Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

But as much as I’d like for this to be some kind of bonding moment with Murphy, some way for us to connect, I know that it’s a smarter choice for me to keep her at arm’s length.

So I stand, closing my notebook and clicking my pen.

“Just don’t screw it up. I don’t want to regret putting the weight of my opinion behind you if you can’t hack it.”

I can see the way my words hit her as if they’re a physical thing. The disbelief in her eyes, the way her head jerks back in surprise, how she shoots out of her seat in anger.

“God, you’re unbelievable,” she grits out, standing as well. “Next time you think about defending me, just keep your mouth shut, okay? I don’t need you to step in on my behalf. Especially if you’re so worried about the weight of your precious opinion.”

And with a final look that sears me where I stand, Murphy is turning on her heel and storming out of the restaurant again. It seems to be how she handles her anger.

But this time, I don’t think she’s going to come back.

I navigate my way into The Standard later that evening, raising a hand toward a group of guys I’ve been getting to know when I spot them surrounding the pool table.

There are a lot of things about restaurant culture that are incredibly toxic. But it’s also an environment that makes finding friends a lot easier than other lines of work. Servers and chefs know how to put on a show, how to be friendly and accommodating, so it isn’t surprising that I connected with a few of the other townie cooks.

Ross is a line cook at The Carlisle a few doors down from the bar, and Garreth works the counter and makes sandwiches at a sub shop at the other end of town. The third guy looks familiar, but I can’t remember his name.

But tonight, I’m not here to hang out with them, as much as I’d like to. Instead, I take a seat at the bar, my eyes tracking the man behind the counter as he smiles and gives me a wave.

He’s the reason why I did a double take when I saw a job listing in Rosewood. But he has no idea who I am.

“What can I get you?”

“Whatever IPA you recommend on draft,” I answer, keeping my expression easy.

“Coming right up.” He taps the bar top twice before turning to grab a pint glass and take it to the tap. He’s back in less than a minute, resting my pint on a coaster. “You opening a tab or just the one?”

I tug my wallet out. “Just the one.” I tug out a twenty and place it on the bar. “Keep the change.”

He grins and thanks me, spinning around to the till and giving me his back.

When Murphy invited me out for a thank-you beer, I told her I’m not really a bar guy, but I wasn’t being entirely honest. Mostly, I just didn’t want to come to this bar. Because I’ve been coming to The Standard a few times a week since moving here and still haven’t mustered up the courage to introduce myself to the man on the other side of the bar. Part of me wonders if I have the wrong guy.

But as I watch him in the old, weathered mirror against the back wall, I can see far too many similarities for me to be wrong.

According to my mother, Gabriel Wright was a decent father until he disappeared from our lives, leaving her a single mother to a five-year-old and a newborn. I believed that until I was in junior high, when I started understanding that my mother’s addiction problems meant she’d often lie about things.

It made me wonder if she lied about him, too. If he really was a man who just up and abandoned us one day, or if that’s not the whole story.

I’ve wondered about him for years, and when I was considering a move back to California and saw the job at Hawthorne Vines, a little part of me thought that maybe it was time to put myself in his path. Open the door to whatever might come from meeting him.

I planned it all out in my head, how I’d befriend him first before introducing myself. How I’d come in and sit at the bar and talk to him, learn about him first. It seemed like the best way for me to know for sure that I really wanted to tell him who I was.

But each time I show up and he’s working, I can’t manage more than a few words, my chest tightening at the idea of striking up a conversation.

Tonight is more of the same.

The longer I sit here silently, the less brave I feel. I watch him chatting with a guy at the other end of the bar, the two of them clearly friendly with the way they joke and laugh.

It makes me wonder if we might be able to joke and laugh that way.

Eventually, I take my beer and head over to play a game of pool with Ross, Garreth, and the other guy I don’t know.

Maybe another night, I tell myself.

But it sounds like a lie, even to me.