3
Ben
Yesterday, I’d kind of been relieved when Murphy wasn’t at the Bean when I dropped by. Only because it gave me a chance to interrogate Zara as soon as I made it to the register.
When did Murphy start working here? Did Zara know what kind of money Murphy came from? Was she a pain in the ass? I bombarded Zara with questions, and she answered each one like a diplomat.
Murphy had only been at the Bean a few weeks, including training. Zara suspected Murphy came from money, but it seemed like her personal situation had changed and she wasn’t forthright in explaining. No, she wasn’t a pain in the ass. Maybe a slow learner when it came to the coffee bar, but she was trying hard.
I’d been shocked as hell to see Murphy the other day after I’d stopped there as I rushed to check on Branson in between surgery and heading back to see follow-up patients. My car was racking up miles on the two-lane road between Montpelier and Colebury, but I owed it to Brenna to keep an eye on my nephew.
Years ago, I’d begged my sister to stay with me at my house. Lord only knew, I had the space. But she’d refused, wanting to keep her crap place in quiet Colebury. Not that any part of Vermont was loud or noisy or even bustling, but she thought Colebury was best for raising Branson. It was her own small slice of happiness, she called it.
Lately, I disagreed with her, but I wasn’t Branson’s father, as she so often reminded me.
Yeah, where the hell is he?
Now, seated across from Murphy, who had that smile I’d come to know as her armor firmly on her face, I decided not to reveal anything about me or the little I knew about her since she left Pressman. Not because I didn’t care. I cared too much. When I left the ritzy prep school behind, I left our awkward friendship and any hope of it being anything more there too.
While I didn’t know much about this version of Murphy, it was obvious something dramatic had happened to result in her working in a coffee shop in Vermont. The last I knew she was working in New York City.
“So, tell me . . . why Vermont?” I asked Murphy as she sat in front of me, her hands neatly folded on the table.
“I needed a change, and for some reason, the way you used to talk about it here stuck with me, so I gave it a whirl. It wasn’t completely outlandish. We did go to high school near here.”
Taking a sip of my Americano, I realized Murphy didn’t have anything to drink. “Wait, don’t you get something during your break to eat or drink?”
She frowned at me. “Of course. Don’t act like this isn’t a good place full of decent people.”
“That’s not what I meant. Do you want something?” I tilted my head toward the counter.
“I’m good. Roddy had me taste-testing scones when I came in today. I washed them down with a yummy latte. If I have any more sugar, I’m going to fly home.”
“Where is home?” I asked. This wasn’t a huge town, and I wondered why we’d never ran into each other.
Oh, right. I work all the time, and seems this is a new gig for Murphy.
Noting Zara watching us, I waited for Murphy to answer.
“I have a little apartment, part of a duplex cut into four. It’s not much, but it’s all mine. Plus, I’m used to small spaces after living in New York.”
She raised her chin, absolutely refusing to admit any kind of defeat, and I instantly knew this was a bitter pill for her to swallow. Murphy’s pride was always larger than her five-foot-seven-inch frame.
“Funny, I always took you to be the one who would stay in the big city. You were never into the small world surrounding Pressman, other than the syrupy sweets you could find.”
“Turned out New York wasn’t for me. No real maple syrup,” she said, joking, but there was a story there. She might look like the same Murphy sitting in front of me, but this was a more complex version. A Murphy who had lived more, experienced life differently from how she was raised.
“Decent syrup is kind of addicting. By the way, I never forgot what a wicked sweet tooth you have. Remember how you used to plow through those Swedish Fish while studying?”
“I loved those. Actually, I ate so many during college, I got sick of them. I’ve moved on to Sour Patch Kids. Bonus, you can grab a bag of them at the gas station.”
Who is this Murphy? She picks up snacks at the gas station?
When I accidentally let out a small chuckle, of course she said, “What?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing. I just had no idea you even knew how to pump gas.”
“I can do a lot of things you don’t know about, Ben. Except marketing.” The last part came out on a whisper as sadness swept over her usually lively expression.
