Chapter Sixteen WES
Chapter Sixteen
W ES
“Mind if I sit here?”
I turn at the sound of Murphy’s voice, surprise ricocheting through me as she plops down next to me with a smile on her face.
I blink a few times, my mind freezing up because I don’t know how to feel about seeing her.
Obviously I’m always glad to see her. But this really isn’t a good time.
And clearly my thoughts are written all over my face because the smile on hers disappears quickly.
I glance past her briefly, then shift in my seat when Gabriel approaches with a new coaster and a fresh beer, setting them both down in front of me.
“Here you are,” he says before turning to look at Murphy. “Another glass?”
“No, I’m actually—” She glances at me. “I’m good for now, thanks.”
He nods, then moves down the bar to help another gentleman, and the tension in my shoulders eases.
Tonight is the first time I’ve actually spoken with my father since the time I came to The Standard a few days after I moved to Rosewood. I haven’t told him who I am—haven’t even given him my name—but we struck up a conversation about the recent Giants game.
In my previous visits, I was always looking at his face and his body, trying to find the similarities. But tonight, when he started talking to me, I finally saw the connection between us. His voice is like a deeper, raspier version of my own, and the way he moves his hands when he talks feels like I’m looking in a mirror that shows the future.
I’m not ready to share this with Murphy. I’m not ready to share it with anybody. Not even Ash.
“I’m actually ... kind of busy,” I finally tell her, the words coming out stiff and uncomfortable.
The last thing I want to do is hurt her feelings or make her think that I don’t want her around. Any other day, any other place, sitting on the stool next to me would have been a perfect move. Another opportunity for us to talk, for me to learn more about the little quirks that make up Murphy Hawthorne.
But tonight is not that night. My head is not in the right place to manage what might come from her sitting here, next to me, as I try to get to know a father who has no idea who I am.
“Sorry for bothering you,” she says, then moves to walk past me.
“Murphy,” I say, grabbing her hand and halting her in her tracks. “I’ll explain later, okay?”
She seems to assess me, as if she wants to be sure I really mean it, before nodding and walking off. I watch her go, her petite figure crossing the room and pushing out through the front door and into the warm air of another early-summer night.
I sigh and turn back to my beer, knowing that when Murphy and I talk later, she’s going to want to understand why I brushed her off tonight. And I’ll need to come up with a reason, whether that’s the truth or something else.
“She’s a pretty thing.” Gabriel steps in front of me with a smirk. “I’m surprised you turned her down. Got someone at home?”
Shaking my head, I rotate the beer between my hands. “No, nobody at home.”
“A good-looking guy like you should have somebody. Or maybe quite a few somebodies.”
I shrug, not really wanting to talk to him about Murphy. “You from around here?” I ask, trying to divert the conversation.
“That I am. I grew up in St. Helena, then moved to San Francisco for a few years before coming to Rosewood.”
I bob my head. “And do you have anybody at home?”
He grins at that, tugs his phone from his back pocket, and lights it up so I can see the home screen. “My wife, Gigi, and my son. Preston.” He pulls the phone back and looks down at it, affection clear in his eyes. “He just turned twelve.”
I don’t hear a lot of what he says after that, just a rushing sound filling my ears. I’m thankful when he steps away to help someone else.
I tug my wallet out of my pocket, blindly grab a few bills, and place them next to my beer. Then I’m out of my seat and crossing the room, shoving the door open as I gasp. I try desperately to breathe, but it feels like my body is screaming, like the walls are caving in.
It takes everything inside me to stumble down the street and get into my car, but I don’t turn it on. Instead I sit there, gripping the steering wheel, trying to get back in control of myself. Trying to overcome the anxiety attack that feels like it’s crippling me.
It still doesn’t feel like I’ve taken a full breath, and I try to focus on that. On the sounds of my breath coming in and out, on the feel of it entering my lungs and exhaling through my mouth.
What I want to do is scream. What I want to do is crawl into the ground and never come out.
Leaning forward, I rest my head against the steering wheel, trying to focus on feeling calm even though I’m anything but.
The passenger door opens and then I feel a hand pressed against my back, then smooth circles there. When I turn, my eyes focus on Murphy.
“You’re going to be okay,” she tells me, her voice soothing and warm.
I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the wheel again, my hands still gripping it for dear life.
