweats for running shorts, figuring now would be a good chance for me to get out some of my anxious energy. I’m not a huge runner, but when everything fell to shit at the end of last year, I started dealing with anxiety attacks.

I would walk around the city at night, the long blocks giving me the space and time to process my thoughts. Then a few months ago, I started running, and it became an important outlet for me to deal with my emotions.

I’m sure something like therapy might help a little bit more, and I’ll get there someday, but for now, I tell my stories to the road.

The midday sun pounds my shoulders for the entire four miles it takes to get from the vineyard into town, and I’m grateful when I make it all the way to Main Street.

I come to a stop outside of The Carlisle to catch my breath. I step into the alcove of the café’s backyard patio, tilting my face up and enjoying the sensation and coolness coming from the misters.

“Can I help you?”

I glance over at who I’m assuming is a server, since she’s holding an empty tray under her arm. Her eyes rove briefly over my shirtless, sweaty form.

“No, thanks,” I tell her, my chest still heaving. “Just need a sec.”

She doesn’t say anything else, just continues to watch me. It’s … irritating.