Chapter Four WES
Chapter Four
W ES
“Hey, Mom. It’s Wes.” I pause, wishing I’d just hung up the phone when she didn’t answer. “Just ... checking in. Give me a call sometime. Love you, bye.”
I click off and let out a frustrated sigh.
The fact that my mother didn’t answer when I called her wasn’t surprising, but there was still a part of me that hoped she might pick up. That things had gotten ... I don’t know ... better.
Scrolling through my contacts, I find Ash’s number and give him a call.
He, of course, answers on the first ring.
“Wes!”
My thoughts about Mom disappear momentarily at the sound of my brother’s voice, at the smile I can hear through the phone.
“Hey, Ash. How are ya?”
“Doing real good,” he tells me. “Really good. How about you?”
I bob my head even though he can’t see me, my fingers fiddling idly with an empty straw wrapper I found in my pocket a few minutes ago.
“Doing good, too. I’m back in California.”
There’s a pause on the other end, and I can tell I’ve surprised him.
When I left San Francisco seven years ago, I’d made it clear to my brother that it was unlikely I’d be back. He had finally turned eighteen and was heading off to college, and I was free to finally let go of some of the responsibility I always carried, since our mom was never around.
I’m pretty sure I mentioned in almost every conversation we’ve ever had how much I never wanted to come back to California.
So it’s unsurprising to me that he’s a little stunned.
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Well . . . shit.”
At that, we both laugh.
“When did you get back?”
“I’ve been back a little over a month, just wanting to make sure everything was really settled with this new gig before letting you know.”
It’s the truth. My interview with Memphis had been great, and I was excited about taking on a head chef position, even if the restaurant was smaller than places I’d worked in the past. But there was something that felt uncertain about this job position. Like it might suddenly disappear.
And my brother is a sensitive soul, so if I told him I was back in California and then left again, I knew it could be pretty hard on him. I wanted to be sure, and after a month of managing supply orders, getting comfortable with the new kitchen, setting up my menu, and testing out recipes, I finally feel like I am.
“Oh yeah? Where are you at?”
“Rosewood.”
There’s no sound on the other end, but I can tell I’ve stunned him again.
“Dude.”
“I know. But trust me when I tell you it was a coincidence.”
He hums something that makes me think he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t outright say it.
“I’m the new head chef at a winery. They’re adding on a restaurant.”
“No shit? That sounds awesome.”
I chuckle. “We’ll see. Have to prove myself first.”
My brother makes a scoffing noise. “You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone, Wes. You’re one of the best chefs in the whole damn country. This place is lucky to have you.”
I roll my eyes, but don’t address his whole damn country comment.
“Doesn’t matter what your reputation is when you’re starting a new job,” I tell him. “You still have to show the boss that they made the right decision in hiring you.”
“That’s why you should be the boss. Open your own restaurant.”
I nibble on my lip. “Maybe someday.”
I don’t tell him that I doubt that dream will be one I’ll ever see come to fruition. That I fucked things up too bad for something like that to happen. The last thing I need to do is point out to my little brother all the ways I’ve screwed up. Not when he looks up to me like he does.
“Let me know when I can come see you,” he continues. “I want you to meet Mira.”
My eyebrows rise. “You met somebody?”
The way my brother laughs on the other end of the line ... I’ve never heard him laugh quite like that. Unabashedly would be the word to describe it.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice dropping. “I met someone. And I can’t wait for you to meet her.”
I blink a few times. “If she’s special to you, I can’t wait to meet her as well.”
We talk for a few more minutes as he updates me about work. He’s an artist, my little brother, and he’s been pursuing his passion on the side while he works as a manager at a paint store. I can’t help but smile as I listen to him share about the educational programs he’s been putting together in conjunction with the community center.
He’s a good man. I’ve done my best to be there for him ... to help him as much and as often as possible so that he didn’t feel the sharp sting of life the way I have. Though I know it wasn’t enough.
Not nearly enough.
“Look, I gotta jet,” he tells me a little while later. “I’m meeting Mira and her friends for brunch in a little bit.”
“No, I got you. Head on out. Love you, Ash.”
“Love you, too.”
We hang up, and I stare at my phone for a long moment.
It blows my mind that neither of us are dead or crazy-addicted to drugs with the way we were raised. Better yet, I get to sit and listen to my brother talk about his life and his work like he does.
We’re fucking lucky.
So fucking lucky.
I might be trying to pick up the pieces of my life right now, but as long as my brother is happy and healthy, I don’t care what happens to me. Not really.
After my chat with Ash, I swap my sweats for running shorts, figuring now would be a good chance for me to get out some of my anxious energy. I’m not a huge runner, but when everything fell to shit at the end of last year, I started dealing with anxiety attacks.
I would walk around the city at night, the long blocks giving me the space and time to process my thoughts. Then a few months ago, I started running, and it became an important outlet for me to deal with my emotions.
I’m sure something like therapy might help a little bit more, and I’ll get there someday, but for now, I tell my stories to the road.
The midday sun pounds my shoulders for the entire four miles it takes to get from the vineyard into town, and I’m grateful when I make it all the way to Main Street.