“I’m sorry, what do you mean? Marketing?”
“It’s nothing.”
Murphy stared at her nails, inspecting the red polish, a few shades darker than her hair. A few freckles dotted her hand, and I looked at her face, noting it was still as creamy and unblemished as it had been in school. I remembered her wearing a hat and tons of sunscreen when we hung out on the lawn, saying her mom would kill her if she got freckles on her face.
As I finished off the remainder of my Americano, I wished I’d bought a pastry. Sometime in the last forty-eight hours, I’d gone from being ready to throttle the surprising blast from my past, to wanting to sit here for another hour or two with her.
I tried to push aside any notions about this version being a new and improved version of Murphy. My old feelings were clouding my thoughts. I’d liked her a lot at one time, but quickly learned we weren’t meant to be together.
Murphy took my moment of silence as waiting for her to answer, so she started rambling about her degree. “It’s just I wanted to work in marketing when I moved here, because that’s what my degree is in, but it didn’t work out. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.”
“What do you mean, it didn’t work out?”
“Honestly, I don’t want to rehash it. I’m here at the Bean and happy. Maybe the happiest I’ve ever been.”
A sullen Murphy from our past came to mind. She’d always come back to Pressman despondent after breaks. I’d go over and see if I could cheer her up, and she’d shoo me away, saying I didn’t understand. It was part of the divide between us, part of the push-pull dance we always did.
By the time we were seniors, I knew what to expect. If Murphy spent significant time with her family or rich friends, she’d pull back from me except for when I tutored her. As the aftershocks of whatever ensued within her wealthy circles wore off, she’d let me in, only to push me out again.
Why did I put up with it? Because I liked her. Too much. Somewhere underneath all her steely armor, I recognized a softer person. A fascinating person that I really liked.
“It’s from our biggest disappointments that we grow, Murph,” I told her, feeling compelled to make her feel better like I used to do all those years ago.
She scoffed. “Seriously, you’re going to give me some cheesy motivational quote? Who said that?”
“Me, that’s who. I’m sure someone more profound said something similar at one point, but that’s me saying it to you, and meaning it.”
We were back in the dance. Murphy with her holier-than-thou, well-groomed, well-bred attitude, and me with my hokey small-town sayings.
Her green eyes stared me down, a cool grassy meadow inviting me to bare it all. “How would you even know about disappointments? Doesn’t look like you’ve had too many.”
“Ha. This coming from you, who knows more than most that I was the poor boy at the fancy prep school. The charity case, the farmer’s son, the pity party. I know plenty about disappointments.”
I didn’t mention spending four years being disappointed by her, only to get my one chance on prom night. Or at least that’s what I’d believed. But I was wrong, and now here she was, sitting across from me, wondering about what disappointments life had thrown at me.
“You need to let that go, Ben, the charity angle. Seems like it’s a lo
ng way in the past for you. You’re a doctor now, well-liked and clearly happy, doing your thing.”
Her words, meant to be approving, were like a salve on a third-degree burn. I’d spent four years wishing she would think more of me, and here she was finally doing it now.
Swallowing regret for how I jumped on her, I took a moment to gather my thoughts. I’d always let Murphy’s pity go by the wayside, knowing it was the price I paid for having her as a friend.
“Yes, I am, but it wasn’t without a lot of sacrifice. I was still the scholarship kid in college. The long-snapper on the football team—you know what that means? The lowest man on the totem pole. It played well into me not having a social life, which gave me the time to make ends meet . . . otherwise.”
“What do you mean?” Her expression softened, and she didn’t look ready to unleash her Irish temper at me.
“That’s a story for another day.”
“Oh. I didn’t mean . . .” Her brow formed a tiny furrow, and she almost looked about to cry.
I didn’t know what to make of this new dance. She’d lash out at me and then soften toward me, and then I didn’t know what the fuck this was.
“I have to go,” I said, rising to my feet. “Patients are waiting. I’ll see you the next time you’re working, I guess.”
