Page 114 of Cherry Picking

“Hell of a way to earn a check. Sitting in a chair waiting for a man on the television to tell you where you’re gonna live.”

I have no rebuttal, so I go douse a basil plant that’s already bordering on a swamp.

The deadline crosses at noon without a sound. The four men keep talking, the energy slowly leaking out of the studio, and twenty minutes later, the consensus arrives: the dust has settled for another year.

Charlotte traded a late-round pick for some veteran depth, and the uncertainty is officially over. He’s still a King.

I’m standing in the kitchen, clutching the watering can, and the relief hits me so hard I have to lean into the granite. He wanted to stay in Charlotte, and I’m glad he’s one step closer to whatever version of peace he’s currently hunting.

“Ah,” Murphy calls out from the next room.

“Don’t you start.”

“Didn’t say a word.”

“You made a noise, Murphy.”

“Noises aren’t words.” The recliner groans as he adjusts his weight. “Get in here before you drown my basil.”

I collapse onto the couch, still holding the plastic can, only noticing it when I go to cross my arms. When I set it down, the silence feels physical.

Murphy folds the crossword away, his expression going uncomfortably perceptive.

“He sent you those dahlias,” he says. “Last week, right?”

“A small forest of them, yes.”

“And?”

“And they died, as flowers tend to do.” I focus on a scuff in the floorboards. “Tossed them Tuesday. Spite had nothing to do with it; they were just biologically finished. I kept the vase.”

“Kept the vase.”

“It’s a nice vase, Murphy.” And it is—heavy crystal and obviously expensive. I’m not throwing out good glass because of a grudge.

“Mm.” He pauses, studying me. “How long has it been since you talked to him?”

“A while.”

His chest heaves with a long sigh. “I want to talk about my boys for a second,” he says. “And then I’m letting it go, because it isn’t my business to manage you.”

“Murphy, please—”

“Two weeks is a blip. I know that.” He anchors his hand on the armrest. “But I watched it start at two weeks. No fanfare. Nobody formally plans on two years of silence.”

The television glow has faded. He hits the power button, and the room feels heavy with the sudden quiet.

“Every week, the distance between them grew wider. Zig would say after the break. Briggs would say middle of the season. I’d call them both fools, they’d laugh, and then nobody would move.”

“This isn’t that.”

“I know it isn’t. He hurt you, and I’m not defending that.” There’s a rough edge to his voice. “But you’re waiting to see if he’ll give up. I watched that game in real time once, and then I ran out of sons to play it. It cost me everything.”

I stare at the plastic watering can.

“He calls me every day,” Murphy adds. “Want to know what he asks?”

“How you’re feeling.”