Page 24 of Cherry Picking

CHAPTER 8

EVIE

I’m back at the Maxwell house again.

The spare key lives under a ceramic frog by the door, which is the least secure hiding spot in the continental United States. I’ve stopped commenting on it because Murphy thinks the frog is funny, and I’ve decided not to take that from him.

Just over a week in, we already have a routine going. I’ve learned that Murphy takes his coffee black, that he’ll do the PT exercises if I pretend not to watch, and that the fastest way to lose him is to ask how he’s feeling. So I don’t.

Instead, I ask what he wants for dinner and whether the wobbly board on the ramp has gotten any worse, which it has. So I’m going to fix it with an actual drill this weekend whether he likes it or not.

Earlier this afternoon, we went on a grocery run together. I discovered this is a whole production because Murphy has lots of opinions about produce. We spent four minutes in front of the tomatoes while he explained why the ones on sale were disgusting.

“Nothing like what I used to eat when I was a kid,” he grumbles. “They gas them now, did you know? Whole warehouse full of the stuff. That’s why the skin’s like a balloon.”

I bought them anyway. You can’t make a marinara without fresh tomatoes. I’m not much of a cook—my repertoire runs about six deep, and half of it is eggs—but I can get a real dinner into Murphy that isn’t beige, which is all I’m required to do.

Now, I’m unloading bags in the kitchen, and he’s parked himself in the living room.

“Come watch the game!” he shouts, ratcheting up the volume on the TV.

“I should be making myself useful,” I call back from the kitchen. “This is the part where I actually earn the paycheck, remember?”

“You’d be useful if you’d just keep me company. Get in here. The anthem’s already starting.”

“I’m fairly certain ‘social hour’ isn’t on the official job description, Murphy.”

I genuinely enjoy working with him. He’s sharp-tongued and funny, and he talks a mile a minute once you manage to find the key to the lock. It’s just that the grief and the stroke have settled into a heavy, protective shell around him—one I’m still figuring out how to navigate without bruising either of us.

“It is tonight.” He doesn’t look away from the TV. “Leave the cold items in the fridge and bring the rest. I’m not pausing the first period for a bag of overpriced tomatoes.”

I shove the frozen goods into their proper drawers, abandon a bag of oranges on the granite, and come around the corner, wiping my palms on my denim.

The screen is a wash of bright blue ice and fast-moving graphics. Murphy has the remote anchored in his good hand, his gaze already locked on the broadcast. He looks undeniably happy, like a kid in a candy shop.

Or like a man who’s finally found the one thing worth being excited about.

I lower myself onto the cushion. “I hope you know I have no idea what I’m looking at here.”

“Charlotte’s the home team tonight, so they’re wearing white. Montréal’s in black. They’re the Sentinelles.” He sniffs, his expression darkening. “We don’t like them.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re playing them,” he grumbles, “and because they’re a whole bag of shit in a single sweater.”

I huff a laugh, watching the screen. When the puck drops, I scan the flurry of motion for the only name I know. Find it. MAXWELL, brick-red letters across a white jersey, taking a long, wide loop along the far boards.

“There he is,” I say, a small surge of recognition hitting me.

“That’s my boy.”

For a while, Murphy narrates the mechanics of the game. Offsides, which I don’t quite grasp. Icing, which I understand even less. There are four men in stripes out there who seem to make their decisions purely by vibration. I nod like the logic is landing, but mostly, I’m just watching the crowd inhale in unison every time the puck gets near the net.

“Why do they keep swapping players in the middle of everything?” I ask. “Nobody blew a whistle or signaled for a break.”

“Line changes. They go in shifts—forty-five seconds, maybe a full minute, and then they’re cooked, and they have to come off.” He taps on the armrest. “You’re watching every man do his time as hard as he can and then trusting the next guy to do his.”

Briggs’s line goes over the boards. I lean forward, elbows on my knees.