Page 82 of Cherry Picking

“Nah. I’m driving.”

“You can do both, apparently.” She twists in the seat to look out the window as we pull off the airport spur. “Okay. Talk me through the local color. What am I looking at?”

I glance to my right, staring out at the rolling pine-covered hills that define the landscape here. I point out the different neighborhoods, telling her how the city is organized in rings, how the skyline changes depending on which way you’re approaching.

I find myself wanting her to like it, which is a new and uncomfortable kind of pressure.

By the time we hit the interstate, the sun has fully given up. What she gets is mostly light and shadow, but I narrate the route anyway. Uptown rises on the left, all four major bank towers lit up at the top.

I point out the arena, and she leans forward to look at it properly, her face reflected in the dark glass. I feel a ridiculous surge of pride at the sight of her taking it in.

“That’s where you work.”

“Occasionally.”

“Huh.” She sits back, satisfied. “It’s smaller than it looks on TV.”

“It seats nineteen thousand, Evie.”

“Sure. Very cute little building.”

I take the long way around Uptown so I can show her the coffee place in my neighborhood. It’s closed, but I point at the dark windows anyway.

“They have the best cortado in the city,” I say.

“We should go there in the morning.”

I beam. “Yeah, we should.”

I take her past the practice rink, where I log most of my hours. I drive her through the tunnel of ancient oaks that meet overhead in July, though tonight, they’re just a gray cathedral of bare limbs reaching for the streetlights.

I try to explain how the dogwoods look in May—explosions of pink and white on every corner—because I need her to see the version of this place that isn’t just bank towers and pine needles. The version that stays soft.

“Everything’s so green,” she murmurs, her gaze fixed on the dark passing lawns.

I huff a laugh. “Hard to believe, right?”

My phone buzzes in the console—Ted again, his fourth attempt since we left my place. I don’t even check the screen before I flip it over to let the dark take it. Monday can have him.

“You should probably get that.”

“It’s just my agent,” I tell her. “The numbers will still be there in forty-eight hours.”

“Okay.” She leans her forehead against the glass. “Look at that. There’s actual moss growing in the concrete. In the valley, if you don’t drown it in a hose once a day, it’s just more dirt by noon.”

“You know how I feel about Vegas, but we have our own issues here. In August, the air is so heavy it’s like trying to inhale through a warm, wet dishcloth. You’d hate it.”

“Probably,” she agrees, touching a loose curl at her temple. “My hair would be a full-blown natural disaster.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can tell the moisture is already working on her hair. But it still looks soft and real. And I catch myself wondering what a full week of this humidity would do to it, all that copper unspooling in the Carolina heat.

I make myself watch the road for the rest of the drive.

My building is a converted industrial space on the city’s edge. We make our way through the secure garage, and I open the heavy steel door for her. The second we step into my unit, I’m suddenly aware of every poor choice I’ve ever made regarding furniture. Or the total lack thereof.

She walks into the center of the room and takes inventory.

It’s a large, open space with high ceilings and big windows. There’s a gray couch that cost too much, a TV mounted on the wall, and a dining table I eat at maybe once a week. A framed photo of Ziggy and me as kids sits on the bookshelf, and one of my dad standing in the driveway with his old truck is tucked next to it.