Chapter Nineteen MURPHY
Chapter Nineteen
M URPHY
We’re mostly silent on the drive home, each of us lost in our thoughts. Other than pulling over and getting out of the car to have a conversation with his younger brother, Wes doesn’t say much. The only real thing he mentions to me as we’re getting off the highway is that he’s glad we’ll be back in time for him to be able to help with the lunch service.
I know he has a lot on his mind, and I’m sure the past twelve hours have been hard on him. So I just keep holding his hand, singing quietly along with the radio that’s playing country music on low in the background.
Eventually, we pull into the gravel parking lot outside the restaurant, and when Wes shuts off the car, I turn in my seat to look at him.
I wish there was something I could say. I racked my mind for so much of the drive trying to come up with anything that might make him feel better. But nothing seemed right, so I just stayed silent.
This moment is the same. Because there isn’t anything that can make things like this better.
“Thank you again for coming with me,” he says, staring straight ahead. “You didn’t have to go, but you made a really shitty trip so much better just by being there.”
“Don’t forget the shower sex,” I joke, hoping to alleviate some of his serious attitude so that he doesn’t go into work feeling so down.
He shakes his head, a soft smile on his face, then finally turns to look at me.
“You’re a nut.”
“Yeah. Just a little bit.”
His eyes search mine for a beat, then he kisses the back of my hand and we both unbuckle and climb out of the car.
“I’ve gotta head in,” he tells me, rounding the front and coming to a stop just a few inches away. “Make sure these kids are doing all right.”
“I won’t be that far behind you, but I’m going to run back to the house and change first. You might be able to get away with your outfit if you put on a chef’s coat. My pink leggings aren’t gonna fly.”
He smiles, then reaches out and takes my hand. “I’ll see you in a little bit.”
I pop up on my toes and press my lips to his, giggling at the bit of stubble that’s grown in on his face scratching lightly against the skin around my mouth.
“Murphy?”
I freeze, blinking in surprise when I turn and see Memphis standing at the front door of the restaurant, a kind of bewildered look on his face. But that look is only there for a second before it’s replaced by anger, and I drop back down on my heels as he storms toward us in a fury.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Memphis—”
“Are you screwing my sister?” He cuts me off and glares at Wes, his hands on his hips.
“That is none of your business,” I tell him. “And also why would you ever want to know if that was true?”
“I can understand why you might be upset,” Wes begins, “but if—”
“No. This is not happening,” Memphis says, interrupting him and then pointing a finger at me. “You do not get to fuck with my head chef and cause problems for this restaurant.”
My head jerks back. “What?”
“And you do not get to screw around with staff, okay?” he continues, returning his attention to Wes.
I sigh, clenching and unclenching my hands in little fists. “Memphis, you’re being ridiculous.”
“Wes, go to work,” my brother demands, moving to the side and pointing at the front door.
“He’s not a dog .”
“Memphis, I know this might—”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
Wes looks like he’s ready to stand here and have a face-off with my brother, but I’m one of the few people who knows how stubborn Memphis can be, and there’s no way he will hear anything Wes has to say right now.
The best thing for everyone is for Wes to just go to work, and we can all talk about this later. “Just go. I’ll see you in a bit.”
He looks back and forth between the two of us a few times, then turns to walk up the sidewalk, giving one last glance before heading inside.
“I cannot fucking believe you.”
“I can’t fucking believe you !” I reply, poking my brother in the chest. “In what world is it okay for you to shout at someone because I kissed them?”
“It was more than just a kiss and we both know it, Murphy.” He glares down at me. “I saw you pull in together. Did you go with him to San Francisco?”
“How the hell is that relevant?”
“Answer me.”
“I am twenty-fucking-seven years old, Memphis, and you’re not my parent, so you don’t get to demand anything from me.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“How the hell is it bullshit?”
“Because I thought we were on the same team!”
I take a step back in surprise when his growled words become a shout.
Memphis spins around and stares at the trees along the edge of the parking lot that line the eastern perimeter of our property, his hands clasped behind his neck.
“I told you what was going on with the vineyard, and how this restaurant was my Hail Mary,” he says, his voice so low I can barely hear him.
Then he spins around, and I’m pained at the way he looks at me.
Like I’ve hurt him.
Deeply.
“How could you be willing to jeopardize everything?”
I shake my head.
“I’m not jeopardizing anything ,” I reply.
