Page 63 of Cherry Picking

“That’s the whole point, Evie.”

“That’s pathetic, is the point.” I flip through a rack of band tees, my hand stopping mid-motion. I spin on my heel and gasp. “Do you think Grant is still interested?”

“Grant’s interested, obviously. You’re you.”

She’s right. I’m not a woman who indulges in wallowing—it’s a waste of perfectly good momentum—and I’m sufficiently attracted to the man that a date feels like a logical choice. I need something to scrub the static of Briggs Maxwell out of my skull, and a charming litigator with expensive shoes seems like a solid start.

“I’m going to message him. Set it up for Tuesday night while the Kings are in town, so I’ll be too busy eating Mediterranean food to notice the score.”

Hazel pauses, studying me with that terrifying lawyer-precision. “Grant’s a decent guy,” she says carefully. “If you’re planning to use him as a temporary bandage, you should probably be honest about it.”

“It’s just one night, Haze.”

“Mmhmm.” She trades the suede for a leather jacket, checking the line in the mirror. “Verdict?”

“I like it.”

“Maybe not, then.” She makes a face at her reflection. “Too much authority.”

Life at the Maxwell house has settled into a quiet, functional routine. Murphy is healing with a stubbornness that would be impressive if it weren’t so irritating, already graduating to the walker for short trips to the kitchen. I’ve spent the week batting away every mention of his son like a nuisance fly.

Murphy has spent most of our shifts grumbling at Briggs on my behalf, a performance I didn’t ask for and which I’m currently refusing to find endearing.

Briggs has tried to call twice. He left a three-minute voicemail on Wednesday that started with an apology and ended in silence. I’ve closed that door and locked it; I made sure he understands that our communication is now strictly limited to the professional requirements of his father’s care. Medication logs and PT schedules only.

He forfeited the rest of me the second he sprinted for the airport.

The plan for Tuesday is already set.

Danny is taking Murphy to the arena—tickets provided by the hometown hero himself, a fact Murphy has repeated four times today with a look of pure, unadulterated glee. It’s the perfect alignment of data points.

Murphy will be out, I’ll have the evening off, and I’ll be across the valley in a great dress, drinking gin with a man who knows how to stay in a room.

“Speaking of dates,” I segue, because I’ve been hogging the emotional floor for an hour, “what ever happened with that bartender? The one with the forearms like tree trunks.”

Hazel scowls at herself. “He asked for my five-year plan. On the second round of drinks.”

“And you obliged him?”

“The whole spreadsheet. Senior partner by thirty-three, a house with a wraparound porch, the two kids, the dog named after a Supreme Court justice.” She rehangs the blazer with a sigh. “He told me I was ‘a lot.’”

“Well, you are a lot.”

“I’m aware. I’d just like someone who says it like it’s a compliment.” She says it lightly, but I catch the sharp edge of hurt. Hazel’s been sitting in her own version of this frustration all week, unable to find a single man who isn’t terrified of a woman with a road map.

“He’s out there,” I say. “Some sunshiny optimist with a label maker of his own.”

“He better hurry. I’m starting to price out egg freezing.”

I wrinkle my nose. “You’re twenty-seven, Hazel.”

“Every day is an invoice.” She hands me the leather jacket. “Try this on and message Grant. In that order. If you’re going to make a bad decision, you might as well be well-dressed for it.”

The jacket fits like it was tailored for me, which I take as a sign. I shoot the text to Grant before I can find a reason not to. He replies in under sixty seconds.

Grant

Tuesday is perfect. I’ve got a spot in mind.