Page 34 of Cherry Picking

“Briggs?”

“Hey. How’s the day going?”

“Good,” he says gruffly.

“Yeah?” I lean back against the counter. “How’s the arm?”

“The arm’s fine. Never mind the arm.” There’s a certain lightness in his register that I haven’t heard in a long time, and I catch it instantly. “You know what she did? Your girl. She fixed the ramp.”

“She’s not my—”

“Brought her own drill. Refused to let me help, which, fine. Now the board doesn’t move.” He clears his throat. “She’s a good one, Briggs. You don’t find many like her.”

“I know. She’s exceptional.”

“I’m just saying. A man could do a whole lot worse than—”

“I’m not doing anything, Dad. She works for the family.”

“Mm.” He lets the silence sit, clearly unconvinced. I can see the look on his face, that slight hitch at the right corner of his mouth. “Anyway. She’s due here any minute. The afternoon shift.”

“Alright, I’ll let you go, then. Just wanted to check in.”

“No—stay on. Say hello.” I recognize the maneuver immediately. My father, the matchmaker, with all the subtlety of a slap shot. “She’ll be here in a—”

A knock sounds against the door.

“As predicted,” he says, sounding pleased with himself. “Hold on.”

I wait. I’m smiling despite myself, alone in my condo with the phone pressed to my ear, waiting for her voice—the dry hello, the sarcastic bite, whatever it is she decides to throw at me tonight.

The door swings open.

“Miss Andrews.” There’s a shock in my father’s voice that makes the air in my lungs stop. “Well. This is certainly a surprise.”

“Hi, Murph. I hope this is okay. I know things were difficult at the service, but I—I wanted to bring something by.” I hear the sound of something changing hands, something heavy. “It’s a lasagna. And there’s a pie. I wanted to make sure you were eating.”

My spine goes rigid.

Ophelia isn’t there for me. I’m two thousand miles away, and she has no idea I’m on the line. So what the hell is she doing in that kitchen?

“Dad,” I say into the receiver.

I want to tell him to close the door. To leave the lasagna on the porch. But he’s already pulled the phone away from his ear, and he can’t hear me.

He’s murmuring something to her, the screen door creaking on its hinge.

“Dad!” I shout, one last time.

The connection goes muffled against his shirt. I hang up and swallow the bitter taste climbing my throat. If Ophelia thinks she can find a route back in through my father’s house, she’s about to learn otherwise.

I pull up Evie’s thread, my thumb moving fast.

Briggs

when you get to the house, tell the devil in the doorway to get lost. and don’t you DARE touch that fucking lasagna.

Evie