Then Murphy asked if I wanted coffee and pie. Apparently, she had a pie in the freezer from one of her earlier jaunts to the farmers’ market. Cherry. Then she’d said, “I think I have decaf pods for the Keurig,” and I lost it.
“This Keurig thing, it’s new for you? Like breaking and entering into your own car?” I was joking, but sadness washed across Murphy’s face. “No, I didn’t mean anything by that. Seriously. I was just kidding.”
“It’s cool. I know I was pampered. Believe me, the first person to admit that is me. Being here, struggling to make it all happen isn’t easy. But I’m doing it.”
Murphy’s makeup had worn off some, and her hair fell loosely over her shoulder. She looked stunning to me . . . and I was desperate to reach out and touch her.
“You’re definitely doing it, but you need a fancy espresso maker or something for home. So you can practice your art.”
“If I could afford one, I’d get one. Now I rely on a little extra time at Zara’s. Plus, she feeds me sweets when I come in early.”
“The attack of the sweet tooth . . .”
“What is it tonight with you pointing out all my shortcomings?” She leaned over and pinched my thigh, and a zing of attraction flew between us.
“Never. I have a lot of them too. We already know I don’t want to leave my family, and I work too much.”
“Hold that thought,” Murphy said, jumping up from the ratty couch. “I’m going to put the pie in the oven.”
My mind wandered when she crossed the room, wondering what she would think of my house. It was bigger than I ever dreamed of having, spacious, and way more modern than the farmhouse I grew up in. A pretty palatial buy for a guy like me, it was a split-level craftsman with space to grow. Brenna, my sister, convinced me I deserved it. Plus, Branson used to spend a lot of time at my place. Without a father in the picture, he needed me, and I was hell-bent on being there for him.
“Tell me, why do you work so much? Clearly, you could lighten up a bit,” Murphy said as she plopped down on the couch.
Her question made me think of the ski house I’d put an offer on near Mad River, another luxury buy with Branson in mind. But even with all this thinking of him, I wasn’t ready to tell Murphy everything. I wanted Branson to know some of the finer things. I’d learned to ski on an unmarked hill, dangerous as fuck but fun as hell . . . but he deserved better. I didn’t want him to be the kid who was pitied.
“Hey, where’d you go?” Murphy reached out to tap my thigh. “You were in la-la land for a minute.”
Running my hand through my hair, I decided to come clean, not wanting to let my pride get in the way. “Honestly, it’s a bad habit. Sometimes I feel guilty for doing well and having nice things. I was thinking about the things I’ve acquired over the past several years, and things I’ve wanted. I can’t seem to let go of always wanting to do better, get ahead, prepare for some unknown disaster. My parents don’t have much of a safety net. I don’t want to be that way, but I also want to live a nice life. I just can’t seem to balance the two.”
She nodded, but I didn’t know how or why she would get that. She’d never really wanted for anything, except for now.
“My parents were in a bad place when I went to Pressman. Technology was improving in terms of getting sap, and they had to borrow and scrimp to be able to afford the newest equipment. Thank God, it started to pay off, and they’ve been able to get ahead these last few years.”
Murphy’s head tilted to the side, and for a moment, I thought she was trying to read me better, to gauge if I was being truthful. Sadly, I wasn’t. I’d helped my parents pay off some of the loans, but protecting their pride kept me from saying anything about it.
“I get the wanting to do better,” Murphy said. “It was—is—how I am. Just switching gears. I’m sure it doesn’t make sense, but it had to be done. Look, I’m not going to be a barista forever. I’ll get back into some marketing. On my terms,” she said, focusing on herself. It was a welcome reprieve.
“That’s good, Murph. But whatever you are—barista, marketer, whatever—as long as it makes you happy and proud, that’s all that matters.”
“Okay, Doc Rooney,” she said, waving off my advice.
How could I argue when she threw my title back at me?
“I hear you, but listen,” I said. “What you do, what you have, none of that matters. It doesn’t make you who you are.”
Her head dropped forward as she said softly, “But that’s just it. I don’t really know who I am. For all my life, I was told to be one way. A little too proud, way too rich, the perfect entertainer, a politician’s daughter, an heiress, and then I find out it’s a shitty way to live. Pardon my French.”
She looked up as she said the last part, a small smile on her face.
“Also, I’m not supposed to swear. The media could pick up on it. That’s why I needed to be with the in crowd at school. Actually, I didn’t have to, but part of me needed to be. Why? Because they understood. They got it. I guess what I really misunderstood is that they liked being that way.”
I leaned a little closer. “Hey, you need to let go of all of this.”
Sweeping her hair back, she said, “It’s not only that. I made mistakes. Some that are unforgivable. Like with you . . . and others.”
“You can tell me,” I said,
