Page 122 of Cherry Picking

Briggs looks at me but doesn’t say anything, a corner of his mouth raised. I have to hide behind my water glass to escape the heat of it.

When the food arrives, Murphy eats about a third of his steak, relitigating the game shift by shift. “Second period, when that defenseman ran you into the boards behind the net.”

“I remember,” Briggs says.

“That was interference, and they didn’t call it.”

“It wasn’t interference, Dad.”

“It was a stick foul, then, and if I’d been closer to the stripes, I’d have filed a formal complaint.”

By the time the plates go, Murphy’s beginning to fray. It happens fast with him—he’s fine, and then he’s gray around the mouth, his speech starting to slow down.

Briggs sees the shift before I do. “I’ll get the check,” he says. “Then I’m getting you both situated back at the hotel. Where are you staying?”

“The Ivey,” Murphy replies. “She’s got her own room. You’re staying with me.”

Briggs stops. “Pardon?”

“I’ve got an accessible suite with a couch because I have your black card.” He lifts his wine, looking entirely too pleased. “You can take the sofa. Watch me breathe. Ensure I don’t find the floor in the night.”

“Okay, that’s—”

“He’s baiting you,” I point out.

“I am.” Murphy sets his glass down. “You don’t need to hover over me all the time. In fact, I think Evie should go back to your place and leave me alone.”

I scoff.

Briggs sinks back in the chair and rubs a palm over his mouth. “You had a major medical event thirteen months ago. Excuse me for being cautious on occasion.”

Murphy grunts. “I flew across the country. I got myself up when you set up that goal, and nobody helped me. I was on my feet for all of it. Now I’d like to go to my fancy hotel and order room service in the morning because I’m not the one paying.”

“There’s an emergency cord in the bathroom,” I offer. “I checked the layout when we dropped the bags.”

Murphy grins. “Thank you.”

“I’m not on your side,” I say. “I’m just providing data points.”

“That’s exactly what an ally does.”

Briggs looks between us, hopeful and trying not to look it. “Do you want to come over tonight, Evie?”

I flew two thousand miles and hauled his father through an airport. Saying no now would be a waste of a very expensive gesture.

“Yeah,” I say. “I think we’re overdue for it.”

Murphy reaches over and pats his son’s forearm twice. “Take her home, would you. You’ve been miserable about it long enough.”

When we reach the Ivey, the doorman clocks the cane and comes out from behind the desk to walk Murphy to the elevator. Murphy lets him, which tells me exactly how far past his limit he is.

Briggs and I stand in the lobby watching the doors long after they’ve closed on him. The drive to his place is quiet. Neither of us reaches for the radio.

Inside, he flicks on a single lamp and stands there with his hands buried in his pockets. “Do you want—”

“I said some shitty things to you back in Vegas,” I cut in. “I was angry with you, but I know I went too far.”

He shakes his head, cupping a hand around his jaw. “Evie, you don’t have to—”