I come to a stop outside of The Carlisle to catch my breath. I step into the alcove of the café’s backyard patio, tilting my face up and enjoying the sensation and coolness coming from the misters.
“Can I help you?”
I glance over at who I’m assuming is a server, since she’s holding an empty tray under her arm. Her eyes rove briefly over my shirtless, sweaty form.
“No, thanks,” I tell her, my chest still heaving. “Just need a sec.”
She doesn’t say anything else, just continues to watch me. It’s ... irritating.
Normally, I don’t mind when women look at me. I’m six feet three and my chest and arms are covered in tattoos. Obviously, I’m going to attract some level of attention.
But for whatever reason, I’m not enjoying her perusal.
Feeling like I’ve cooled down a bit and caught my breath, I lift a hand at the server and then step back out onto Main, into the sun. I look up and down the street, trying to decide what I want to do, eventually choosing to give myself a little breather before I run back to the vineyard.
So I stop in at the little shop next door, grab a bottle of water, and chug half of it before taking a seat at a bench on the sidewalk.
And for whatever reason, my mind strays to the beautiful blonde with the golden eyes who I can’t stop thinking about lately.
Murphy Hawthorne.
I still can’t believe she’s Memphis’s little sister. What are the odds?
Last night, in my cabin, I’d allowed myself a few moments to consider just how differently things might have ended up if my mind had been in the right place. If I wasn’t feeling constantly distracted by everything else going on. If I’d been even a fraction of the normal flirt I can be when I’m out looking for someone fun.
Though that would have been disastrous as well.
No, it was better for us to have just said goodbye and then find out she was my boss’s younger sister. That she was completely and totally off-limits.
But then, as if I’ve conjured her up with my thoughts, there she is.
Murphy steps out of her car parked along the main road. I watch her move almost in slow motion. She flips her long, thick hair over her shoulder as she turns her head to look one way and then the other, and jogs away from me across the street.
The part of me that’s thinking with the wrong brain wants to follow her to wherever she’s going. Bumping into her accidentally would allow me the chance to talk to her.
And I know she wouldn’t be able to keep her gaze off my chest. Clearly most women can’t.
But before I can follow through, she dips into the shadows, pulling the door open of what looks to be a bakery.
Any other time in my life, I would have walked across the street and followed her inside. Flirted. Asked her to dinner or to grab a Sunday-afternoon drink.
Back in the day, sleeping with a coworker wasn’t ever an issue. It’s part of restaurant culture to sleep around. Chefs, waiters and waitresses, hosts ... Big personalities work in kitchens. Creative. Sociable. Sexy.
And while I’m not a person who sleeps with anything that moves, I’ve definitely enjoyed the company of more than a few beautiful women that have worked at the same restaurants as me.
Until I got involved with the wrong person.
Pursuing something physical with Murphy would have been all too natural in my past, but I promised myself I’d start making smarter choices if I ever got the chance to try to rebuild my career as a chef.
Sleeping with an employee—my boss’s sister, no less—is a mistake I can’t afford to make.
So instead of heading across the street, I walk down Main, veer off the main drag, and begin to jog again along a side street lined with little houses and white picket fences.
Something happening with Murphy Hawthorne is the absolute last thing I should be thinking about right now. And as I pound the pavement, picking up speed, I promise myself that I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure she feels the same way.
I spend the rest of my Sunday in the kitchen, trying to keep myself busy and focused on the many things still to do before we open. Unfortunately, my thoughts continue to stray.
I try to review scheduled orders and work on my stock list. But then I see I’ve miscounted half a dozen items and realize I shouldn’t be doing anything that requires significant focus.
I switch over to working on the menu. I sit at the small computer that was set up in a tiny office directly off the kitchen and search through lists of wine pairings for ideas. But nothing seems to stick out, and I feel like I’m just wasting time.
So I eventually begin working on one of the salad recipes I’ve been trying to perfect. I know I have the ingredients right—arugula, peaches, and feta—but the vinaigrette isn’t hitting yet. Something is missing, and I don’t know what. So I play around with my dressing base and mix in various ingredients trying to figure it out.
More balsamic. Less balsamic. Lemon. Lime. Basil. Nothing hits right.
Abandoning the task of solving the recipe, I turn to my tried-and-true method for keeping myself busy.
Cleaning.
There isn’t a chef in the world who doesn’t despise a dirty kitchen. I start with scrubbing the counter, then move on to the sink, which then showcases all the dishes I just dirtied in my exploratory dressing disaster.
When I finally finish, the last of the daylight has left the sky, and I’m exhausted, which is exactly what I was hoping for.
The ringing of my cell phone as I’m locking up has me tugging the brick out of my back pocket. My jaw clenches when I see the caller ID.
Reluctantly, I accept the call and hold it to my ear.
“Hey, Mom.”
“My sweet Wes.”
I close my eyes, disappointment lancing through me at the sound of her voice.
She’s drunk.
But she’s always drunk, so I shouldn’t be surprised.