“Deep breaths, okay?”
“Distract me,” I tell her. “Please. Talk about anything.”
It’s something I read online, that giving the brain something else to focus on can divert some of the energy being used to focus on whatever caused the anxiety attack in the first place. But I’ve always been alone in the past. Holed up in my studio apartment in Chicago, which is when they first started. So it’s not something I’ve ever tried.
“Anything?”
I nod, though the movement is so small, I’m not sure she sees it.
A few seconds later, she starts to sing. It’s not a song I’m familiar with, the melody slow and soothing. If I’m honest, I don’t even really hear the words.
But just the sound of her, and the way her hand moves in careful swaths across my back, begins to ease the tightness in my chest and arms.
When I do finally hear the words, something inside me knows instinctively.
This is one of Murphy’s songs.
You want to take the parts of me
That do not serve you best
You want to take the heart of me
And then what will be left
But skin and bones
Your sticks and stones
Have left a tragic mess
She sings for a while, and most of it blurs together as I try to calm myself and climb out of the emotional hole I’ve fallen in.
But I’m so thankful that she’s here, and that I’m not alone.
Eventually, my heart begins to slow and my breathing evens out.
I close my eyes, the acute stress fading and the beginning of a post-anxiety slump creeping in to weigh me down.
“It started in Chicago,” I say, my eyes still closed, not ready to look at her just yet. “I got fired from my job, and one night I just felt like I couldn’t exist in my skin anymore.” I finally look at Murphy. “It’s the only way to describe it. I thought I was dying.”
She reaches her hand out and rests it on mine, giving a gentle squeeze.
“I’m so sorry. It sounds horrible.”
“It feels horrible. And it’s embarrassing. Because literally nothing is wrong.”
“That’s not true. It’s just not something you can see,” she replies, squeezing again. She pauses, her thumb stroking along the back of my hand. “Do you know what caused it?”
I sigh, deciding in that moment that I should tell Murphy about Gabriel.
“The bartender,” I say, glancing at her briefly. “He’s my father.”
Murphy’s silence is enough for me to know I’ve shocked her.
“Since when?”
At that, a laugh bursts from my chest, and Murphy giggles too, the simplicity of it slicing a sharp blade through the thick tension filling the car.
“You know what I mean,” she corrects, still smiling. “When did you find out?”
“I knew before I moved here, actually. My brother and I never knew our father growing up, always heard these really weird stories from our mom that just seemed ...” I shake my head. “My mom is an addict, and it’s hard to believe anything she says, but when we were kids we just assumed she was telling the truth. That he abandoned us right after my brother was born.”
“I’m assuming that’s not true?”
“We don’t really know what’s true. Ash took one of those DNA tests during college and it connected him with a guy who lives in New York. And everything we’d heard my mom say made it seem like our father lived in California. So I took the test too, and we found out we’re actually half brothers.”
Murphy’s eyes widen. “Oh my gosh.”
“Yeah. Different fathers. And mine is here. In that bar. And I don’t think he even knows I exist.”
She turns so she’s facing me and leans to the side against the headrest, then adjusts her hand in mine so our fingers are linked together.
“He has a family,” I continue. “A wife and a son named Preston. I guess he just turned twelve, which means I have another brother.”
We sit in silence for a long moment, the weight of what I’ve just said resting heavy on my shoulders.
“What can I do?” Her sweet voice is so earnest and caring.
I squeeze her hand in mine, wanting her to know just how glad I am that she came to find me.
“Just be here with me.”
Murphy nods. “I can do that.”
Then she lifts my hand to her mouth and kisses the back of my palm.
And even though I’ve just had this terrible anxiety attack, and I feel shattered and broken and exhausted in so many ways, I’m still able to pinpoint it.
This is the moment I begin to fall in love with Murphy Hawthorne.
The next two days fly by way faster than I would like them to, considering how much there still is to do if we want to be ready for the opening. But that’s how it always is, so it’s actually a comforting kind of chaos.
I lose myself in prepping the galley with everything we might possibly need, refining the menu and setting up orders for ingredients, and teaching the two young part-time line cooks who are going to be helping me in the kitchen.
Kellan and Mark aren’t that much younger than me, but they both have limited experience, so we spend a lot of time reviewing standards for certain menu items and expectations for plating.
