Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

When she’s lying in a hospital bed with a broken wrist because she fell off a slide at a playground in the middle of the night. Or picking her up from jail because she was taken in for a drunk and disorderly.

My brother continues to believe she can change, but I gave up on that possibility years ago.

Eventually I push myself out of the chair and through the kitchen, flipping off the lights as I go. When I emerge into the dining room, my gaze strays to the patio, where the fairy lights are still illuminated.

That’s when I see Murphy sitting on the short stone wall that divides the sitting area from a large grassy knoll, her guitar propped on her knee, her fingers plucking at the strings.

She smiles when I step outside, her frame rocking slowly from side to side as she strums an unfamiliar melody. But the smile dips when she sees me, and her hands stop moving.

“Everything okay?”

I shake my head. “My mom’s in the hospital,” I tell her, crossing the patio and dropping down on the wall next to her. “I need to head into San Francisco.”

There’s a pause, and then her hand rests on my knee.

“Do you want some company?”

My immediate reaction is to tell her no. The last thing I want is for her to have to deal with the bullshit I’ve been handling since I was a kid. Nothing prepares you for seeing someone in the hospital, and I don’t even know the reality of what I’ll be walking into because Ash didn’t give any details.

But when I turn to look at her, to tell her I appreciate it, but no thanks, something inside me says I should take this gesture.

I’ve thought several times to myself that some of what connects Murphy and me is our mirrored history of facing really difficult things. We’ve both been through a lot, and each of us have had to handle those things alone.

Maybe this time, it’s okay to lean on someone, just a little bit.

So instead of turning her down, I rest my hand on top of hers and give it a squeeze, thankful for her willingness to be there with me.

“That would actually be amazing.”

“It’s really not a big deal,” Murphy tells me as we trudge down the hallway. “I’ve been in a hospital before. I knew about visiting hours, and I didn’t think about it, either.”

I know she’s right, but that doesn’t change the fact I feel like an idiot for driving ninety minutes only to arrive at the hospital and find out I have to wait until eight in the morning to see my mother.

“The good news is that, whatever it is, it’s not critical, right? It’s better that they won’t let you see her. It means she’s stable.”

I come to a stop next to where Murphy stands in front of room 304, setting the key card against the door handle. It beeps, a little light turns green, and then we’re pushing into the tiny room at the chain hotel across the street from the hospital.

The thing I’m the most irritated about is that I didn’t even need to come. Maybe that makes me selfish. Maybe that makes me a shitty son. But the truth is that if I’d thought about the visiting hours, I would have let Ash come in the morning once he got back from Vegas.

Instead, I’ve had to text my boss in the middle of the night to let him know I’ll be late to my second fucking service at my brand-new job that I’ve been preparing for months for. I’ve needed to call my line cooks and make sure they know they’re on their own for the very first lunch service of the restaurant’s existence.

I’m not an angry person, but there is nothing that lights me on fire and makes me want to chuck things across the room like the ways in which my mother’s addiction fucks with my life.

“Why don’t you take a shower,” Murphy suggests.

I sigh and drop my jacket on the edge of the bed, then kick off my shoes before pushing into the bathroom. Once I’ve closed the door, I brace my hands on the counter and look at myself for a long moment in the mirror.

As frustrated as I am about tonight’s events, I’m actually pleased with what I see in the mirror. When I left Chicago, I was a little gaunt looking, and my normally muscular frame was on the leaner side. In the two months I’ve lived in Rosewood, I’ve put on a few pounds of toned muscle, and I’m looking a lot like my normal self.

Rolling my eyes at my own vanity, I turn and swat at the shower handle, turning the water on and then beginning to strip.

Nothing sounds better than scrubbing off the grit and grime from my first full service. It’s like a reward for all the hard work I put in, and that first blast of the hot water against my tired muscles feels incredible.

I grab the little bottle of body wash and give myself a rubdown, then tackle my hair and face, before just standing under the hot water and enjoying the heat.

A noise behind me draws my attention, and when I turn my head, I see Murphy pulling the shower curtain to the side. My eyes travel down her naked frame with admiration.

“I thought I might be able to help with a little stress relief,” she says, a playful smile on her lips.