Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

“Good job this weekend,” my brother says to Wes, before his eyes flick to me. “Both of you. There was a lot going on, and you both handled it really well.”

Wes nods. “Thank you.”

There’s another beat of silence before Memphis turns and walks into the little office connected to the kitchen.

I look up at Wes with raised eyebrows.

Didn’t see that one coming, but I’ll take it.

I will definitely take it.

Having already finished with the kitchen, Wes and I say goodbye to my brother and leave.

“Let’s stop by your room first,” Wes says as we emerge onto the patio, pausing for a second to lock the front door behind us.

“We’re not having sex in my childhood room,” I tell him.

Though the minute I say it, part of me thinks it might actually be a great idea.

“I want you to grab your guitar,” he says, reaching out and taking my hand in his. “You don’t have to play it for me. But in the few times you’ve talked about what your life used to be like, you’ve always made it seem like you never went anywhere without it. So …” He shrugs, leading me down the pathway toward the house. “Maybe carry it around for a few days and see if that helps you decide what to do about the Humble Roads thing.”

Part of me wants to tell him no. That even though I’ve gotten it out a few times since being home, that I’m not ready.

But even as I think the words, I know they’re not true.

More than a few times, I’ve found my fingers moving of their own volition, stroking invisible strings with my right hand or forming the finger placements for various chords on my left.

I’ve made a few notes in my phone for potential lyrics to songs that are beginning to float around in my head, these amorphous things that don’t have any real focus yet but which are still very real to me.

So instead of saying what I want to, which is absolutely not, I let him lead me back to the house and watch as he lifts my guitar case in one hand, then retakes mine with his other.

It makes me think that maybe, sometimes, we need someone to lead us back to the things we love. To remind us of the joy we used to feel.

Because if we can remember that love, and feel that joy again, maybe we can eventually find our way back to what was lost.

“I forgot how much I loved riding around on that thing.”

“Oh, come on. You have to have cool ride-along equipment on the farm.”

Quinn grins. “We do, but the golf cart reminds me of good times, you know? Sneaking off to the cabins with wine coolers and cigars.”

I make a fake gagging noise. “Too bad we threw up after trying to inhale those things.”

She giggles. “Remember that time junior year when your grandmother threw open the curtains in the living room just as we were sneaking back onto the porch after going to that party?”

My head falls back and I clutch my stomach on a silent laugh.

“She didn’t have her glasses on and we just stood there, unmoving, until she closed the curtain again and went back to bed.”

We keep laughing, both of us shaking in the front seat of the golf cart where it sits parked in front of the wine cellar. Quinn’s belly is shaking almost violently, and I feel bad that our trip down memory lane is probably giving her little girl quite a ride.

It’s been like this all afternoon as the two of us have slowly driven around the vineyard on the golf cart, reminiscing.

I used to claim I was a rule follower in my youth, but Quinn’s iron-clad memory has proven me wrong. There were quite a few instances of rebellious behavior that I’d completely forgotten about, and each one of those stories resulted in me needing to bring the cart to a complete halt so we could break down with laughter.

This is what Vivian said I needed.

I can feel it in my soul that she was one hundred percent right.