The last part came off slightly hopeful and partly resentful. Murphy was part of my past, and not one I was sure I wanted in my present.
Needing to keep this relationship contained, I resisted the urge to ask for her number. I’d come too far to let old habits bring me down, and was proud of who I was and what I’d achieved. Murphy was a former obsession, and she needed to stay that way. Nothing more.
“Okay,” Murphy said slowly as she rose to her feet as well. “I’m actually off for the next two days, so I’ll see you when I see you.”
With that, I sensed that Murphy wanted to keep us—whatever us was, or is—in the past too.
A little too late, I realized that the gnawing sensation in my gut was disappointment as I turned to leave, an empty mug in my hand and a hollowness in my chest.
4
Murphy
I woke up on Saturday morning to absolutely nothing—no traffic noise outside my windows, and no work or social obligations.
Even though I’d lived in Vermont for a few months, the difference from New York City still rattled me. The utter quiet, the slower pace, the way I could actually hear birds chirping. There were no horns blaring, no ambulances, and no shouting in the streets. It was so different from what I was used to, it was unnerving.
Wishing I had to work, I set about cleaning my tiny apartment before doing a mini facial and giving myself a manicure.
In my past life, I would have spent half the day at a spa, having another person tend to my body while someone else scrubbed and scoured my apartment. I didn’t have those luxuries anymore, but no one had to know. The pictures I posted on Instagram these days all featured me enjoying the Vermont landscape, looking as happy and beautified as I once was.
Take that, old life. I wasn’t sure who I was proving anything to, but it still felt important to keep up appearances.
As I popped a K-cup in my Keurig, I thought about stopping by the Bean, but I hadn’t just popped in since I started working there. It felt awkward to stop in for my own pleasure and have my coworkers wait on me.
I’m sure Roddy would love to see me and wouldn’t think twice about my picking up a coffee and a sweet treat. He’d probably try to hand me one of his homemade soft pretzels, telling me it would be on the house, and we’d have our usual sweet versus salty debate. Nine times out of ten, I went with sweet. It was how I was wired, or a subconscious snub at my mom, who was always lecturing me about curbing my sweet tooth.
Instead of treating myself to a real cup of joe, I suffered through a not-very-hot, semi-acceptable cup of coffee while looking for any new marketing job postings on Craigslist. To my surprise, there was a new post for a social media intern for a place called Hunnie’s Honey, Home of Vermont’s Most Golden Honey Infusions.
Although an intern position was definitely below my Ivy League credentials and age, if this Hunnie gave me a chance, I could easily pivot the opportunity into something else. Plus, it sounded official, as if Hunnie’s place had their stuff together.
And beggars can’t be choosers.
Who told me that? Oh, right, it was Ben back at Pressman.
We’d been studying biology, and I asked him why he ate in the dining hall on Sunday nights, when most of us ordered Chinese delivery and watched movies over greasy egg rolls and lo mein. Afterward, we’d usually jump in someone’s car and grab a few pints of ice cream for dessert, but Ben said it wasn’t in his budget. The dining room was included with his scholarship, and beggars couldn’t be choosers. Of course, I offered to pay for him, but he declined, saying something about the Sunday pasta night being one of his favorites.
Turning back to my internet search, I hunted around Hunnie’s site, noticing they sold at the Capital City farmers’ market, which happened to be open tomorrow. With nothing better to do, I decided to go walk around the market the next day.
Until then, I would do some self-care at home, since paying for a day spa was way out of my budget. Also, there wasn’t anywhere to go nearby, which was probably for the best.
Standing up, I walked to the corner of the room and snagged my Manduka yoga mat, a symbol of another time and place, and set it up under the window.
The next morning, in a sleeveless green blouse tucked into white jean shorts, I checked myself in the mirror.
This month was the first time I’d been able to wear my summer clothes. Even May had been chilly here in Vermont. In the city, we would have already been sweltering. I was hopeful that later this month and July and August would be warmer. Of course, an even layer of sheer zinc was smeared under my makeup to protect my skin from the sun. My mom’s voice was still a constant in my head. After pulling my red waves back into a loose ponytail, I put on a wide-brimmed sun hat and my black shades.
