Page 108 of Cherry Picking

“It doesn’t matter. This was never going to work.” I gesture around him. “Look at us. You’ve got a career and a fancy condo in another city. I’ve got a job at my father’s funeral home and a Corolla that barely runs. I was a season, Briggs. I was a nice thing that happened to you the winter your brother died. It’s going to be so easy for you to move on from this because you leave. That’s what you do. You’ve left every single person who ever tried to stand close to you, and I don’t know why I convinced myself I’d be the exception.”

Briggs stands carefully and says, “Okay.”

My shoulders slump, the fight fully draining out of me. “Okay?”

“You’re drunk, and you’ve been carrying that all day. If I argue with you now, I’m just arguing with the whiskey. So I’m going to say one thing, and then I’m going to go.

“I’ve lived in Charlotte for three years, and I don’t own a single piece of art. There is nothing on my walls. You stood in the middle of my condo last weekend, and it was the first time it truly felt like home. So you can tell me that I leave. You’d have a solid case. But don’t tell me you were a season. You are so much more than that.”

The admission lands like a hit, taking the air straight out of my lungs. I want to reach for him, to bridge the distance between the sofa and the door, but my feet are anchored to the floor.

I’m a ghost in my own apartment, watching the only thing that’s felt real in months prepare to exit.

“My suspension ends Friday. I fly back in a few days. I have to go because it’s my job. But I’m not giving up on you. I want to work this out. More than anything.”

He looks at me one last time from the doorway. I want to say his name. I want to tell him to stay, to forget the flight and the league and the thousands of miles between us, but the words are lodged behind a wall of whiskey and pride.

“Drink the water,” he says. “Sleep well. If you want to talk before I leave again, I’ll be around. If not, I’ll still be thinking of you.”

Then he pulls the door shut behind him. I listen to the sound of him descending every single one of those stairs before I finally break down in tears.

CHAPTER 31

BRIGGS

Igave my father five days of company. We went out to visit the cemetery on Monday, and he slowly made it across the grass on the cane, waving me off twice when I got too close.

We stopped to see Mom first and then moved the ten feet over to Zig’s plot. My dad talked to both of them out loud for over an hour. After that, he ate an entire short stack at a Denny’s while I picked at a plate of eggs.

He spent most of our time together giving me endless grief for blowing things with her, insisting she take a paid week off so I’d be forced to step up and handle his care myself.

I didn’t bother trying to defend myself. Instead, I spent those next few days trapped in a quiet, suffocating agony, wondering how Evie was passing the time and praying she hadn’t completely written me off.

On Tuesday, I sent her a bouquet of flowers, but they went entirely unacknowledged. By Wednesday night, I was on a flight back to Charlotte, bringing the long distance between us right back into play.

Now Thursday morning, I badge into the practice facility bright and early. Awake since 4:00 a.m., I figured being the very first body through the door was far better than making an entrance to a room full of guys and watching the chatter instantly die.

Kyo, however, is already in his stall, lacing up his skates—still convinced that showing up ninety minutes early proves something to a building that couldn’t care less. When he glances up, he offers me a subtle wince.

“Morning,” I say just to put him out of his misery.

“Morning, Maxie.” He immediately fumbles with a roll of tape he doesn’t actually need. “Glad you’re back.”

There’s a sheet of printer paper taped to the wood of my stall. Someone has sketched a crude stick figure flying headfirst into a wall. Underneath, in a completely different set of chicken scratch, it says WELCOME BACK ASSHOLE.

I laugh, a sudden sound that surprises me even more than it does Kyo.

I should’ve assumed this was how it would go. There’s no world where anyone here is going to have a serious discussion about the last couple of weeks, but there’s also no world where they’ll let it pass without a proper lashing.

I pull the paper down and tuck it into my bag.

The room slowly fills as the hour bleeds away. Duval comes in with his headphones slung around his neck and stops directly in front of me, hands planted on his hips.

“You are back.”

“I’m back.”

“Good.” He gives a sharp nod. “That was a shit hit.”