Chapter Twenty-One MURPHY
Chapter Twenty-One
M URPHY
When I get a text from Memphis in the morning letting me know we need to talk before the Sunday lunch service begins, it drags me out of my love-induced sex haze and the cocoon that Wes’s bed provides.
“I have to go talk to Memphis,” I grumble, snuggling deeper into the crook of his arm and pressing my naked body flush against his.
“When? I’ll go with you.”
I look up into his eyes and shake my head. “I appreciate it, but this is a conversation between me and my brother. And even though it’s about you, it’s also not about you at all.”
Wes looks confused, so I give him a quick rundown of what’s going on with the vineyard without getting too into the nitty-gritty.
“Fuck,” he whispers, rubbing a hand over the stubble along his jaw. “I could feel that something was up, but I figured it wasn’t my place to ask. God, no pressure or anything.”
I giggle and snuggle closer, lifting my face so I can press my lips to his. When I pull back, the concern that had crossed his face has eased.
“It’s not your job to fix what’s going on, Wes,” I tell him. “And Memphis knows that. It’s why he’s scrambling to do anything and everything he can to salvage things before my dad throws in the towel.”
He nods but doesn’t look entirely convinced.
“Look at it this way,” I continue. “You are a tool he’s using to build something that might save the vineyard. But there are many tools he can use, and plenty of other possibilities for things he can build.”
Wes grins. “Should I be concerned that you’re calling me a tool?”
I poke his stomach, and he laughs.
“Does what I said make sense?”
“Yes,” he tells me, turning on his side and pushing me onto my back. “It makes sense. But it’s still a lot of pressure.”
“Good thing you really know what you’re doing, then, huh?”
He kisses me, his tongue slipping into my mouth, and I can feel his hand trailing downward.
Grabbing his hand, I pull back and pin him with a glare. “I need to go talk to Memphis.”
“Five minutes.”
I bite my lip and then nod. “Five minutes.”
Twenty minutes later, I slip back into my bedroom through the veranda.
If I’m going to talk to my brother about Wes, I would feel a lot more comfortable doing it after I’ve taken a shower and swapped out my clothes.
I spend that time thinking about what I’ll say to Memphis. Trying to figure out how this conversation will go. The main thing I want to make sure I remember is that it’s fair for Memphis to be concerned. He has put a lot of time, energy, and money into getting this restaurant off the ground.
But being concerned doesn’t mean he gets to dictate my life.
“Morning,” I say, walking into the office after I’ve knocked. “You wanted to talk?”
Memphis spins in his chair, turning away from the computer and giving me all his attention.
Figures that he’d finally really focus on me when it’s a fight.
“Murphy, I get that you think hooking up with Wes is fun,” he says once I’ve taken a seat across from him. “But I am begging you to think this through, okay? Secret relationships never turn out to be anything other than disaster. For everyone involved. Especially when it’s at work.”
He leans forward, his elbows on the desk. I want so desperately to respond right now, to jump in and tell him he’s wrong. That it’s not about the secrecy—that literally none of our relationship has been about the secrecy.
If anything, that’s why we avoided each other.
But instead of jumping down his throat, I stay silent, giving him a chance to share how he feels.
“I thought we were on the same side when it comes to this vineyard and trying to save it. And I’m sorry, but playing around with my head chef is a huge deal. Do you realize how catastrophic it could be if he just up and quit because things between the two of you go sour?”
He sits back in his chair and links his fingers together, resting them on his stomach.
“So, I’m sorry, but this isn’t going to fly. You and Wes are not going to be able to ... do ... whatever it is you’re doing.”
I consider him for a minute. More than anything, I want to shoot out of my chair and give him a piece of my mind.
How dare he think he gets any say in my personal life.
But instead, I take a deep breath and try to remember what my aunt Sarah said.
My brother will shut down if I get heated about this. I can still tell him exactly how I feel, but storming around his office and yelling at him for being an idiot isn’t going to accomplish anything.