Even though I mean it, there’s something hollow about my words.
Because they imply that I don’t see any problems with my relationship with Wes, and that’s not true.
Wes knows as well as I do that something happening between us could create plenty of complications. It was a smarter choice to avoid each other and try to keep things platonic.
But that time has come and gone.
Now, we’re in too deep. We’ve fallen too far.
Or at least, I have.
“Memphis, I’m in love with him.”
My brother scoffs and shakes his head. “You’re not in love, you’re in lust. It’s fun sneaking around and breaking the rules. That’s all this is.”
“It’s not.”
Crossing his arms, Memphis just looks at me, then shakes his head again. “Go change for work. We can discuss this later.”
Then he turns and heads in the direction he just sent Wes.
Something behind my eyes pinches tight, and I can feel tears building up inside me, so I take the path away from the restaurant and through the vineyard back to the house.
I change quickly, then get back to the restaurant about fifteen minutes before we open for lunch. Memphis is nowhere to be seen, and even though it’s easier to not think about him when he’s not around, the look on his face is hard to get out of my head.
Thankfully, the opening night numbers translate into a large crowd for lunch as well, and I’m able to somewhat distract myself from thinking about my brother or the things he said for most of the afternoon.
Eventually, though, the rush dies down. I send the other server home, and then it’s just me and my thoughts.
And the longer I think, the angrier I get.
So after I say goodbye to the last lunch table, I hastily begin clearing away their dishes, desperate to get out of here, track down my brother, and give him a piece of my mind.
“Hey.”
The sound of Wes’s voice startles me out of my thoughts, and I look up from where I’m stacking empty plates on my serving tray.
Just the sight of him lifts some of the weight off my shoulders.
“How did the service go out here?”
I put the last of the dishes on my tray and hoist it onto my shoulder. “Good. Everyone loved the pesto today.”
Wes bobs his head, but his smile is pinched, so I set the tray back on the table and walk the few feet to where he’s standing.
“Hey, everything’s going to be okay,” I tell him, taking his hand in mine and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m going to finish up and then go talk to Memphis. He doesn’t get to have a say in who either of us ...”
I trail off, realizing Wes and I haven’t officially established anything yet.
We aren’t dating. He’s not my boyfriend, I don’t think. And we aren’t just hooking up.
“If we want to be together, he’ll have to get over it,” I finally say, happy with how I’ve phrased it.
His eyes flick across my face for a second before he steps into me, bringing his free hand to the back of my neck and pulling me in for a kiss.
I sink against him, my mouth opening and my tongue lightly grazing his.
Wes pulls back just a little bit, his eyes on my mouth, before pressing another kiss against my lips as his thumb strokes along my jaw.
“Don’t talk to Memphis yet,” he says, and that’s when I realize he looks far more serious in this moment than I do, a deep crease forming between his brows. “Just wait. I want us to talk first.”
I can feel my heart skip a beat at his words, something foreboding sinking low and hard to the bottom of my stomach.
“Is everything okay?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
But nothing about the way he looks inspires confidence that he’s being honest, and I can’t help but wonder what’s really going on in his mind.
This time, when he leans in and presses his lips against mine, I realize it tastes an awful lot like goodbye.
The dinner service goes by at a glacial pace, made even slower by the guitarist who seems dead set on playing incredibly slow, drawn-out covers of pop songs all night.
And even though I’m able to keep a smile on my face and do a decent job of handling guests and taking orders, I’m surprised I make it all the way through dinner without giving in to the desire to find Wes in the kitchen and demand we start speaking. Because part of my brain keeps reminding me how often I get so close to the things I want and how rarely they work out.
Memphis barely speaks to me and instead just kind of hovers all evening long, and honestly, I’m thankful I don’t really have to talk to him. I barely register his presence, the things he said earlier falling by the wayside as I try to deduce what Wes might want to talk to me about tonight.
I mean, the easy answer is that he’s calling things off. Right?
He’s made it clear to me that this job is incredibly important. We even talked about why we shouldn’t get involved, because he believed he’d be considered disposable if something went wrong.
My brain talks in circles all evening long as I try to convince myself that he cares about me too much to end things, and battle the fears I have that he might take the easy road and call things off to protect his job.
I’m a mess of uncertainty as we close the restaurant at the end of the night, and instead of lurking around the patio and waiting for Wes to finish in the kitchen, I return to the house for a long, hot shower to wash away not only the workday, but also my nerves.
