Page 7 of Cherry Picking

“Had someone,” he grumbles.

“Yeah.” I gesture briefly toward the grave. “Well.”

“Don’t want a stranger in my house. You’re not going to be here, so what’s it to you?”

My return trip to Charlotte is only days away now. He’s hit the nail on the head, same as always. I’m an expert at leaving. I’ve been practicing that exit since the moment I turned eighteen.

Las Vegas is a room I’d rather keep under lock and key. Too many past versions of me are loitering on these corners, and I’m not looking for a reunion. If it weren’t for my father—if I weren’t currently standing on the dirt for my brother’s burial—I’d likely never step foot in this valley again.

“Please just take the help,” I reply, ignoring the jab. “I don’t want you to push too hard and undo all the progress you’ve made.”

He taps a finger on his thigh. “I don’t want somebody around my house who looks at me like I’m incapable.”

My face softens. “I know that.”

“Ziggy never once looked at me like that.”

“I know that, too.”

My little brother had been a lot of things. He was careless, impulsive, constitutionally incapable of thinking past the next good time. And we hadn’t spoken since Dad came home from the hospital. There are reasons for that, and they’re not small ones.

But he’d done some things right. He’d shown up every day for the last eight months. He made sure our dad ate and slept and didn’t disappear into the silence of his lonely house. That’s not nothing. It’s worth a whole lot in my books.

“Hey, you two!” Danny comes over and puts a hand on my dad’s shoulder. “There’s a nice spread back at my place. People are heading over there now. Marlene made that rice thing, Murph. The one you like.”

My dad’s expression shifts from miserable to vaguely delighted. Whatever Marlene’s specialty dish is, it’s doing more for him in five seconds than I’ve managed in the last year.

“I’ll be there in a bit,” I say. “You guys go on ahead.”

Danny looks at me. “Briggs—”

“I need a moment with my brother, and then I’ll go settle things with the funeral home,” I say casually. “Head on out—I’ll catch up in a minute.”

I stand there and watch as they head back toward the gravel walkway, their figures blurring until they’re just two dark shapes moving among the headstones beneath a dull, overcast November sky.

Turning around, I see the tent is already deserted, its folding chairs stacked in neat, unfeeling rows. They look pointlessly stark now. That’s when I spot a figure standing by herself near the fresh earth.

My stomach turns—Ophelia Andrews. If she had any instinct for self-preservation, she’d stay far away, because she’s the very last person on Earth I want to deal with right now.

Naturally, she isn’t wearing mourning black. She’s dressed in Carolina blue—the exact shade I once foolishly told her brought out her strawberry blonde curls, back when I was naive enough to say things like that.

Carolina blue looks real good on you, Ophelia.

Just looking at her now makes my throat go bitter. I’ve never been any good at neatly locking away history; no matter how well I put on a front, the old wounds always manage to bleed through when I least need them to.

I clear my throat, expecting her to join the rest of the crowd heading for the cars, but she doesn’t move an inch.

“I’m sure Ziggy would’ve been thrilled you made it,” I say, my voice coming out like sandpaper. “But the show’s over now.”

She looks up, her expression a mess of agony. “I came here for you. I figured you might need someone.”

I genuinely don’t know what to do with that. Two years ago, I would’ve accepted it at face value. This is a person who once loved me showing up because she thought I was drowning.

But this version of me—the performative machine that’s been through the specific sequence of shit that led to this moment—would rather tell Ophelia to go find a new life in hell. Maybe my brother could help her settle in.

“I’m fine,” I say.

She purses her plum-painted lips. “You’re always fine.”