“I just want to start by saying that we are absolutely on the same team. I want to help with any and every idea that you have to improve things and keep Dad from selling.” I pause, knowing I’m about to stir the pot. “However, I’m not ending things with Wes. What we have is not about sneaking around, or rule-breaking lust. What we have is a lot deeper than that. It’s a soulmate kind of love. So you can either stay mad, or you can let it go and move on. Either way it won’t change us being in a relationship.”
Memphis stares at me, and I can tell that he doesn’t like what I said.
Not surprising.
“I’m not going to go into detail about how things started, but you should know that both of us took the fact that we work together very seriously. This isn’t a game. This is two adults who have fallen for each other deciding that they are willing to figure out how to make it work.”
I can see the tic in his jaw, the way his nostrils flare slightly.
Memphis is pissed.
“If you, as our boss, want to sit us down and put some boundaries in place, expectations for how we are to act when we’re working, that is entirely fair. But you don’t get to tell me who I can and cannot date. Ever. Boss or not.”
He seems to think that point over for a beat, and I’m hoping that he’ll see my position as fair and balanced.
“And what would you say if I said I’d fire Wes if you kept seeing him?”
Not fair and balanced, then.
Rubbing my lips together, I think over what he’s just said. “I’d tell you that you aren’t really concerned about the vineyard if you’re willing to fire your most important employee because of something that has nothing to do with the reason you hired him in the first place.”
“You don’t think Wes will break up with you if I tell him his job is on the line?”
I sigh, then shrug my shoulders because it feels like the only thing I can do.
“You’ll need to talk to him about it. I’m not his keeper. But I’ll say this, Memphis. I’d reconsider your methods if your default way to solve problems is to get rid of the employees who are trying to help you.”
Memphis exhales an irritated breath, and I can see him trying to figure out what to say or do to get this situation back under his control.
“I love you, Memphis,” I tell him, deciding that maybe just a little bit of emotion is important to make him understand. “I do. I know this situation has been really hard, and that you’re doing everything you can to try and fix things.” I pause. “And I’m sorry Dad handed you something that was failing and then decided to take it away as if you’re the one who broke it.”
My brother’s chin rises, and I know what I’ve said touches at his pride.
“But it isn’t your fault,” I continue. “You should be so proud of everything you’ve been doing. I know I’m proud of you. They might not say it often, but I don’t doubt Aunt Sarah and Micah feel the same.”
I can tell that Memphis has now shut me out, so I rise from my seat and come up behind him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders.
“I love you,” I tell him again. “And I’ll love you no matter what happens with the vineyard. Whether Dad sells it or not, whether the restaurant saves it or not.”
I feel the tension leak out of my brother at my words, and then he raises a hand and squeezes one of mine where it rests on his chest.
“Love you too, Murph.”
I stand there for a little bit longer, and only let go when my brother taps on my hands, the international sign for Okay, let’s wrap up this hug .
When I get to the door, I turn back to look at him, finding his eyes on me.
“You can talk to Wes if you want,” I tell him. “But I hope you’ll try to think over what I’ve said before you do.”
When he doesn’t say anything else, I give him a little wave. “I’ll see you over there in a bit.”
Memphis nods, then returns his attention to the computer.
We still have a lot of problems, my brother and me. He’s still stubborn and overbearing, and incredibly frustrating.
But I can tell with each one of these little conversations we’re having, the times when we talk through something rather than let it go unaddressed, the brick wall that divides us is getting chipped away.
And maybe one day, it’ll be gone altogether.
“I think you should go.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course you do.”
Wes laughs. “I’m serious, Murphy,” he says, shutting off the water at the sink and drying his hands on a dishcloth. “And that’s me having only heard a few of your songs. I’m sure you have even more in your back pocket that would further blow my mind.”
Pursing my lips, I pin him with a stare.
He crosses his arms, leans a hip up against the counter, and stares right back at me.
“What happened to the guy who said he can’t tell me what decision to make, huh?” I keep my voice playful even though I’m only half joking.
