Page 103 of Cherry Picking

“You’re upset. Call me Monday.”

“I’m not upset, and I’m not calling you Monday.” My nostrils flare. “Send everything to my email. I’ll have somebody get in touch about the paperwork.”

“You cannot fire your agent in February of a contract year.”

“Watch me.”

I sever the connection mid-sentence, a first in my professional life. I spend several minutes idling in a fast-food lot in my hometown, the weight of the realization sinking in that I’ve managed to make a messy situation entirely worse.

Burying the frustration, I call my father.

He answers before the first ring finishes. Despite nearly a week of radio silence, he still picks up instantly.

“Where are you?” he asks, his voice gravelly.

“Eastern and Sunset.”

“That’s ten minutes away.”

“I’m well aware of the geography, Dad.”

A five-second stretch of static follows. Then, “Come over,” he commands, and the line goes dead.

When I pull up to the curb, he’s already holding the door open. He’s dressed in a golf shirt that’s survived since my junior hockey days, one hand anchored to the frame and the other clutching his cane. He doesn’t bother with a greeting or an invitation.

“You want a Coke?”

“Sure.”

He pivots and retreats inside, leaving the door ajar—the only welcome I’m likely to receive. I follow him through an entryway that’s been meticulously cleared of clutter.

The kitchen is more pristine than it’s been in a decade. A whiteboard is suctioned to the fridge, detailing medication intervals in Evie’s sharp hand. Tucked beneath the schedule is a note: Wednesday—Danny, 2pm, DON’T ARGUE.

My father retrieves two cans, sliding mine across the granite instead of handing it over. He lowers himself into his chair with a grimace and watches me until I sink into the seat opposite him.

“Say it, then.”

So I give him the truth.

I begin exactly where Ophelia did—that spring, three years ago. I talk about the house, the isolation of the offseason, and the wine that slowly transitioned from a social habit to a private necessity. I tell him about the morning she finally got pulled over.

My father is a statue until I reach the part where she walked into a church on Windmill and found my brother already occupying a seat.

Then his hand lifts off the table, trembling slightly.

“No,” he rasps. “How long had he been attending?”

“Five months by that point.”

He stares out the window above the sink, his jaw working but no words coming. I keep the momentum going; if I stop now, the wall will go back up. I deliver every ugly detail, from the things I’ve known for years to the blanks Ophelia filled in this morning.

A long, heavy silence follows. He taps the unopened can against the wood. “Renata? You said that was the sponsor’s name?”

“Yeah. Sixty-two, used to run a title company. I looked her up.”

“Was she at the service?”

I struggled to even breathe that day. “I’m not sure.”