Page 128 of Cherry Picking

“Give me a minute, I’ll get there.”

I disentangle myself from him, and he mimics the motion, shifting onto his side. Finally, he reaches out to kill the lamp, then hauls me back against his chest, his arm anchoring me in place across my middle.

I lie in the hush of the room, his breath a slow stream against my neck, and begin tracing an idle line on his forearm with my fingernail. Nothing recognizable at first. Then the ghost of an outline, over and over, the same path until the shape finally settles.

“What are you doing?” he mumbles, his voice wrecked with sleep. “Practicing some undead ritual?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s something.”

“Go to sleep.”

He obliges about ninety seconds later. I stay awake, continuing to etch that same curve into his skin while staring at the vast, empty real estate of his walls. I’ve got a few ideas, I think, of exactly how I’m going to fill them.

CHAPTER 36

BRIGGS

The June sun is blazing hot, and my new rental has a kitchen window that faces directly into the glare. It’s a four-bedroom I don’t technically need, but it’s the first place I’ve signed for without checking a travel schedule first.

I timed the drive to Evie’s twice—once at rush hour and once on a lazy Sunday. Nine minutes flat. It’s nearly the same distance to my father’s place, smack-dab in the center.

I’d asked her to move in here, of course, but Evie’s stubborn. She insisted on keeping her apartment for at least another year, claiming she needs a smaller space while I’m gone during the season.

But her spare key does sit in the bowl by my door. Her sketchbook lives at the end of my dining table, too, and there’s a coffee mug in my cabinet that she rotated out of her own kitchen three weeks ago.

At 5:40 a.m., my phone vibrates against the nightstand, Evie’s name flashing on the screen. I answer before I’m fully awake.

“Baby?”

“Briggs,” she says. “You up?”

“I am now. What’s wrong?”

“Phil’s having a back problem again, and Tomás is in Reno for a family thing.” I hear her car door thud shut. “We’ve got a nine o’clock at Palm, and the hole isn’t open yet. My dad wants some help.”

I’m already halfway into my pants. “Where am I going?”

She hesitates, the line going quiet for a beat. “Actually, you don’t have to do this.”

“I want to.”

“Okay.” She breathes out a sigh. “Maintenance gate on the east side. Wear something you don’t mind ruining.”

When I arrive at Palm Cemetery, Ray Sutton is leaning against the tailgate of a removal van. He’s wearing faded work pants and a shirt that’s seen better decades, watching me cross the gravel toward him.

“Ray,” I say. “Good morning.”

“Hey, Briggs.” He reaches into the back and tosses me a pair of heavy work gloves. “These are going to be small on you.”

“I’ll make them work.”

That’s the extent of our conversation. He turns and starts hauling boards off the truck bed, and I step in to take the weight of the next one without being asked.

Evie appears around the side of the van, hair scraped back into a ginger knot. She’s wearing steel-toed boots and black from head to toe. I’m in sweatpants, a bright red Kings charity shirt from two seasons ago, and gloves that barely clear my knuckles.

“You look ridiculous,” she says.