Page 38 of Cherry Picking

“Have you thought about putting a notice in the foyer?”

“I thought about asking you to apprentice for me.” He drops the tag. “But I already know the response.”

I stop labeling. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you work mornings here and afternoons at the Maxwell place, and you’ll never quit either of them.”

“One’s a temporary gig that pays an absurd amount of money. The other is the family trade.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “You used to draw. You’d sit in the break room on your lunch and fill a sketchbook. You don’t do that anymore. You just eat at your desk and stare at the wall.”

My nose wrinkles. “Is there a problem with that?”

“Just a professional observation.”

I did use to draw more. I’d fill the margins between services—faces, mostly. The families in the waiting room when they thought nobody was looking. There was a widower who came in every day for a week to change the flowers on his wife’s display. I drew him enough times that I could do his hands from memory.

Somewhere in my apartment, there’s a portfolio I haven’t opened in years, and every month, the student loan payment clears to remind me exactly what it cost to fill it.

The Maxwell money is supposed to fix that. Three thousand a week, chipping away at the balance faster than I’ve managed in two years. But I’m busier than I’ve ever been, and paying off a debt doesn’t leave much room for anything else.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell him. “Maybe I have time for all three.”

“You don’t.” Tomás heads back to his side of the room.

“The Maxwell gig only lasts until spring!” I call after him, mostly just to have the final word.

Then my phone buzzes, and my stomach does a ridiculous little flip when I see BRIGGS on the screen. We’ve been texting daily, but he’s never actually called.

I step out the side door into the parking lot, smoothing my hair as if he could see me. “Hey.”

“Hey.” There’s road noise behind him, the sounds of a car. I can tell he has me on speaker. “Quick question. The pharmacy—do they deliver my dad’s script, or does someone have to go get it? I got a notification saying it’s ready and couldn’t tell if it was handled.”

“It’s handled. I pick it up on Thursdays.” I lean against the cinder block. “Why? Checking up on me?”

“Checking up on the meds.” A turn signal clicks in the background. “Okay. Good. That’s all I needed.”

“Yeah?”

“Figured I’d call since I was already driving. Hope that’s alright.” Then, warmer and quicker, “Thanks, Evie. Talk later.”

The connection cuts.

I stand in the lot holding the phone for thirty seconds. The call was about his father’s medication. A perfectly rational thing to want to know. Which leaves no reasonable explanation for the flat, sinking sensation currently settling behind my ribs.

I genuinely don’t know what else I was expecting.

CHAPTER 11

BRIGGS

Ispent Thanksgiving in Charlotte, eating turkey off a caterer’s tray at Hartwell’s with the rest of the guys who didn’t fly home.

I called my dad. Evie was at her family’s thing by then, but we texted through the afternoon. She gave me live coverage of her woo-woo aunt who insisted they light incense, and I sent back the play-by-play of Augie attempting to deep-fry a turkey in Hartwell’s driveway.

Nobody died. The bird got burnt to hell, though.

Everything was fine, for what it’s worth. I’ve logged enough miles in this league that the holidays are mostly just another day on the calendar, and this year, that meant a phone that vibrated more than I’m used to. A minor performance of normalcy.