Memphis asked me why I hired two green twentysomethings without culinary degrees instead of chefs like me, and I told him the truth: these kids will bust their asses to learn, and sometimes that’s what you need in a kitchen to make it a success.
I’m not entirely sure that I sold him on it, but he didn’t question me any further.
It really is nice having someone trust me with the decisions. It always felt like someone was critiquing my every move in my previous positions. It was understandable—if someone invests millions in opening a restaurant, they’re going to have opinions and concerns.
Thankfully, Memphis’s investment into this place wasn’t quite in seven-figures territory, and it seems like his concern is on par with the dollar amount.
“Do you have a second?”
The sound of Murphy’s voice in the kitchen sends something light rippling through my chest. I glance back at her from where I’m stirring a nearly finished leek and potato soup.
“Hey. What’s up?”
She steps forward, the kitchen door swinging closed behind her, and extends a piece of paper my way.
“I was hoping you could review this before your training with the front-of-house staff later today.”
I take the sheet and glance it over, my lips kicking up when I see what she has.
“Training objectives?” I look up at her with an amused expression.
Murphy tilts her head. “I’ve been working them through a series of steps, and if you can make sure to cover these specific items, I’d appreciate it. Obviously, you’re welcome to cover whatever else you think is relevant for them to know about this space and your work. But these are the things I think are going to be the most beneficial.”
I look at the sheet again, reading over her list. Menu specifics, safety protocols, kitchen layout, tool and resource organization, expectations regarding cooking staff.
“This is great,” I tell her. “In my past kitchens, it was always menu conversations and the rest was just learned on the fly. I like this.”
I can’t help the easy smile that mirrors hers.
“How’s the training going so far?”
“Really well, actually. Everyone seems excited to learn, and we have a good mix of personalities.” She shrugs. “I don’t want to say I did an amazing job before I’ve seen them handle opening, but I’m feeling pretty good about it so far.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear that.”
Both of us stand there for a while, just looking at each other.
“Hey, listen—”
“About the other night—”
We laugh, and Murphy twists her hands together in front of her.
“Go ahead.”
I drop the burner lower and set a lid on the soup, then turn around and face her, leaning back against the counter and crossing my arms.
We haven’t really talked since my breakdown outside The Standard two days ago. The reality of opening week has finally settled in, and there has been a lot on my plate. A lot on Murphy’s too, if the way she’s been running around is an indicator. And even though we’d been making a habit of meeting up at the bench, for the past couple of days I’ve been trying to recover from my anxiety attack with some alone time.
“I just wanted to say thank you again for the other night. For helping me through that.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t thank me. I was glad to be there so I could help.”
“I was also wondering if you wanted to come over tonight. Hang out for a bit. Maybe I could make you something again.”
A smile stretches across her face. “That sounds fun.”
“Good.”
God, I could look at her forever. Every little thing about her, even the things that plenty of people would consider imperfections—the way her lips tick up to the side when she smiles and those little freckles on the bridge of her nose—are absolutely perfect.
“How’re things coming?”
The sound of Memphis’s voice is like nails on a chalkboard, and I don’t miss the way Murphy sidesteps around me and grabs something off the counter—a whisk—and holds it up like something she was looking for.
“Found it. Thanks, Wes!”
And then she’s smiling at her brother and walking past him, pushing through the swinging door back out to the dining room.
Something uneasy slithers through my stomach. Her quick actions are a reminder of my original thoughts about Murphy and this job. My fears about something going wrong.
I tried to keep things between us as clinical and work-appropriate as I could, but it’s time for me to accept that my feelings for her aren’t going away any time soon. And now that it feels like we’re moving in a direction that’s a little more serious than fooling around , it occurs to me that maybe there needs to be a conversation at some point. With Memphis or Jack.
Not right now, obviously. I couldn’t do something like that without talking to Murphy about it first.
But the realization that I feel so seriously about her that I’d want to make sure things are aboveboard with her father and brother alleviates something in my chest.
The idea of hooking up with Murphy always had a rule-breaking edge to it because that’s what it was. Hooking up. But now it doesn’t feel that way. Now it feels like I would be able to look her father or brother in the face without feeling like I’m doing something wrong.
And that knowledge puts a smile on my face for the rest of the day.