When I first arrived in Vermont, my first thought was you’re not in the Big Apple anymore, Toto. Shaking my head, I freed myself from old memories of Thanksgiving-break movie nights at home in our palatial mansion, a babysitter on the couch and The Wizard of Oz on the television.
As I parked my car at the farmers’ market, I sighed. Like an idiot, I’d forgotten how muddy the ground was at the market, and scowled at the flip-flops on my feet. Not wanting to waste money on gas to drive home and back on the winding roads to my quarter of a duplex off the highway, I climbed out of my car and took in the market.
Right away, I saw a corner booth with a bumble-bee-decorated flag and decided to see if it was Hunnie’s. A woman about my own age with two perfectly plaited brunette braids and a worn-in baseball hat greeted me as I approached.
“Hey there.” Her smile was extra wide, her enthusiasm infectious.
“Hi.” Clearing my throat, I said, “Love the packaging.” The amber-filled glass bottles were shaped like a wide upside-down V, their angular lines showcasing the beautiful color of the honey inside.
“Thanks. We’re lucky to have one of the country’s best glassblowers in Quechee, and he may or may not be a relative of someone we know,” the woman said as she winked at me.
“Oh, that’s so cool. I’m not from here.”
A small giggle escaped her. “I could tell.”
“Oh,” I said, hanging my head.
“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. We win everyone over . . . we love newcomers. They typically stay. I meant the white shorts were a dead giveaway. A Vermonter would never wear those to the farmers’ market. One brush against a bushel of lavender, and they’d be . . . lilac. Or a taste of farmers’ fudge, and they’d have a huge chocolate-peanut-butter streak down the front.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. Now I’ll know for next time.” The warmth of a blush spread across my fair skin, and I hoped my hat shaded my face enou
gh to hide it.
“Want a taste? The orange, ginger, and lemon combination is divine on its own. You can eat it by the spoonful. The citrus cuts the sweetness of the honey in just the right way, and it’s full of vitamin C.” She pointed to the bottles in front of her and I peered closer, noting that specks of something tangerine-colored speckled the amber honey.
“I’d love one. While stopping at the fudge stand sounds good, I actually came here to see you. I mean, I’m here to see Hunnie from Hunnie’s Honey.” I couldn’t help but let out a nervous laugh at the tongue-twister of a name as it rolled off my tongue.
“Did you now? Someone recommend us?” She handed me a wood taster spoon filled with the golden liquid.
“Um, no. I saw they’re—you’re, whoever runs Hunnie’s—is looking for a social media intern, and I was curious about the position. Do you know the owner, or who I should speak to?”
“I certainly do. It’s me. I’m Hunnie. Well, my real name’s Margaret, but I never was a Maggie or a Margo or a Margaret. My grandma nicknamed me Hunnie, and it stuck. Granted, my family’s run a honey farm for more generations than I can count, so it wasn’t all that creative.”
Inside, I wanted to shrivel up and die a very quick death—she was the owner. My age, successful, cute, peppy, and content. All the things I wasn’t but should be.
No matter how broken I felt, I kept a smile on my face. “Oh, wow. Well, nice to meet you, Hunnie. I’m Murphy, and obviously not from here, but I bring a good amount of social media experience, and I’d like to share it with you.” I couldn’t help but wonder why she needed an intern for her farm stand.
“Pardon me for saying,” Hunnie said kindly, “but I’ve been known to blurt out whatever is on my mind. Why would you want to be an intern? It doesn’t pay much. In fact, I call it an intern but it’s more a glorified helper. If you have experience, you’d do better in a full-time gig. We’re just trying to tap into social media, widen our reach, sell more online, get in touch with . . . what do you call them? Role models? No, influencers, that’s it. We’re expanding our shipping.”
Friendzoned (The Busy Bean) Page 3