Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

My heart falls. “You don’t have to explain,” I tell him with a thin smile, not wanting to hear another rejection. “My life is messy right now too, so …”

I trail off, not knowing what else to say.

So … I wouldn’t give you my number anyway?

So … we’re better off leaving things like this?

Neither of those are really true, so it doesn’t even warrant saying them.

“Thanks again.” I take a step back, in the direction of my car.

His eyes skim over my face, and I can’t help but imagine that he’s trying to commit me to memory so he can remember me later.

Doubtful, though.

Instead, he’s probably trying to figure out how to say goodbye and get on the road without having to talk to me anymore.

Oh, how quickly all my warm and fuzzy feelings have begun to fade.

“All right, well, have a safe drive.”

I nod, and we both turn to get into our respective vehicles. I glance at my phone briefly, seeing a missed call and a text from my brother.

Memphis: Let me know when you’re ten minutes out. I’ll come help with your stuff.

I take a deep breath and send off a quick response, letting him know I’m just a few minutes away, then drop my phone in the cup holder and glance to my left.

My Good Samaritan is already gone, and I can see his taillights in my rearview as he pulls out onto the highway.

Part of me is glad he took off so fast. As fun as it was to give my mind a chance to create a reality where something more might have happened, I’m not in the market for that kind of distraction. I have too much on my mind as I prepare to face my family for the first time in nearly a decade.

They always disapproved of me leaving town in the first place, and I know they will have plenty to say now that I’m back.

I only have to drive a few minutes before I’m pulling off the highway and down the long dusty road to the house I grew up in, but my eyebrows scrunch in confusion when I see a familiar truck parked off to the side next to some of the other equipment.

When I come to a stop, I scan the area around the truck, trying to understand why that truck would be here.

As soon as I step out of my car, I hear a newly familiar voice.

“Did, uh … did you need something else?”

I squint through the dark, finally seeing the form of the guy from the gas station heading toward me.

My head tilts to the side, and I cast my eyes up to our house, trying to make sure I didn’t pull into the wrong driveway.

But no, even with just the porch light, I can see the same dark-brown front door and the same silver door knocker that my younger brother, Micah, picked out from Home Depot: a circular grapevine with a stem of grapes dangling in the middle.

The man from the gas station is standing about fifteen feet away from me with his hands on his hips, looking at me like I’ve followed him home.

But before I can say anything—ask him what he’s doing here, tell him I live here, or any other thing that would actually make sense—I hear my name.

“Murphy?”

I turn and look back to the house where the front door is open, the light from inside illuminating a tall, strong figure that I know without a doubt is my brother.

“That was fast,” he says, walking toward me. “I didn’t realize you really meant only a few more minutes.”

“Yeah, I got a flat so I was at the pump when I texted you,” I reply, then look back over to where the Good Samaritan is still standing near his truck.