Page 98 of Cherry Picking

“Yeah, well, I’ve kept my mouth shut about it for a long time. I’d have kept it shut forever, but he’s gone now, and you’re living with the version where he did it just because he felt like it.”

We sit in the silence for a long time after the last of it is out. I offer a quiet thanks for her being there when I was miles away, and I apologize for not catching the signs while I was busy tracking my own stats. It’s a strange reconciliation, but it feels like the first honest ground we’ve stood on in years.

The walk to the threshold is a blur. There’s no hug, no lingering touch, and we both allow the distance to settle between us as the only right way for the story to end.

“Briggs.” She anchors a hand on the frame, her gaze steady. “Go talk to Murphy. Today. Don’t wait until you’ve polished the perfect script.”

I shake my head, my jaw tight. “He said he needed space.”

“He’s in pain, but believe me, he’s waiting for you to show up anyway.” Her chin lifts. “I’m an expert on that kind of thing.”

“Yeah.” I offer a single, stiff nod, the pressure returning behind my ribs. “Goodbye, Ophelia.”

“Goodbye.”

I walk away from the house I once believed was my forever, and I don’t let myself look back.

The dry heat arrives the second I’m clear of the porch, the desert glare already working through the sleeves of my jacket. I aim the rental toward my dad’s place, my brain still doing the math on every truth she handed over.

A few doors down, a woman is standing in her driveway with a hose in one hand and her phone in the other, aiming the lens straight at me. She doesn’t flinch when our eyes lock, hungry for another piece of the mess to upload.

Wonderful.

CHAPTER 28

EVIE

My phone is lit up in my hand, and I’m staring at a picture that goes along with a two-paragraph article. The shot is grainy and pixelated, taken from across the street, but I’d recognize that posture anywhere.

It’s Briggs, standing on a porch in one of those interchangeable Henderson developments. There’s a muted green door and a raked rock yard. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt with his shoulders directed toward the house.

MAXWELL SPOTTED AT EX-FIANCÉE’S HOME DAYS AFTER AFFAIR REPORT

The suspended Kings winger, set to become an unrestricted free agent this summer, has been increasingly linked to a potential Las Vegas homecoming.

He’s here. He’s back in Vegas, and he didn’t tell me he was coming.

I read the subhead again. Free agent. He’s never said a word to me about his contract being up or leaving Charlotte. Based on his behavior over the weekend, I would’ve assumed he planned to stay with his team as long as possible.

“Evie.” Tomás is leaning in the doorway of the prep room, a clipboard in his hand that he’s clearly ignoring. “You’ve been a statue for ten minutes. What’s on your phone?”

“I’m working through the restock.”

“You’ve been staring at the same three boxes since I walked in. Now you’re obsessed with your screen.”

Tomás crosses the floor and plucks my phone from my hand without waiting for permission, his expression souring with every line he scans.

“Okay,” he says, voice flat. “For starters, this is the same outlet that ran a three-part investigative series on a haunted Chili’s.”

“Zoom in on the porch, Tomás.”

“I don’t need to zoom in on the goddamn porch.” He shoves the phone back at me. “I’m saying the source is bottom-tier garbage. That doesn’t mean the photo isn’t real.”

I check the timestamp again. 9:14 a.m. He was standing on that porch—not even half an hour from where I am—at 9:14, while I was in the arrangement room helping the Okoyes decide between velvet and satin.

“When was the last time you talked to him?”

“Last night, after he got tossed from his game. He told me it was a long night and we’d talk tomorrow.”