Chapter Twenty-Three MURPHY
Chapter Twenty-Three
M URPHY
I pause at the threshold to my room. My hand hovers over the doorknob when I hear the faint strum of the guitar. It’s a familiar melody, though I’m unable to place it in my memory.
“I can see your shadow under the door.”
I blink a few times in surprise at the sound of my father’s voice, and I slowly push the door open, certain I must have imagined it. But there he is, sitting on the edge of my bed, my guitar in hand as he plucks idly at the strings.
I can’t decide what’s more of a shock: him sitting on my bed playing the guitar, or the soft smile on his face as he does it.
“I didn’t know you played,” I say, struggling to find the words to express how confused I am at the sight before me.
He nods, his body rocking minutely from side to side as he continues strumming.
“Your mom taught me. Said it was the best way to get something off your chest without talking.” At that, his smile turns sad. “Words never came easy to me, even back then.”
Dad has always been kind of a gruff guy. Gritty in a way I don’t really understand. He’s never been a great communicator and rarely talks about how he feels. Unless he’s irritated about something.
I’ve always chalked it up to losing my mom and turning inward with his grief. It never occurred to me that the man my mother loved was always a growly bear who didn’t say much, even when they were younger.
“We used to play together over on that hill where her bench is.” He makes a huffing sound that I think is supposed to be a laugh, and shakes his head. “Well, she played. I plucked along like an idiot, just grateful to be sitting next to her.”
Something tightens in my chest at his memory of their love. Of his love.
He so rarely talks about her. And my own memories of my mother are vague, little snippets of images and random things. Mostly memories cobbled together from the few photos I have from when I was a toddler.
But nothing ever feels real or concrete. It’s a sad truth of losing her when I was so young. I envy everyone who got to know her in ways I never will.
“What is that you’re playing?” I have a feeling it’s related to Mom somehow, but I can’t place exactly why. “I feel like I’ve heard it before.”
Dad smiles at me then. A real one.
“Because you have heard it before. It’s your good night song. Your mom created one for each of you.” He pauses, his fingers stuttering on the strings. “Well, for you and Memphis. She hadn’t written one for Micah yet.”
My chest twists again. I try to imagine her playing me to sleep, wishing I had a real memory of it.
“Does it have words?”
He shakes his head, and his fingers pick up their strumming again.
“She didn’t really write songs. Not like you do. Said she didn’t want to write the words, she wanted to create the feeling.”
I nod, understanding what he means.
That’s how I feel sometimes when I’m writing music. I don’t envision myself performing the song. I imagine how others will feel when they hear it. How the words and the sounds filter into their ears and ripple through their bodies, touching their minds and hearts before traveling down into their fingers and toes.
It’s why the songwriting part has always felt more important than anything else, and why I’m so excited about this opportunity with Humble Roads. There are still all these words and feelings inside me that just have to come out, even if I’m not the one performing them.
Almost as if he heard my thoughts, my dad speaks again.
“Memphis told me about the trip to meet with that record label.” The room is suddenly far too quiet as my father stops playing and crosses his arms on top of the body of the guitar. “Said it was a big deal.”
My head tilts to the side as I regard him.
Something’s different.
I mean, I knew it when I came in here and found him playing my guitar, which I’ve literally never seen him do in my entire life.
But it’s something else.
I just can’t put my finger on it.
“Yeah. It’s a really big deal.”
It’s not in my nature to boast, but if my father is taking an unexpected interest in something I love—something that has divided us for as long as I can seem to remember—then I want him to know exactly how big of a deal it really is.
“So you’re gonna head back to LA, then?”
“Do you even really care?” My words come out harsher than I intend, barbed with the pain I’ve felt at his constant inability to be supportive of my dreams. So I don’t rush to apologize for what I said or how I said it.
My dad’s head falls just a bit, his gaze dropping to the floor.
“I deserve that,” he says, his voice soft. “But to answer the question, yes, I do care. I want ...” His voice trails off and he looks toward my laundry basket, almost like he’s searching for the words amid my dirty clothes. “I want you to be happy, Murph. I do. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
My chest gets that tightness again, though this time it prickles at something behind my nose as well.
“Just ... sometimes I’m not very good at saying it. I’ve missed you a lot, Murph, and I’m glad you’re here. But if heading back to LA will make you happy, then ... Well, that’s the most important thing.”
I lean against my dresser, bracing my hands against the edge.
How long have I waited for something like this?
For this . . . olive branch?
Years.
A decade.
The part of me that had given up hope of ever reconciling with my father wants to lash out at him. Reject this kind, sensitive side of him that feels almost unnatural because I’m so unaccustomed to it.
But there’s a little girl inside me who just wants her dad in her life. And if he’s willing to let something shift between us, surely I can, too.
“I’m not going back to LA.”
He blinks a few times, surprise evident on his face.
“I told Todd—he’s the guy from the label—that I would take the job, but that I wanted to be able to work from here.” I cross my arms. “My life in LA ... I feel like I’ve finally moved on from it. And there’s no reason that I can’t write from here.”
When my father stays silent, a thought occurs to me that hadn’t before.
“That is ... if it’s okay for me to stay.”
He reaches up and scrubs a hand along the edge of his jaw, his eyes aimed at the floor. Then he takes a deep breath and lets it out long and slow.
I don’t know how I’ll feel if he asks me to go. Especially after I’ve finally gotten to a point where I actually want to be here. Wes is here, and that plays a big part in knowing that I’ll be happy in Rosewood.
But he’s not the only reason.
Something in my soul has settled in a way I wasn’t expecting since I moved back.
Maybe it’s a result of finding love.