“What happened to the girl who told me it was important to find your new dream?” he asks in return. “Have you taken the time to sit down and really think about what you want next? Because I suggested that, too.”
Scoffing, I tuck my hands under my thighs, my palms flat against the stainless steel counter of the kitchen island.
I came in here after work to hang out with Wes while he closed down the kitchen after Sunday lunch. But I made the mistake of bringing up the fact Vivian texted me this morning, letting me know that the Humble Roads guy has been asking if I’m coming down to LA to talk to them.
“Not exactly.”
Wes crosses over to where I’m sitting on the counter, steps in between my legs, and places his hands on my thighs.
“I know it’s hard to figure out what comes next after you’ve had to let go of a dream,” he tells me, his voice much more gentle now than it was just a moment ago. “I really do. So why don’t you look at this as an opportunity to figure it out. You know? You’re not committing to anything. You’re just scoping it out. Seeing if it’s right to you. If it feels right to you.”
I lick my lips and let out a sigh.
I’ve been in a holding pattern ever since the day my future in the music industry took a nosedive. It’s been three months since that horrible day, and even though it’s easier to not think about the future outside of working at the restaurant and spending time with Wes, I know it’s foolish.
“I’m not sure I’m ready to go,” I say, trying to be honest. “I’m just barely starting to feel settled here. Shouldn’t I let my wounds heal a little bit more first?”
Wes slips his arms around my waist and tugs me forward a little bit, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders.
“You could do that,” he answers, his expression earnest. “You could wait until it doesn’t hurt anymore. But the truth is that it will always hurt. There will always be a part of you that aches about letting go of that dream.” He pauses. “ Or , you can push through the pain and give yourself a chance to find something else that lights you up inside. And most likely, by doing that, you won’t really notice that little pinch of pain anymore.”
I consider that for a moment, my brain trying to sort through all the possibilities and fears and challenges that I could face by doing what Wes is suggesting.
“If I go, will you come with me?”
My shoulders sink when he shakes his head.
“Part of me would love to go,” he says. “But going back to LA and talking with those people ... That’s a decision you need to make on your own. I wouldn’t want my presence to distract from why you’re there.”
I lean forward and rest my forehead against his, closing my eyes.
This man is just ... everything. I’ve never had something like this before, a relationship with someone who not only seems to understand me but also wants what’s best for me.
When we first met at the gas station, there’s no way I could have known all that he’d come to mean to me in such a short time. That the initial seed of attraction between us would grow into something so beautiful, with roots that are twisting ever deeper.
I bring my hand to the side of his face, look into his eyes.
“I love you,” I whisper, then press my lips to his.
His mouth opens, his tongue tangling with mine as his hands grip my hips tightly.
“See, this is what I mean.”
I pull back, turning my head to the side to where my brother is standing just inside the kitchen, the door still swinging slightly behind him.
“This is the stuff you can’t be doing.”
Pressing my lips tightly together, I give him a thin-lipped smile. I can feel the blood in my body rushing to my face.
“Sorry, Memphis,” I say, nudging Wes out of the way and hopping down from the counter. “It won’t happen again.”
He stands there, staring at us for a minute, his gaze falling to where Wes is now holding my hand.
Memphis’s expression barely changes, but I can see when something softens there. When some sort of decision has been made in his mind.
“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.
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.
All the nights I’ll get to sit on the bench with Wes, or snuggle up next to him in his cabin.
The chances I’ll get to listen to my brother share about the things that mean so much to him.
How it will feel to watch Memphis finally solve all this financial stuff that has plagued him for longer than I realized.
And maybe ... maybe even a time when my father and I might have a glass of wine together.
It’s surprisingly cathartic, imagining all the good.
I can feel the way it pulses through me.
It feels incredible.
Like my heart, that has been brittle for so long, is finally beginning to soften.
Like this place might eventually be more to me than just the temporary safe harbor that I hoped to flee again.
Like it might eventually, really and truly, feel like home.