Page 48 of Cherry Picking

“It’s me, Murph! I brought you a pie.”

“About damn time,” Murphy calls back, giving an exaggerated sigh. “He’s been patrolling that window for an hour.”

“I have not,” I say to the empty hallway, because she’s already vanished toward the kitchen.

She sets the carrier on the counter and peels back the lid to display the contents. A real masterpiece, lattice-work on top, the crust baked to a deep, perfect gold at the edges.

“You actually baked that yourself?”

“Don’t look so surprised. I have skills.” She’s already navigating the cabinets, locating the plates and the small silver forks my mother purchased four decades ago. “It’s my mom’s recipe. Well—the one my dad insists was hers. Might be he just found it on a box and needed the history.” She carves three generous slices without waiting for us to ask. “Either way, it’s delicious.”

My father is already holding up his fork. “Better than the bourbon pecan,” he says, talking around a mouthful.

She lets out a huff of a laugh. “That was the entire objective.”

My chest pulls tight. “Glad someone finally managed to beat the competition.”

Evie pivots on her heel, her fork aimed at my sternum. “Is she?”

I frown. “Sorry?”

She waggles her brows. “The competition.”

“Hell no.” I don’t need to weigh the answer. “She’s nobody.”

Evie holds my gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary, then returns her attention to the counter. I lean against the refrigerator and watch her refill my father’s water without a word, watch her swat at his hand when he tries to rush into a second serving.

Somewhere in those last six weeks, she’s memorized the geography of this house. She knows which cupboard sticks. She knows he’ll try to skip drinking water if you give him an opening.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she notes, sliding a plate across the granite toward me. “You’re contractually obligated to eat your feelings tonight. It’s Christmas.”

I take a bite of the warm apple filling. It’s the best thing I’ve tasted in months. “It’s incredible, Evie.”

“You sound surprised again.”

“I’m recalibrating the data. I had you categorized as someone who only eats takeout over a sink.”

“I do. This is a special performance.” She points her fork at me. “You’re welcome.”

We work through French dip sandwiches in my father’s kitchen as the sky fades to black. My dad narrates the story of the Christmas when Ziggy was six and accidentally lit his own sleeve on fire reaching over a candle for the ham.

It’s a good story, and he delivers it well. I’ve heard it five times.

Evie hasn’t. She laughs in the proper places and asks the right follow-up questions, and my father practically glows under the spotlight. It’s a relief to be off the hook for once—to sit in my own kitchen and just watch someone else manage the room.

Afterward, we watch a movie. The old stop-motion Rudolph, because it’s the first thing my dad finds, and he refuses to keep scrolling. He occupies the recliner. Evie takes the far end of the sofa, and I take the other, the length of a cushion sitting between us like a physical boundary.

I don’t pay much attention to the screen. I watch her instead—the way she laughs at Bumble like a nine-year-old, the way she tucks a loose copper strand behind her ear every few minutes without even realizing she’s doing it.

There’s a small, pale scar at the edge of her jaw I hadn’t noticed before. I catch myself wondering about the history of it, and then I catch myself wondering a great deal more.

By the time the credits roll, my dad is fading fast.

“You want your resistance bands before bed?” she asks, already reaching for the tote.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he grumbles.

“Is that a no?”