But I have a feeling it’s just as much about finding myself.
If I hadn’t moved back, I might never have worked through the emotions of what happened in LA. I might never have reconciled with Memphis. I might not have realized how much this vineyard is a part of my past and just how much I want to help it succeed and be at least a small part of my future.
And now, this conversation with my father. Unexpected and yet possibly exactly what I’ve been seeking.
Permission to leave, possibly even encouragement , if he thinks it’ll make me happy.
Right? Isn’t that what he said?
Because really, was I so desperate to leave because I didn’t want to be here? Or because I didn’t want to feel like I had to stay? Like there was no other choice for me.
My mind scrambles over all these little bits, trying to sort them and make sense of them. Trying to suss out all the subtle nuances.
But before I can get too lost in thought, my father finally looks back up at me, and I startle when I see his eyes are glassy.
“I’m sorry, Murph.” His voice is a ragged whisper. “I’m sorry I’ve ever made you wonder if I want you here. I always want you here. But only if you want to be.”
My throat constricts as emotion wells in my chest, and before I can think it all the way through, I’m crossing the room and wrapping my arms around my dad’s shoulders.
I can’t remember the last time we hugged. Something inside me seems to release when his arms wrap around me too, and hold me just as tightly as I’m clinging to him.
“I love you, Murphy.”
I squeeze him tighter.
“I love you, too.”
We stay like that for a long moment, each of us seeming to revel in this much-needed cease-fire. Eventually, I pull back and sit on the floor in front of him, cross-legged.
“Can you play me the song again?” I ask him. “And the one for Memphis, too?”
He gives me that barely-there smile and then picks the guitar back up and begins to play.
Eventually, he passes the guitar to me and asks me to play him something I’ve written. A song that means something to me .
So I play him the song I sang for Wes in the car the night of his anxiety attack.
My father has questions in his eyes when I finish, but he doesn’t ask them. Instead, he just nods and tells me he thinks I’m very talented.
I can’t expect him to suddenly be a completely different person. He’s not the talkative guy who is going to ask a million questions, and it’ll take a long time before things between us feel more natural. Easy.
But I’ll take this middle ground we seem to have found.
I’ll take it every damn day.
I ruminate on our interaction for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, long after he’s gone back to work and I’ve found myself out at the bench, waiting for Wes. I think about what my dad said about my mom, and himself.
What he said about me.
Our relationship is far from perfect, but just like with Memphis, there is a path to reconciliation with my father now. Something I’ve never imagined was possible in the past.
I’m not sure exactly what prompted him to come to me. Maybe it was finding out about Humble Roads and assuming I might be leaving again. It’s the only thing I can think of that might be an answer.
Regardless, I’m glad he did it. And I can only hope that it was the first brick in a large wall that desperately needs to come down.
“Hey.”
I turn at the sound of Wes’s voice, and I can’t help the smile that crosses my face at the sight of him.
He takes a seat next to me and leans in, pressing his lips against mine in a way that is both gentle and purposeful. Like he knows exactly how he wants to kiss me. It sends a shiver down to my toes, and I revel in it, to the point where I almost moan at the loss when he pulls back.
“How’s the writing coming?” He props an arm along the back of the bench.
I chuckle. “I haven’t written anything today.”
Wes laughs, too. “I thought the whole point of you staying here today was so you could write. You mean you could have come with me?”
Shaking my head, I keep plucking at the strings. “Nope. I ended up hanging out with my dad for a little bit.”
The expression Wes gives me makes me laugh again.
“I know. I wasn’t expecting it, either.”
I explain what happened, and Wes lets out a long whistle when I’m finished.
“Sounds like you had a different kind of productive day.”
“I really did.”
“Well, I’m sure that Todd guy isn’t waiting by his computer for you to send him anything.”
Snorting, I shake my head at him. “Why do you always call him ‘that Todd guy’?”
Wes just grins. “Because it makes you laugh, every time.”
It’s been two weeks since I went to LA and met with Todd and Vivian and the team at Humble Roads. I’ve been working on music here and there, mostly in my undies in Wes’s bed in the morning before I have to get ready for work.
My first deadline is coming up, and I want to impress them. So taking the day off today and giving myself permission to just enjoy the time with my dad was an active sacrifice on my part.
But I also skipped out on driving with Wes to San Francisco again to see his brother. Originally I was supposed to go, but there was a part of me that just felt like Wes really needed alone time with Ash after what happened with their mom.
Sonia’s disappearance from the hospital was really hard on Wes. It brought up all these feelings from childhood, and I know he’s still processing things. When Ash found her a week later, she was already wasted again and back with one of her boyfriends. She had turned Ash away after only a few minutes.
It didn’t feel like a good time to try to force an upbeat, meet-the-brother lunch. So I told Wes I wanted him and Ash to have some brother time, and I planned to stay behind and work on my music.
“How did it go? How’s Ash?”
Wes grimaces, his lips twisting to the side. “He always gives me a brave face, but I know the stuff with my mom is wearing on him.” He shrugs a shoulder. “There isn’t much we can do except continue to be there for each other.”
When he doesn’t offer anything else, I set my guitar aside and shift closer to him, placing my hand on his warm thigh.
“I know it doesn’t make things better, but I’m here for you.”
His arm wraps around me and pulls me even closer, his hand squeezing my shoulder. Then he presses his lips against my temple and just holds himself there, almost like he’s breathing me in.
“It does make things better,” he tells me, his voice a whisper. “ You always make things better.”
He kisses me again, and my heart soars.
Wes holds me closely. Reverently.
Like I’m precious.
Like I’m everything.
And I hope he never lets me go.