Page 20 of Cherry Picking

“It’s not a gift for you. It’s for him. Consider it a work expense—I’d do the same for a company truck.” He gives me a stiff, professional nod. “Take the money, or the deal’s off.”

I should say no. There’s a version of me—the one with the pride and the stack of unpaid bills—that refuses on principle. I’ve spent my life taking care of my own mess.

But the car is indeed dying. And it isn’t for me; it’s for Murphy. And four hundred dollars I don’t have is exactly four hundred dollars I don’t have. Pride is a luxury I can’t afford this season.

“Fine,” I say.

He blinks, looking like he had a second argument ready to go.

“Don’t look so shocked. I’m stubborn, not stupid.” I slide into the seat and roll the window down, looking up at him. “Your dad’s hot, by the way.”

Briggs’s entire expression shifts. “What?”

“For a man his age. In recovery. I’m just saying, you’re going to age well—it’s the brows.” I start the engine. It coughs and groans, then finally turns over. “Consider it a compliment to the bloodline.”

“If you sleep with my father,” Briggs says, his voice lethally calm, “this employment contract is officially void.”

“So sensitive. You can sleep with my dad, if you want. He could use the excitement.”

I put the Corolla in reverse, grinning at the dashboard, and leave him standing in the desert heat with his mouth hanging open. It’s the best look I’ve gotten off him so far.

CHAPTER 7

BRIGGS

The Harry Reid Airport refuses to let me forget where I am, even for a second.

Slot machines are chirping at eight in the morning. A bachelorette party in matching pink sashes is clustered around a gate four down, one of them already crying into a plastic cup.

I make it through security on autopilot, the professional version of me taking the wheel while the rest of me stays stuck in the dirt at the cemetery. I find a seat at the gate with my back to the wall and pull out my phone, seeking a distraction from the noise in my head.

Forty-one unread messages. The team chat has been going since six—something about Augie losing a bet and having to wear a kid’s My Little Pony backpack to morning skate. There’s a photo of him looking martyred and ridiculous. I send back a thumbs-up.

From Ted, there are three missed calls and a wall of green bubbles, all variations on call me when you land and we should talk about the optics. The man never stops, always three moves ahead, selling the version of me that earns a commission. How thoughtful.

I open the browser instead of replying, searching my own name and picking at it like a scab.

Maxwell expected back in Charlotte lineup Thursday following family tragedy.

My brother, reduced to a subordinate clause in a sports update. The comments are exactly what you’d expect—prayers up, hope he can still produce down the stretch, somebody arguing about my plus-minus under a photo of me at the funeral I didn’t know anyone took.

It’s a curated performance of grief for an audience I never asked for.

I close it, the screen going dark. Put my headphones in, put on my flying playlist—something loud enough to replace thinking.

Boarding starts. I find my window seat in first class and fold six feet and three inches of myself into the space they give you for it. The flight attendant offers me a drink before takeoff, her polite mask firmly in place.

“Jack and Coke, please.”

“Of course.”

There’s a flicker—the half second where her face does the thing, that ghost of recognition—but she lets it go without asking for a piece of me. I’m grateful for the mercy.

I get maybe four minutes of peace out of it.

“Oh my God.” A woman’s voice, two rows up, half turned in her seat. Mid-twenties, wearing an Aces hat. “You’re Briggs Maxwell. You are, right? My boyfriend’s going to lose his mind—he’s a huge fan. We went to the game last month, the one against Colorado—”

“That’s me.” The smile deploys due to years of muscle memory.