Page 17 of Cherry Picking

CHAPTER 6

EVIE

Briggs’s dad lives in one of those low tan houses, the kind that look extruded from a single machine sometime in the nineties. There’s a two-car garage, a full yard of decorative gravel, and one defeated palm tree.

A wheelchair ramp runs over the front steps. It’s made of plywood, with visible screws and a two-by-four railing I wouldn’t put much weight on. Somebody must’ve built it in a hurry, and I’d put my money on the little brother.

When my car rattles into the drive, Briggs is standing in the open doorway in a black T-shirt and sweatpants. He hardly slept again, judging by the dark circles under his eyes. But even wrung out and grieving, he’s aggressively, inconveniently handsome.

Heavy brows, a strong nose, that ridiculous dark mustache. I can tell he’d be trouble in a bar fight and gentle with a dog. I resent both halves equally.

Once I’m out of the car, he stares right past me with his lips pursed.

“What?” I ask, already irritated.

“Nothing.”

I rear back. “You’re making a face.”

“I’m not trying to.” The Corolla ticks as it cools, which it does now, apparently. A new feature. “Have you had that thing serviced in the last year?”

I pop a piece of gum in my mouth. “Have you minded your business in the last year?”

“That’s a no, then.”

I wave him off. “It runs.”

“It sounds like it’s chewing something.”

I chew, obnoxiously. “That’s the muffler.”

He scrunches his face at me, and I ignore it, coming up the walk. He doesn’t move out of the doorway, so I stop a polite arm’s length away and look up—which I hate, because I’m not short, and he’s making me feel it.

“Are we doing the job or a roast of my vehicle?”

“Both, ideally.”

He pushes the door open for us, and a draft from the air conditioner rolls out.

Inside, the living room is half-lit, the blinds pulled tight against the glare. There’s a recliner positioned at an angle that offers a view of both the TV and the street, a walker parked within arm’s reach, and a side table cluttered with a lifetime’s worth of small treasures.

To the left, a narrow hallway serves as a gallery for family photos. Or, more accurately, of the Maxwell boys. I find their history in a sequence of frames: school portraits, the years defined by missing teeth, two dark-haired kids growing taller with every turn of the calendar.

There’s a young hockey player swimming in pads three sizes too large and a leaner one clutching a guitar like it’s a shield. High school graduations. A faded shot from a fishing trip, one of them hoisting a trout.

I linger in front of the display longer than a stranger should.

“That’s quite the collection,” I say.

“My dad believes if you don’t frame it, it didn’t happen.” Briggs’s voice drops into a careful, low register. “Just don’t ask him any questions. He’ll have you here for three hours explaining the story behind each one.”

“I’ve got time.”

I take one more look at the wall and finally spot the omission. It’s like that phantom sensation when your tongue keeps searching for a missing tooth—the gap is shaped exactly like the thing that’s gone.

There’s no woman in any of the shots. No fourth chair at the table. Just two boys and their father, making a life out of the remnants.

“He’s in the kitchen,” Briggs says, guiding me away from the wall. “Fair warning: he’s currently in a mood.”