Page 121 of Cherry Picking

“You’ve filled out,” Murphy eventually murmurs into his shoulder.

“Yeah.”

“Put on some actual weight.”

“It’s called muscle, Dad.”

“That’s the party line, I’m sure.” Murphy pulls back just far enough to grip his son’s arms, eyes searching. “That pass was a piece of art.”

“Augie had the lane wide open.”

“I know he did. I saw it happen. I was there.” His composure finally fractures, the words dragging. “I was there, Briggs.”

Briggs closes his eyes and drops his forehead against the top of his father’s head.

I turn my focus toward the coffee machine, studying the chrome. When I look back, Briggs is finally watching me. He stays rooted in the center of the rug, hands loose at his sides, waiting for a signal that he’s welcome in my space.

So I bridge the gap to him instead.

He snakes an arm around my middle and hoists me up, my legs wrapping around him as he buries his face in the crook of my neck.

“Hi,” he breathes against my skin.

“Hi.”

“You’re here.”

“I’m here.”

“I looked for you in warm-ups, and the seats were empty.”

“I know.” I press my thumb into the seam of his sleeve. “We underestimated the time it would take to get here from the hotel.”

“Have you two eaten?” When we shake our heads, he says, “There’s a place four blocks from here. Dad, can you walk it with the cane, or do you want a car?”

“I can walk four measly blocks.”

I wince, and Briggs catches it. That’s a stretch on a good day. After a flight, a wheelchair through CLT, and three hours on his feet in that building, he’d make it two and a half and then have to prove he could do the rest.

“We’ll take a car,” Briggs says. “I don’t want to get stopped a hundred times anyway.”

The drive over to the bistro is quick. Briggs secures a corner table, where the waiter greets us, and Murphy orders a rib eye and a bottle of their most expensive cabernet. Briggs rolls his eyes but doesn’t comment on it.

“Give me the play-by-play,” Briggs says. “How’d you two end up on a plane together?”

“I made the request,” Murphy mutters. “That’s the beginning and the end of it.”

“That’s a gross oversimplification. He read the league standings at me for over a week.” I tear a roll in half, dousing it with butter. “Every single morning.”

Murphy tips his chin. “You required proper context to reach an informed conclusion.”

Briggs keeps his gaze fixed on his father, a shadowed expression in his eyes. “You orchestrated this.”

“I asked a woman for a favor, and she agreed.” Murphy adjusts his napkin. “She planned everything after that. Meds, the chair through the airport, the aisle seat, that gate agent who tried to flex his authority. She really went after him.”

I tsk. “He was being a dick.”

“She was terrifying,” Murphy adds.