Page 47 of Cherry Picking

Her name does a small, warm lap around my ribs. “Okay. Let me just settle in for a minute.”

“How’s the game? You looked slow against Colorado.”

I groan. “I wasn’t slow.”

“You were gripping the stick. You do that when you’re in your own head. Ziggy used to—”

He stops, his jaw working as he looks at the television. It’s off, a black mirror showing us both back to ourselves. We let the silence take the name for a beat.

“He used to say that,” my dad finishes, his voice dropping an octave. “That he could read your mood from the couch just by how you held your stick.” He turns his coffee mug on the armrest. “First Christmas I can recall where he isn’t in that spot.”

He tips his head toward the empty end of the sofa.

I swallow hard. “Yeah. I know.” I nod toward the front door. “Is Evie the one I have to thank for the decor out there?”

“That’d be her,” he says, brightening instantly. “She’s stopping by tomorrow evening. Have to make sure there’s something in this house worth feeding her.”

“You don’t have to feed her. She’s just checking in.”

“I like her, Briggs. We’re going to be as hospitable as possible.” He says it flatly, no room for argument. “Try not to put your foot in your ass while she’s here.”

“It’s foot in your mouth, Dad.”

“Whatever.” He’s watching me now, his gaze steady. “She’s a good one. Keep that in your head.”

“I’m always professional when we talk.”

“Uh-huh.” He picks up the remote, done with the conversation, retreating back into his casual mask. “Go eat. You look like hell, and she’s coming by tomorrow. I’d like at least one of us to have his act together.”

In the kitchen, I find the plate in the fridge, foil-covered, with a sticky note on top in that same purple ink.

Murphy—eat the vegetables too, not just the good part. I’ll know. Second plate’s for Briggs if he’s hungry. —E

I scarf the whole thing down in five minutes.

Evie shows up at six the next night.

I hear her vehicle before she even makes it to the door—that persistent, grinding screech beneath the hood she swore she’d have a mechanic look at. It groans up the street and finally cuts out in the driveway.

She steps out wrapped in her mint-green coat, clutching a pie carrier in one hand and a canvas tote over her shoulder, her copper hair half pinned in place. She’s lecturing the car. Actually scolding it. She even points a finger for emphasis.

I linger at the window, watching her wage war with a battered Corolla. I don’t pull the door open immediately, because I want those extra ten seconds of observing her when she doesn’t know I’m looking. When I finally clear my throat, she’s still mid-tirade.

“So you never took that thing in for a tune-up.”

She cuts me a sharp look. “Merry Christmas to you, too, Briggs.”

We haven’t occupied the same physical space since the cemetery. Six weeks of texting, one FaceTime session I’ve replayed in my head more than I’d ever admit. On a screen, she’s a distraction I talk to. In my father’s driveway, under the glow of the porch light, she’s the only thing that feels real.

She’s taller than I recall, her features sharper, sporting dark eyeliner and a collection of silver along both ears. She looks exhausted and electric all at once, and I can’t find the will to look away.

“I did take her in, for your information.” She brushes past me into the warmth of the house, close enough that I catch a hit of winter air and warm cinnamon. “The mechanic blamed the alternator. Then he quoted a number, and I decided the alternator was a character flaw the car could work through on its own.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“She got me here. That was the goal. We’ll renegotiate the terms on the drive home.” She drops the tote on the rug. “Besides, it’s Christmas. Your father isn’t going anywhere with me for a while.”

“Is that her?” Murphy shouts from the living room.