13. Briggs
brIGGS
The two points are in the bank, but the reality is sinking in. From now until April, every game is a knife fight for a single point, the standings being redrawn every night while we sleep.
Now, I’m headed back to the valley for Christmas. Three days of peace before I have to dive back into the grind. My flight touches down just after ten.
Passing the corner where the Circle K used to sit, a memory hits me out of nowhere. That was the spot where Ziggy and I spent our summers, digging coins out of the couch cushions until we had enough for two cherry slushies.
It’s a vape shop now. Everything out here eventually becomes a fucking vape shop.
Ten minutes later, I pull up to my dad’s place. I stop on the walkway because there’s a wreath on the door—real pine with a crooked red ribbon. It’s the first bit of holiday spirit this house has seen in years.
My dad has never hung a wreath in his life. My mother was the one who did the decorating, and after she passed, it was mostly empty. Some years, Ziggy would drag the plastic tree out of the garage; some years, he’d forget, and nobody had the heart to remind him.
The front door is unlocked. “Dad?”
“In here.”
I find him in the front room, and he isn’t in the chair. He’s standing.
He has both hands fisted on the four-wheeled walker, but he’s up on his own two feet, bearing his own weight. When I left last month, he couldn’t manage that without a shoulder to lean on. He’s looking at me now like he’s been waiting to get caught being strong.
“Well, look at you,” I say, my voice a little thick.
“Don’t be weird.” He’s pleased, though; I can see the lift in his cheek. “Get inside. You’re letting the heat out.”
I cross the room and put a hand on his shoulder. He actually lets it stay there.
The house feels different, settled in a way I didn’t expect.
There’s a nonslip rubber mat where the tile meets the carpet, and the coffee table has been shoved two feet toward the window to clear a path.
A calendar hangs by the fridge in handwriting I don’t recognize—appointments and grocery runs, with PT circled in bright purple ink.
The whole place has been recalibrated around him.
“Sit,” he says, lowering himself back into the recliner. “You hungry? There’s a plate in the fridge for you.” He gestures toward the kitchen. “Evie left it.”
Her name does a small, warm lap around my ribs. “Okay. Let me just settle in for a minute.”
“How’s the game? You looked slow against Colorado.”
I groan. “I wasn’t slow.”
“You were gripping the stick. You do that when you’re in your own head. Ziggy used to—”
He stops, his jaw working as he looks at the television. It’s off, a black mirror showing us both back to ourselves. We let the silence take the name for a beat.
“He used to say that,” my dad finishes, his voice dropping an octave. “That he could read your mood from the couch just by how you held your stick.” He turns his coffee mug on the armrest. “First Christmas I can recall where he isn’t in that spot.”
He tips his head toward the empty end of the sofa.
I swallow hard. “Yeah. I know.” I nod toward the front door. “Is Evie the one I have to thank for the decor out there?”
“That’d be her,” he says, brightening instantly. “She’s stopping by tomorrow evening. Have to make sure there’s something in this house worth feeding her.”
“You don’t have to feed her. She’s just checking in.”
“I like her, Briggs. We’re going to be as hospitable as possible.” He says it flatly, no room for argument. “Try not to put your foot in your ass while she’s here.”
“It’s foot in your mouth, Dad.”
“Whatever.” He’s watching me now, his gaze steady. “She’s a good one. Keep that in your head.”
“I’m always professional when we talk.”
“Uh-huh.” He picks up the remote, done with the conversation, retreating back into his casual mask. “Go eat. You look like hell, and she’s coming by tomorrow. I’d like at least one of us to have his act together.”
In the kitchen, I find the plate in the fridge, foil-covered, with a sticky note on top in that same purple ink.
Murphy—eat the vegetables too, not just the good part. I’ll know. Second plate’s for Briggs if he’s hungry. —E
I scarf the whole thing down in five minutes.
Evie shows up at six the next night.
I hear her vehicle before she even makes it to the door—that persistent, grinding screech beneath the hood she swore she’d have a mechanic look at. It groans up the street and finally cuts out in the driveway.
She steps out wrapped in her mint-green coat, clutching a pie carrier in one hand and a canvas tote over her shoulder, her copper hair half pinned in place. She’s lecturing the car. Actually scolding it. She even points a finger for emphasis.
I linger at the window, watching her wage war with a battered Corolla. I don’t pull the door open immediately, because I want those extra ten seconds of observing her when she doesn’t know I’m looking. When I finally clear my throat, she’s still mid-tirade.
“So you never took that thing in for a tune-up.”
She cuts me a sharp look. “Merry Christmas to you, too, Briggs.”
We haven’t occupied the same physical space since the cemetery. Six weeks of texting, one FaceTime session I’ve replayed in my head more than I’d ever admit. On a screen, she’s a distraction I talk to. In my father’s driveway, under the glow of the porch light, she’s the only thing that feels real.
She’s taller than I recall, her features sharper, sporting dark eyeliner and a collection of silver along both ears. She looks exhausted and electric all at once, and I can’t find the will to look away.
“I did take her in, for your information.” She brushes past me into the warmth of the house, close enough that I catch a hit of winter air and warm cinnamon.
“The mechanic blamed the alternator. Then he quoted a number, and I decided the alternator was a character flaw the car could work through on its own.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“She got me here. That was the goal. We’ll renegotiate the terms on the drive home.” She drops the tote on the rug. “Besides, it’s Christmas. Your father isn’t going anywhere with me for a while.”
“Is that her?” Murphy shouts from the living room.
“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?”
“Clearly.” He points the remote at her. “You’ll allow an old man a couple of nights of peace.”
“Fine.” She lets it slide with an easy shrug. “I’ll double the set after the holiday.”
He begins the slow business of hoisting himself onto the walker, waving me off when I move to assist. At the mouth of the hallway, he stops and looks back at the two of us on opposite ends of his sofa, and he winks at me. It isn’t subtle.
My father has never done anything subtly in his entire life.
“Night, kids,” he says, and vanishes into the hallway before I can find a response.
I turn toward the sink and start rinsing the dessert plates just to give my hands a task.
Evie hops up onto the counter beside me, close enough that her knee brushes my arm. She bumps my shoulder with hers. “So. Charlotte’s finest. You got other plans tonight, or is it just you and the dishes?”
I look at her. Six weeks of wanting to be in a room with her, and here we are, my father asleep on Christmas Eve.
“Depends,” I say. “Do you have something in mind?”
Her smile arrives slowly, and it’s a direct threat to my self-control. “Ever been a tourist in your own town, Maxwell?”
I take my time with the towel, drying my hands. “Why? You planning to make it worth the trip?”
“Oh, honey. I’m the best this valley has to offer.”
“Genuinely low bar,” I say, already reaching for my keys. “But I’ll let you take your best shot.”