Page 46 of Cherry Picking

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Is it now?”

“Absolutely.”

“Get the car looked at, Evie. And no driving up any hills in the meantime.”

“Yes, sir.”

He chuckles low before the connection cuts.

I sit in the idling car in the empty lot with my face flaming hot. I think I’ve been safe this whole time because he’s been two time zones away. It’s easy to talk to him over a screen. Easy to taunt him and hide when one of us says something that lands too close to the bone.

But he’s going to be in the same room as me now.

What if it’s unbearably awkward?

Worse, what if it isn’t?

CHAPTER 13

BRIGGS

We took down Boston 4–2 on the twenty-third. It was a solid win, and a vital one, nudging us into fifth place for a glorious six-hour window before Tampa secured a shootout victory and Montréal won in regulation, shoving us back to seventh.

The two points are in the bank, but the reality is sinking in. From now until April, every game is a knife fight for a single point, the standings being redrawn every night while we sleep.

Five days ago, we dropped a 3–1 game to Colorado at home. It stung more than a regular loss because Ted was in the building. He flew in specifically to watch me, and I turned in sixty minutes of absolutely nothing—zero goals and a careless turnover in the second.

Now, I’m headed back to the valley for Christmas. Three days of peace before I have to dive back into the grind. My flight touches down just after ten.

I pick up a rental SUV and drive toward Henderson on the 215. The neon of the Strip shrinks in the side mirror until it’s just the low sprawl and the heavy dark of the desert past the streetlights.

Passing the corner where the Circle K used to sit, a memory hits me out of nowhere. That was the spot where Ziggy and I spent our summers, digging coins out of the couch cushions until we had enough for two cherry slushies.

It’s a vape shop now. Everything out here eventually becomes a fucking vape shop.

Ten minutes later, I pull up to my dad’s place. I stop on the walkway because there’s a wreath on the door—real pine with a crooked red ribbon. It’s the first bit of holiday spirit this house has seen in years.

My dad has never hung a wreath in his life. My mother was the one who did the decorating, and after she passed, it was mostly empty. Some years, Ziggy would drag the plastic tree out of the garage; some years, he’d forget, and nobody had the heart to remind him.

The front door is unlocked. “Dad?”

“In here.”

I find him in the front room, and he isn’t in the chair. He’s standing.

He has both hands fisted on the four-wheeled walker, but he’s up on his own two feet, bearing his own weight. When I left last month, he couldn’t manage that without a shoulder to lean on. He’s looking at me now like he’s been waiting to get caught being strong.

“Well, look at you,” I say, my voice a little thick.

“Don’t be weird.” He’s pleased, though; I can see the lift in his cheek. “Get inside. You’re letting the heat out.”

I cross the room and put a hand on his shoulder. He actually lets it stay there.

The house feels different, settled in a way I didn’t expect. There’s a nonslip rubber mat where the tile meets the carpet, and the coffee table has been shoved two feet toward the window to clear a path. A calendar hangs by the fridge in handwriting I don’t recognize—appointments and grocery runs, with PT circled in bright purple ink.

The whole place has been recalibrated around him.

“Sit,” he says, lowering himself back into the recliner. “You hungry? There’s a plate in the fridge for you.” He gestures toward the kitchen. “Evie left it.”