Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

“Until I got that first paycheck,” I continue, shaking my head at myself. “I’ve never felt so sick in my entire life, so … ashamed. I felt like I’d sold my soul. Or gave it away without realizing its worth. And that’s not …”

I trail off again, and this time, Murphy surprises me when she reaches out and places her hand on mine where I’m gripping the seat of the bench.

“My brother is all I have, and I would do anything for him. But I realized as I was looking at that paycheck, there were other ways I could have tried to help him, you know?”

I squeeze the bench seat more firmly and continue to glare daggers at the ground. I’m not ready to look at Murphy. Not ready to see the look on her face.

“How did you end up getting fired? If they were in an open marriage, I mean, did he really fire you for that when he was doing it, too?”

At that, I actually laugh, because this is the part I can still barely believe myself.

“I went to work drunk the day after I got the paycheck,” I tell her. “I didn’t really know how to handle the whole thing and ended up making an ass of myself and talked about their marriage and sleeping with Bridget and getting paid for it. In front of them and their guests.”

I still don’t understand exactly how it all went down, the pieces of my actions only flittering in and out of my memory in drunken hazes.

“Alejandro walked me through the dining room, through the kitchen, out the back door. Gave me a black eye and shoved me to the ground. Told me I was done. That when he was through, I’d be lucky to work as a dishwasher. And he has the clout to make that happen.”

I finally turn and look at Murphy.

“Almost a decade of work trying to build up my reputation, my skills, my salary. Gone. It took me weeks to find a new job, and it was literally as a dishwasher, and yes, I felt lucky as hell to finally find it because I couldn’t seem to get anyone to call me about any chef positions, line cook work, nothing.”

She looks surprised.

“Is that really a thing? One person can block you from work like that?”

I level her with a stare. “You tell me.”

Murphy nods at the reference to her own story. To her own experience.

When Alejandro told me I was done, I knew he meant it. That he had that level of control and influence to ruin any kind of culinary connections I was trying to cultivate and keep me from forming new ones.

A chef further along in his career might have been able to weather this kind of situation. But I didn’t have the connections to maneuver around Alejandro.

“What did your mentor say about it?” Murphy asks.

“I haven’t talked to him since it happened.”

She looks shocked. “What? Why?”

I shrug, because I know my answer isn’t good enough. “He told me not to get involved with them and I did it anyway and look how things turned out. I ruined my career because I didn’t listen to him, so I promised myself I would do everything I could to fix things before I reached out to him. Get back to my roots and what matters to me. Go back to the lessons I was taught in the beginning.”

Then I chuckle, scrubbing my face with my hands.

“This is why I wanted to talk to you. Because my life is a mess, Murphy. And I feel like I need to be truthful about it, so you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Look,” she starts, her eyes boring into my soul. “I can’t even tell you how much I wish I’d had a mentor when I was in LA. Someone I could reach out to and share everything I’d been through, who might be able to provide suggestions on how to handle it. And you have that, Wes.” She squeezes my hand. “You have someone who cares about you and wants to see you succeed waiting for you in your corner to patch you up and send you back out.”

Then she moves to twist our fingers together.

“You have me in your corner, too,” she adds, her voice gentle. “I might not have the ability to patch you up, but I can be here to listen. To make sure you feel heard. If I learned anything during my time in LA, it was how important it can be just to know that someone sees you. That they know you. Who you really are.”

Murphy lifts my hand to her mouth and kisses the back, never taking her eyes off me.

“And I know who you are, Wesley Hart.”

Her free hand rises and she places her palm against the center of my chest.

“I know how kind and thoughtful you are. How much you love your family, even when it hurts. How hard you work.”