Letting out a long sigh, I begin my walk back to my cabin, the ten-minute journey suddenly feeling like it’ll take hours.
“How are you doing?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Oh, I’m doing great, baby. Really good. Sorry I didn’t answer when you called. I was working.”
My jaw tightens.
My mother hasn’t had a real job since I was in middle school, at least not that I know of. What she really means is that she was working a corner in some capacity, whether that means she was begging for change or working for dollars, I’m not certain. But I try not to think too hard about it.
“You still in San Francisco?” I ask.
You never know with her. A few years ago she disappeared for six months and when we finally found her, she was squatting with some guy in an abandoned house on the outskirts of Oakland.
“Where else would I be?” Her tone is jovial and loose, likely from whatever bottle of vodka she’s been drinking out of. “You know I can’t leave my babies.”
I roll my eyes at her nonsensical statement.
Ash and I haven’t been her babies since before we were teenagers. So to hear her claim she stays around town for us is laughable, and doesn’t even touch on the fact that I haven’t seen her in person in years. Ash sees her from time to time, but he rarely talks about it. He knows how I feel about her, and my attempts at reaching out to her are usually just my way of making sure she’s still alive.
“What about you, Wessy? How’s Chicago? Getting any snow yet?”
I nibble on the inside of my cheek in irritation. “It’s April, Mom.”
There’s a slight pause on her end of the line before she giggles. “I know that, Wes, but I don’t know what Chicago’s like. For all I know it could snow year-round.”
“Right.”
Most likely, my mom didn’t know it was April. Most likely, she won’t even remember that we talked when she wakes up tomorrow, hungover and wondering where she’ll get her next drink.
And it’s only because I know she’ll probably forget everything I say right now that I decide to tell her I’m back in California.
“I’m actually not in Chicago anymore, Mom. I’m back in town.”
“You’re in San Francisco?” What sounds like her genuine excitement fills the phone.
I know it’s just the vodka talking because when my mother is sober, she hates me.
“Not exactly. I got a job working at a vineyard.”
“Oh, that’s great, baby. Let me know where and I can come visit you.”
I choke back an unamused sound. The absolute last thing I’d ever tell my mother is where I work. I’ve done plenty to ruin my own reputation. I don’t need her showing up, wasted and willing to steal anything she can get her hands on to make my life even worse.
“Look, Mom, I gotta go, okay? I have some stuff I need to work on.”
“Okay, well, give me a call anytime, baby. Your mama loves you.”
I grit my jaw.
“Love you, too.”
When I hit the fork in the path, instead of taking it toward my cabin, I follow it toward the warehouse. Just beyond a small incline there’s a bench that overlooks the entire property and the rolling hills in the distance. I’ve found myself out there on quite a few evenings since moving.
When I get there, I take a seat and look out over the long rows of vines, the nearly full moon casting light across the landscape.
I do love my mother. When I told her that at the end of our call, I wasn’t lying. But our relationship is incredibly complicated. Drunk Sonia is loving and kind and forgetful. She’s a mother who gushes about her children but can’t remember what day it is. Sober Sonia is angry and unkind, and she resents her sons for ruining her life.
So I’m in this horrible place of preferring my mother when she’s wasted enough that she forgets all the reasons she hates us. Because when she’s sober, she likes to remind me that I’m the one who made her fat and ugly, that I was an ungrateful and needy child, and she likes to remind Ash that he’s the reason she’s alone.
Nobody should have to deal with a relationship as unhealthy as ours is with our mother. But the alternative is something I don’t like to imagine, so we continue to listen to her blathering when she’s half a bottle deep because it’s the only kind of mothering we get.
I whip my head to the side at the sound of footsteps, and my eyes widen when I see Murphy coming up the path.
She stops when she sees me.
“What are you doing here?” My words come out far more irritated than I intend, but at the same time, she’s truly the last person I want to see right now. Not after that chat with my mother. Not when I’ve tried to avoid thinking about Murphy all day.
Her head jerks back. “I came to sit on the bench. Same as you.” She pushes her chin up and stalks toward me, almost like she wants to prove a point. “If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to leave.”
Then she plops down beside me.
I let out a sigh that sounds more like a growl and push up from the bench.
“Fine. Take it.”
Murphy snorts. “You know, you’re a lot more charming when you’re helping a woman in distress.”
Once I’m a few feet away, I spin around and look at her, my frustration from the day boiling over.
“And you clearly don’t seem to realize when your presence isn’t wanted.”
The stricken look on her face is only there for a moment before her eyes turn to stone, but it’s long enough for me to realize that what I’ve said is incredibly unkind.
Even though I was only speaking about this specific instance, this one evening when I just needed a few minutes to myself, it’s pretty clear that I’ve touched a deeper layer of pain in her.
I want to apologize. To tell her that I’ve just had a shitty conversation with my mother and that what I said was uncalled for.
But before I can, Murphy pushes off the bench and heads toward the path that will eventually take her back to the main house. Her gaze, filled with disdain, lances through me as she passes.
Her silence says more than her words ever could.
And as I watch her form disappear into the darkness, part of me thinks that maybe having her hate me will be better for both of us.