Page 105 of Cherry Picking

“You didn’t consider it at all,” he says plainly. “That girl walked through my door every day holding that secret entirely alone. It wasn’t hers to tell, and she knew it. She kept showing up regardless, which shows more spine than either of my boys has offered me in a long time.”

He traces the edge of the table. “Does she know you’re here?”

“No,” I mutter, “I haven’t reached out yet.”

He tsks. “So you’ve seen Ophelia, and your brother, and now me.” He marks them off against the wood. “When did the plane land?”

“Six a.m.”

“Twelve hours.” He lets it settle. “I asked for one thing when we spoke last Sunday. So what the hell are you doing sitting in my kitchen?”

I’m here because I’m not good at taking the difficult path, and I wanted to face my demons before I went to her. I’m worried she won’t see me or that I’ve run out of chances. I’m terrified that staying away is better for her than trying.

It’s the performative machine, malfunctioning again.

“The excuses I’ve made for myself aren’t good enough.”

“No, I’m sure they’re not.” He leans over and retrieves his cane. “Go on, then. Go get her before the clock runs out.”

CHAPTER 30

EVIE

The Uber pulls to the curb well past one in the morning, and I lean back through the open door to press a loud, whiskey-soaked kiss to both of Hazel’s cheeks.

“Get out of my car,” she says, her voice bright and delighted.

“Technically, it’s not your car.”

“Get out of this man’s car, then.” She reaches for my sleeve, pulling me back into the Uber long enough to bop me on the nose. “Text me the second you’re inside, or I’m calling the morgue to see if you’ve been murdered.”

“I’ll be murdered,” I agree solemnly.

“Evie Renee Sutton!”

“I’ll text you.”

I stand on the sidewalk, waving until the taillights disappear around the loop. It was a genuinely excellent night—three hours of dancing, a round of free shots, and a total, blissful absence of any thoughts related to hockey players.

Then I turn toward my building and spot a black SUV sitting in the guest space next to my usual spot. The good mood drains out of me instantly.

I recognize that rental class. It’s the same one he always picks, parked right where my missing Corolla should be. He’s not in the driver’s seat. I check anyway, walking the length of the vehicle and peering through the tint like a complete fool.

Then I step back, tipping my head toward the second-floor walkway.

“Maxwell!”

Across the courtyard, a neighbor’s dog starts barking loudly.

He’s standing on the landing outside my door. When he moves to the railing, I can tell he’s been there for hours by the way he shakes out his numb legs.

“Get lost,” I call up.

“Hi, Evie.”

“Nope.” I start up the stairs. They feel much steeper than they did this morning, and I have to catch the rail on the fourth step to stop from stumbling. Though I’d like it on the record that the stairs are poorly leveled. “Go home. Go back to Charlotte. Go find another door to knock on that isn’t mine.”

When I reach the top of the landing, his eyes sweep over me—from the green dress down to the three-inch heels—and something small and stubborn twitches at the corner of his mouth.