Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

And as it turns out, Quinn needs it, too.

In my head, my popular friend from high school stayed the belle of the ball after graduation. But it’s amazing how differently life seems to turn out for people than what they’d originally planned.

Or what others assume.

And hearing about how rough the past year has been on her, how she’s been facing this pregnancy alone … Well, I’m just really glad we’re reconnecting.

“I’m so glad you came by today,” I tell her a little while later as I come to a stop out near the shed where we park all our vehicles. “It was so good hearing about your life and the farm and everything that’s been going on. Makes me wish I hadn’t hated this place so much growing up.”

I laugh, but I can tell instantly that Quinn has something on her mind that she wants to share. Because she doesn’t laugh, and instead gives me a look I’ve only ever seen on her one time, back when she told Anthony Marley how unkind it was to call her fat because she’d gained weight over the summer.

So I know whatever she’s going to say next is serious to her.

“I don’t doubt you had big dreams of moving away from Rosewood,” she begins, turning to face me. “But when you say how much you hate it here, and that this is the last place you want to be, I don’t think you realize how that comes across.”

Quinn shifts in her seat and rubs her hand over her stomach, almost like it calms her.

“I’ve lived here my entire life, Murphy. And my dreams kept me here. Because this is where I want to be. On the farm that has been in my family for over a hundred years. Near my parents, who are aging faster than I want them to. And in the town that might be imperfect, but has given me an incredible life.”

“Quinn—”

But she shakes her head and keeps talking, determined to finish her point.

“When you talk about this place the way you do, you imply that a life lived here would be meaningless, or small. But that’s my life you’re talking about. I did stay here, and my life has been far from meaningless. And my daughter’s life will be far from it, too.”

A single tear tracks down my cheek, and I bat it away.

“I’m so sorry, Quinn. I never … I wouldn’t ever say something that implied your life doesn’t mean anything. You know I don’t believe that, right? That I don’t feel that way about you?”

“Maybe not me,” she replies. “But I think you do think it about other people who live here.”

I want to contradict her, but I know I’m guilty of what she’s pointing out to me. That I’ve spent years wondering who the hell would want to be stuck in this small town for the rest of their life when there are so many other better, more interesting places to be.

Because in my mind, anywhere else would be better than being stuck here.

But even now, with those thoughts in my mind, I hate how they sound. Not just because it rings so much with bitterness, but also because it just feels less true.

The sour way I always felt about this town hasn’t felt as sharp over the past few weeks. Spending time with my brother and Wes and Quinn has helped me find my own meaning in the home that never truly felt like home to me.

“I’m working on it,” is what I eventually tell her.

I know it falls short. I know it’s too revealing about the caustic way my mind has always painted this town and everyone in it.

But it’s also honest.

Because I do feel like I’m working on it.

“I’m glad you’re back, Murphy,” Quinn says as we walk the short distance to where her car is parked. “And someday, I hope you’re glad you’re back, too.”

We lean in for a long embrace, and I feel a surge of emotion rush through me as she holds me in her arms.

I don’t want to be the person who lives with all this anger and resentment building to the point that I’m only ever able to talk about things with a negative slant.

I might not be the eternal optimist that Quinn is, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still find the good. The happy. The joy.

After Quinn heads home, I take my time wandering through the vineyard along the dirt path that leads out to the bench, trying to look at everything through new eyes.

Not just the eyes of someone remembering some of the good times from the past, but the eyes of someone imagining the good times in the future.