Page 80 of Cherry Picking

My father, however, has never been a man for the minimum.

“You want a hand?”

“I want your hands. Mine are shot today.” He steps back, surrendering the space at the table. “He’s got a beard. It requires attention, and I’ll only butcher the line.”

I gown up, snap on the gloves, and lower the shield over my face. My father retreats to let me in, and I begin the slow work on the beard.

There isn’t a service on the books for this one. No grieving family is expected to arrive, and there isn’t a reference photo clipped to the cabinet. There is no daughter who will pause in the entryway to press a palm to her mouth. It is just the three of us.

“Do you ever think about how nobody else is going to witness this?” I ask.

“Every single time.”

“And?”

“And it doesn’t move a single number.” He hands me a fresh towel. “It’s a foolish thing for a man in this industry to admit. I’m well aware.”

“It isn’t foolish at all.”

“It certainly isn’t a sound business decision.” He watches my hands work, the same way he’s been doing since I was sixteen. “I’ve had four different accountants tell me to quit taking these. Every one of them was right.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Because someone in this valley has to do it properly.” He offers a small shrug. “Might as well be me.”

I work the trim along the jaw, tracing the line the man must have maintained himself, because you can always tell. He was keeping it up. Regardless of whatever else was falling apart in that room off Fremont, he was still shaving every morning.

The process takes roughly forty minutes. My dad rolls the cart closer, and we manage the rest of the tasks together—him handling the weight, me managing the details.

“So,” he says eventually. “You’re headed to Charlotte.”

I nearly drop the towel in surprise. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Murphy Maxwell called me yesterday afternoon to see if I could spare you for a handful of days.”

“He did what?”

“Called me. Man-to-man.” Dad’s mouth twitches with the effort of not smiling. “He wants you to witness his son score a goal in person, apparently.”

“That is massive overkill.”

“He’s excited for the boy. Let him have his moment.” He straightens up, working a knot out of his lower back. “Which weekend are we talking?”

“The eighth. Friday through Monday.”

“Take the time.”

“You’ll be short.”

“I’ve been short-handed since 2019, honey. It hasn’t managed to stop me yet.” He peels off the gloves and tosses them into the bin. “Bring me back a picture of the ocean.”

“Charlotte is four hours from the coast, Dad.”

“Bring me a postcard, then. Just go.”

I look at the guest on the table, his beard finally tidy, and think about that sister in Bakersfield who never answered. There is a version of reality where you look up one day and everyone you meant to reach is already gone.

I don’t want that to be my life. And although none of this makes any rational sense, I’m doing it anyway. I’m about to fly out for a weekend I can’t afford just to watch a man I’m not even dating play a sport I barely comprehend.