It works for the former, but not the latter.
Once I’ve changed, I stand in front of my mirror, twisting my long, thick hair into a braid that hangs over my left shoulder. My mother used to braid my hair when I was a kid. It’s one of my few memories of her. I’d sit in the chair in front of her bathroom vanity and she’d do a long braid that hung perfectly down the center of my back.
After she died, I tried to teach myself how to do it. But when doing it on my own, it has always fallen off center because I pull all the hair to the left side to braid it.
I was always mad at her for that, even though it wasn’t her fault.
As I’m tying a rubber band around the end, I notice someone standing in the doorway.
“You doing okay?”
I can tell by the pitch of Aunt Sarah’s voice that she knows about my confrontation with Memphis.
“Memphis tell you?”
She shakes her head and crosses her arms, then leans against the doorjamb.
“Naomi and I were delivering a few boxes of wine to the restaurant when you and Wes pulled up.”
Of course that’s what happened.
“Honey, I didn’t realize anything was going on with you and Wes.”
I turn around, lean back against my dresser, and tuck my hands into the pockets of my sweater.
“Is it serious?”
“Yeah. I think it is.”
Aunt Sarah watches me for a minute before pushing off the frame and entering my room. She crosses over to my bed and takes a seat on the edge, facing me.
“I couldn’t hear the argument from inside the restaurant, but it looked like Memphis was pretty upset.”
At that, I laugh. “That’s an understatement. He’s just ...” I shake my head.
If I get into the nitty-gritty about Memphis and why he’s so mad at me, I’d have to tell Aunt Sarah about what’s going on with the vineyard, and how Dad’s thinking about selling it. That’s just not something I want to get into tonight. Not when I have so much else on my mind.
“He’s just worried,” I end up saying. “He really wants the restaurant to be a success, and I think he’s stressed that something could happen if Wes and I are seeing each other.”
“Do you think he’d be so upset if he wasn’t worried about the finances?”
My back straightens then as surprise tumbles through me.
It must show on my face because Aunt Sarah gives me a knowing smile.
“I know the vineyard’s struggling, Murphy. Have for a long time. You don’t have to hide things from me.”
I blink a few times, not really sure what to say.
“I’ve known about the problems for years,” she continues, “and I’ve been begging your father to either hire someone to help sort things, or at the very least let me try to help.”
“And he wouldn’t?”
She sighs. “Your father is stubborn. I don’t have to tell you that. He’s never been good with numbers or finances. But he refuses to ask for help, and the vineyard is suffering now because of it.”
“Unfortunately Memphis has inherited Dad’s stubborn streak.”
“Oh, Memphis doesn’t hold a candle to your father,” Aunt Sarah says with a laugh that tells me she’s seen a thing or two. “The fact your brother talked to you about what’s going on instead of living in denial means he’s willing to accept suggestions or ideas. But your dad grew up listening to our dad talk about responsibility and the job of the men of the house .” She rolls her eyes. “With the way that man talked, you’d think my mom and I never did anything around the vineyard.”
Something occurs to me then. Something I hadn’t ever thought of before because it just wasn’t on my radar.
But now, talking to Aunt Sarah, it just makes me wonder.
“Did you ever hope Grandpa would leave the business to you instead?”
Something sad flashes across her face, but only for a second. “Oh, that just wasn’t their time, you know?” She waves her hand in the air. “Women didn’t run businesses when he was learning everything from our grandfather, so it’s only natural he’d pass it on to your dad.”
“But did you ever want him to?”
There’s a long pause where I think she’s deciding how best to answer. And when she does, it breaks my heart a little bit.
“Murphy, as you get older, you start to realize that a lot of things in life are out of your control. And you can either lay in bed at night and think about all that’s gone wrong, or you can choose to focus on what has gone right.” She shrugs. “It’s no use thinking about whether or not I wish my father had given the vineyard to me. Besides, I love my brother too much to resent him for something that wasn’t his choice in the first place.”
There’s truth to what she’s saying, absolutely. But there’s also a heartbreaking element as well.
My father left the vineyard when he graduated high school, much like I did. He proposed to my mom—his high school sweetheart—moved to San Jose, got a job working in sales, and had two babies. And then my mother died giving birth to Micah, and my dad moved back here to work on the vineyard and get help from my grandparents and aunt in taking care of us.
