Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

“What did you want?”

I know she just moved home after living in LA for—what did she tell me—nine years? But whenever Memphis talks about it, he’s cagey. Not that I thought to pry much before I actually met Murphy. But now, I’m curious.

“I wanted to be a singer.”

My eyebrows lift, and the surprise must be evident on my face because Murphy gives me a bashful smile.

“I know, it’s like a one-in-a-million thing, right? But sometimes you get the bug and you just have to really go for it or you’ll always regret not knowing, you know?”

I nod my head, because I do know. I might not have gone after something as entertainment-esque as trying to make it in Hollywood, but I understand the idea that you have to pursue your dreams or you feel like you’re suffocating.

My dream took me to Chicago for seven years and then spat me out like a rotten apple, a firm dismissal and a clear indicator that my dreams would never come true.

It’s something I’m still coming to terms with, but hey, at least I tried.

“I’m assuming if you’re back, things didn’t work out so well?” I ask, wondering what happened in LA to send her back to her childhood home.

Especially when it seems like she so clearly doesn’t want to be here.

Her face pinches slightly, just briefly, but then smooths over, and she gives me a smile that looks forced as hell.

“No, it didn’t. But I figure there’s always room in life to create a new dream, right? Just because one thing doesn’t work out doesn’t mean you can’t try to find something else, something new that can still give your life meaning.”

I watch Murphy as she stares at her legs, tugging on a loose string in the hem of her shorts, and realize that her pain is a lot more fresh than mine.

It’s been almost a year since I left Chicago trying to figure out what to do in the wake of my downfall. I worked as a dishwasher at a Chinese restaurant and made sandwiches at a small deli during that time to pay the bills, but I also healed a little bit and let go of most of my bitterness and resentment about what happened.

It sounds like whatever crushed Murphy’s dream is recent enough that the wound is still wide open and raw.

“There’s always room for that,” I finally say, and when she looks up at me, uncertainty on her face, I give her an encouraging smile. “And until you figure out what that is, there’s always delicious butternut squash ravioli to make you feel better.”

She breaks into laughter, and I enjoy the sweet sound of it far more than I should.

We talk of our mutual love of Italian food as I continue with the dough, rolling it out much flatter than I could do by hand. Eventually I slice it into long strips and funnel each piece through the pasta roller, leaving me with the ravioli casing.

I pull out the concoction I created before going in search of flour earlier. The butternut squash mixed in with ricotta, pecorino romano, and nutmeg is already giving off a delicious aroma that makes my mouth water in anticipation.

Explaining my steps to Murphy as I go, I slice the pasta into squares and dab the edges with an egg wash. Then I scoop out the filling and add a small amount to each square, finishing with adding the second piece of pasta on top, then pressing firmly to seal.

“Here’s where the magic happens.” I slide a pan onto the stove and turn on the burner. “The sage butter.”

I hear Murphy hum to herself in eagerness, and I suddenly know I need to deliver the most epically delicious ravioli I’ve ever created.

I finish up the final steps—creating the compound butter, cooking the pasta, and mixing the two together—before plating and searching out forks and knives so we don’t have to eat my masterpiece like cavemen.

For whatever reason, this feels like a dish to share, so I leave everything on one plate and set it next to Murphy.

“God, it smells so good,” she says, her eyes glued to the pasta dish that I must admit looks pretty damn amazing.

“Let’s see if the taste lives up to the aroma.” I slice a piece in half, stab it with a fork, and pop it into my mouth.

I close my eyes for just a second, simultaneously evaluating and enjoying the fruits of my labor. But when I open them, I see Murphy watching me with a look in her eyes that I know well.

And that’s when I realize how close we are, with her up on the counter and me standing next to her mostly bare legs.

I swallow the pasta, then before I can think better of it, I spear the other half of the piece I just cut with the fork and lift it up to Murphy’s mouth.

She blinks, but opens for me, her tongue peeking out just slightly before she closes her lips around the tines.