Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

I cross over to take a seat opposite him at the desk.

“What do you need, Murphy?”

I shake off the clipped way he speaks to me, reminding myself that I’m here to bridge the gap, not critique my brother when he’s under a lot of stress.

“I don’t need anything. I was just coming to see how you’re doing.”

His gaze disconnects from the computer screen, and he turns his body toward me, a single eyebrow rising infinitesimally higher than the other.

“What do you need, Murphy?” His voice is a little softer this time, as if I’m a child coming to ask Dad for fifty bucks.

I roll my eyes.

“I’m telling you, I just came to see how you’re doing. I don’t need anything.”

He assesses me for a minute before turning to focus on his computer screen again.

“How’s the dining room coming along?”

“Tucked the last of the extra chairs into the storage closet and put the decor along the mantel. It looks really good.”

“Mm-hmm, and how’s the hiring going?”

I cross one leg over the other and settle back in my chair, realizing that trying to “check in” with my brother means he’s going to go over all the work stuff. Because the man doesn’t know how to have a life outside of this vineyard.

“I have a handful of applications, but I need to look into more creative ways to advertise because I am not impressed.”

He clicks his mouse a few times, his eyes narrowing at whatever he’s looking at.

“You should talk to Ryan, see if he can help.”

My brow furrows. “Who’s Ryan?”

“A friend of mine from high school. He works for the radio station. Maybe you could do an advertisement or something.” He looks to me briefly. “I’ve been prepping text for a spot that’s scheduled for this week, but maybe two birds with one stone? I know you were hoping to interview in a few days, so this could be perfect timing to grab some last-minute résumés.”

I purse my lips, surprised at my brother’s creativity. “Great idea, Memphis. Email me the text you prepped and I’ll merge them together.”

He nods, then returns his focus to the computer.

“All right, now that work stuff is handled, how are you doing?”

Memphis sighs. “And I’ll ask again, what do you—”

“Jesus Christ, Memphis. I don’t need anything.” I clench my hands into fists. “I’m literally just asking how you’re doing. Is that so hard to believe? That a sister would care about how her brother is doing?”

He turns his chair so he’s facing me dead-on, then leans forward so his arms are resting on the desk, his hands steepled together.

“Murphy—”

“Memphis, I’m sorry I heaped all the blame on you, okay?” I decide to get straight into the nitty-gritty instead of trying to chat first. “I could have called. I could have visited, too. But sometimes it feels like you see me as an employee instead of a sister. Like the only times you care about me are when I’m giving you extra hands for the vineyard. It felt that way before I moved away, and it feels that way now.”

I cross my arms, but then uncross them, leaning forward and resting my own arms on the table and placing my hands on my brother’s.

“Right now, I’m trying to find my way back to a place where you’re my brother, not my boss. And the only way I can think to do that is to try to talk to you about you. Not the vineyard. Not the restaurant. Not Dad or Micah or anybody else. So I’ll ask you again. How are you doing?”

Concern flickers behind Memphis’s eyes. It reminds me of how he looked that first day at the restaurant, when I stormed out and he told me I had no idea how much he needed things with the new restaurant to be successful. Now that I’ve seen the spreadsheet on his computer—the one bleeding red with debt—his intensity makes a lot more sense.

He looks tense and agitated, and I’m preparing for him to shut me down and get back to work when he sinks down into his chair. The mask falls away, revealing to me just how exhausted he really is.