In all the years my dad was gone, Aunt Sarah was still here, working the fields and handling things that would have been Dad’s responsibility. Yet my grandfather still gave the vineyard to my father.
And she’s still here, working hard and demanding nothing.
I hate that for her.
“Can I give you a suggestion? Don’t let Memphis make decisions for you,” she says. “If there’s something special between you and Wes, fight for it.”
“I was planning to. I love Memphis, but I’m in love with Wes.” I puff out a breath. “I guess I just have to see if he feels the same.”
Aunt Sarah gives me an empathetic smile. “I know you two will figure it out, sweetie.” She pauses for a moment. “And keep it logical when you talk to your brother, not emotional. He responds better that way.”
I laugh, realizing the truth of what she’s said.
“I love you, sweetheart. And I’m so proud of you.”
My chest constricts at her words, and I feel the pressure of distant tears building behind my eyes.
“Thanks, Aunt Sarah. I love you, too.”
She says good night and gives me a hug before leaving my room.
I feel a little bolstered by our conversation, knowing I have the support of at least somebody in our family. But by the time I make it out to the bench closer to midnight, my nerves are rattling me again. When Wes takes a seat instead of giving me a kiss, it makes me even more concerned.
“Everything go okay with locking up?”
Wes nods, but his eyes are cast downward, his hands fiddling with one of the buttons on his chef coat. He looks ... not upset, exactly, but apprehensive.
“I’m sorry about this morning.” He clears his throat. “I wanted to stay and talk things out with your brother, and it was shitty of me to leave you on your own to deal with it.”
I shake my head. “I knew that you sticking around wouldn’t resolve anything. That’s why I told you to go inside, too. He’s incredibly stubborn.”
“Yeah.” Wes pauses for a second. “But he’s also not wrong to be worried about his chef getting involved with his staff, not to mention his sister. It can make things really complicated.”
As much as I want to avoid whatever this conversation will bring, I decide it’s better to just get down to business. Because tiptoeing around will only make me more and more uncomfortable.
“Is that why you wanted to talk tonight?” I ask. “Because you think things are getting too complicated?”
Wes’s head falls forward, and he runs a hand through his hair.
My heart takes off at a sprint. My stomach tightens.
I hate the way this feels.
“No,” he finally says, surprising me. “I think you and I can handle Memphis, regardless of what he throws our way.”
Blinking a few times, I replay what he just said over again in my mind, making sure I’m not misunderstanding him.
The tight band around my shoulders loosens, and I feel the weight in my stomach begin to dissolve.
What he just said has a future implication. There’s a belief there that he and I will be fine moving forward. That he sees things between us not just continuing, but thriving even through a potential disruption from my brother.
“So what did you want to talk about?” I ask, not wanting to give myself too much permission to exhale in relief until I know why we’re here right now. “You made it sound really serious.”
He licks his lips and looks at me. “Because it is serious. But it has nothing to do with Memphis.”
I try to think back over anything we’ve talked about that might lend itself to such an intense conversation, but I can’t seem to pinpoint an event or topic or person that fits the bill.
I scoot toward him and slip my hand in his. “I’m sure whatever it is, we can handle that, too.”
He looks at my hand in his, and his thumb strokes gently along the back of my palm, the movement sending little goose bumps skittering up my arm.
“First, I want you to know how crazy I am about you.” His eyes are still focused on my hand. “I can’t remember ever feeling like this about someone.”
My heart warms, the statement a much-needed confirmation that Wes and I are on the same page when it comes to how we feel about each other.
“But I’m not going to ask you to tell me how you feel about me,” he continues. “Not until after you’ve had a chance to hear what I have to say.”
The pit in my stomach is back, though it feels more like acid as it stirs up a kind of nausea I haven’t felt in a really long time.
“Because what I tell you might change how you feel about me, and I don’t want to trick you into saying anything you might regret later.”
I take a deep breath as quietly and as slowly as I can, then let it out just as quiet, and just as slow.
“I’ve told you a few times that I left Chicago, but I’ve never told you why.” He pauses, and I get the feeling he’s trying to muster up the courage to tell me.
But when he finally speaks again, I’m not ready for what he says.
“I left Chicago because I got fired,” he tells me, stopping again and taking a breath. “I got fired for sleeping with my boss’s wife.”