Page 10 of Cherry Picking

The back of my nose stings. “Me too.”

She shifts her weight into the silence. “Car accidents are the leading cause of accidental death in the US for people under forty-five. About a hundred and fifteen a day.”

The statistic chips away at me. I carry enough resentment for my brother to fill the valley, and we haven’t exchanged a single word in two years. She isn’t wrong—it’s just one of the many ways a life ends, and in her trade, it’s likely a daily occurrence. But the clinical delivery still stings.

“Sorry,” I say roughly, “is my brother’s death just a piece of unremarkable trivia to you?”

She blinks, her jaw tightening as she processes the hit. “No. I’m not sure why I shared that,” she says, rubbing the back of her neck. “Fun fact, I suppose.”

I gnaw on my lip, the restlessness jittering under my skin. “That’s not a fun fact.”

“No, I understand.” She lets the silence settle between us for a beat. “It’s entirely fucked-up.”

“We weren’t even on speaking terms, you know? There was nothing but silence between us when he died. That’s the part that’s actually fucked-up.”

She exhales a long, heavy breath through her nose. “Shit happens.”

A short, humorless laugh gets away from me. “Yeah. Shit happens, and then you die, and someone talks about it like it’s just more weather.”

She gives me that tight smile again and taps her clipboard. “The paperwork is finished. Contact the office if you have any questions. Good luck, Mr. Maxwell.”

“Briggs,” I say, correcting her.

She pauses mid-turn, her sharp eyes searching mine. Then, “Good luck, Briggs.”

CHAPTER 4

EVIE

Hazel and I have an ongoing list of a dozen bars in this neighborhood we’re supposed to explore. Yet, like a pair of creatures of habit, we find ourselves back at the Cherry Bomb every single week.

The place is a low-lit dive where a flickering neon cherry buzzes in the front glass, missing enough letters that it usually just reads err omb to the street. It’s got an ancient jukebox filled with every song we actually like, and a bartender named Cora who starts prepping our drinks the moment we clear the threshold.

We stumbled into this spot last year after a gallery opening nearby that turned out to be a complete disaster. It wasn’t much of a gallery—just a guy named Derek trying to sell charcoal sketches of his own jawline in a rented storefront—but the detour led us here.

Hazel insists it was destiny. I’m fairly certain it was just a poorly lit street corner and a shared need for a drink. Either way, it’s where we live now.

“Okay, but I need you to understand.” Hazel shakes her head, a dark brown curl escaping from its bobby pin. “That this prenup was written by someone who doesn’t understand love and also possibly hates women.”

I groan. “You’ve been talking about this prenup for forty minutes.”

“Because it’s a crime, Evie, and I’m the detective.”

This is Hazel Monroe: divorce lawyer, enthusiast of basically everything, and my best friend since we were thirteen years old. We were assigned seats next to each other in homeroom. On the first day, she leaned over to tell me she liked my sweater, the one with the little embroidered daisies on the collar.

I told her it once belonged to my mom. Vintage, from the eighties.

She smiled so earnestly and said, “That’s really cool.”

That was it. We’ve been inseparable ever since. We went to the same high school—go Coyotes!—then attended UNLV, where I studied fine arts, and she charged headfirst into pre-law. Same dorm, then same apartment. The whole way through.

She became a divorce lawyer because, in her own words, she believes wholeheartedly in the power of true love. I’ve heard her explain the logic many, many times, and I still couldn’t tell you how it tracks.

Tonight, she’s wearing a burnt-orange top and earrings that dangle to her shoulders. She has very strong opinions about lots of things, and she happens to be my favorite person on God’s green earth.

Hazel doesn’t miss a beat as Cora slides two drinks across the bar—a vodka soda for Hazel, a whiskey ginger for me.

“What I’m saying,” Hazel continues, undeterred, “is that if you write a prenup that detailed, you’re already grieving the relationship. I mean, specifying who gets the air fryer in the event of infidelity. Overkill.”