Page 45 of Cherry Picking

I saw the fight. I watched it from Murphy’s couch, watched him drop a man and get hauled off with the ref’s arm raised. Then I watched Murphy go so quiet it scared me worse than the hit had.

We haven’t breathed a word of it to each other. He texted me the next morning like it never happened, and I let him, because I didn’t know how to ask.

“That’s a belt, probably,” he says. “Or the alternator is finally quitting. Don’t drive it more than you have to. I’ll call the shop tomorrow—”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Evie.”

“You already paid for it once.” It comes out sharp, sharper than I meant. I soften the blow. “I’ll take it in. I have money now. Some man overpays me to watch hockey and argue about produce with his father.”

Something shifts in his expression. His eyes catch mine catching his hand, and he tries to move it out of the frame. I don’t let him.

“Speaking of bad,” I say. “That looks it.”

“It’s fine.”

“You dropped a man on national television. I saw it. I’ve been waiting for you to bring it up, and you sent me a picture of Augie eating a sock instead.”

“He found a bruise and pressed it. I retaliated.”

“So what did the guy say to you?”

I’ve watched enough of his games now. I know what he looks like when he plays angry and when he plays clean. That was something else entirely.

“He said Ziggy and I weren’t speaking. When he died.” The words come out flat, sanded down to the bone. “I don’t know how he knew. It’s true, though. Pissed me off that he said it out loud. So I hit him until it wasn’t the only thing in my head anymore.”

I don’t offer an apology. I’ve learned that much—sorry is a door he closes. And I don’t tell him it wasn’t his fault, because I don’t know that, and he’d hear the lie.

“Did it work?” I ask.

It surprises a laugh out of him, small and broken. “For about ninety seconds.”

“You can do better than that.”

“Yeah.” He drags a hand down his face. “You’re not going to ask me why?”

“Why what?”

“Why Zig and I weren’t on speaking terms when he passed.”

I shift in the seat, the car ticking as it cools. “Do you want me to ask you?”

He looks at me through the screen for a long moment. It’s different than a text, worse and better both. There are no typing dots to hide behind, but now I can’t stop memorizing the shape of his mouth as he speaks.

“I’m coming home for Christmas,” he says. “Maybe we can talk about it then. In person.”

My stomach flutters. “Your dad will be so happy.”

“I’ll be in Vegas the twenty-fourth through the twenty-sixth. League break. You’ll be around?”

I could take the holiday off, especially if he’s there. I should take it.

“I’ll stop by the house on Christmas Eve. I can bring a pie.”

He frowns. “I’m still holding a grudge about the bourbon pecan, by the way.”

“Oh, don’t worry. My pie is leagues better than that.”