32. Evie
EVIE
Afull week is a long time to maintain the silent treatment.
I spent the first two days attributing the distance to a Jameson-induced haze that refused to lift. After the fog cleared, I moved into the next phase—reading every incoming message the instant it hit the screen and making the stubborn choice to ignore them anyway.
By the time Saturday rolled around, it was starting to become a lost cause. Briggs simply refuses to stop reaching out, despite the silence on my end.
Briggs
lost 4-1 in toronto. played like absolute shit.
dad says you left him a “snarky” note. read it to me twice. once for the content, once for the attitude.
A photo arrives on Tuesday with no caption. It’s a sidewalk shot of the golden retriever that lives in his neighborhood. I stare at that dog for four full minutes, my thumb hovering over the screen.
I have a graveyard of eleven drafted replies. I typed out tell kyo the hit was worth it and deleted it. I typed out which note? I write a lot of snark and deleted that, too. Everything feels like too much or not enough.
During my shift, Phil manages to order a casket with a finish I can only describe as “actively aggressive.” I get as far as framing a photo of it to send before I slide the phone away and retreat back into my work.
The next morning, Briggs sends another text.
if you want me to stop, just say the word. I’ll go quiet until I can see you again in person. I want you to know I’m thinking about you, but I don’t want to annoy you
I don’t reply. By midweek, I recognize that’s a response in itself. Briggs is perceptive enough to grasp that I haven’t given him the red light. But I’m greedy for the pings on my screen; I’m just not prepared to answer them yet.
Briggs
beat tampa. bergie took a puck to the jaw and lost a tooth he claims he wasn’t using anyway
back on the second line. don’t get too excited, fozzy just has the flu
woman at the coffee place decided i’m “going through something.” free muffin. decided not to correct the narrative
montreal tomorrow. dad says he’s watching with the mute on because the color guy never played a shift in his life
Thirteen days after our fight, I still haven’t given him anything, which is a rich position for a woman who once yelled at him about poor communication.
Murphy summoned me at nine sharp, which cost me a morning of paperwork at Sutton’s and a great deal of patience. He didn’t offer a reason, but then again, he didn’t have to. The text from Briggs explained it well enough.
Briggs
deadline day. if a move happens you’ll see the news before I can tell you. I hated the way that went last time. whatever happens, I didn’t ask for it
Murphy’s anchored in the recliner, the TV already tuned to the network that’s been dissecting rosters since sunrise.
“That’s just the channel it was on,” he grumbles, barely waiting for me to close the door.
“Sure it is, Murph. You’re about as subtle as a hearse. Just admit you wanted the company while the suits decide your son’s future.”
“Plumber is due,” he insists. “That’s all.”
“Mmhmm.”
He has a crossword propped on his knee and his cane hooked over the armrest. On the screen, four men in expensive suits occupy a desk labeled TRADE CENTER. A ticker bleeds across the bottom, a slow crawl of names and logos.
I work to occupy my hands and stay clear of my own head.
By nine thirty, I’ve organized his pills, sanitized a counter that was already spotless, and rearranged the mug shelf—an act of domestic aggression he catches before I even finish the top row.
“The mugs were fine.”
“The mugs were a disaster, Murphy. You had a coffee cup living with the measuring spoons. It was anarchy.”
“That’s where he wanted to be.”
“Well, he’s been evicted.”
“Gonna have to tell me the new address, then.” He hasn’t put pen to paper in forty minutes. “I’m a man with a weak side, Evie. I can’t be out here hunting for a handle.”
The ticker continues its parade. A defenseman I’ve never heard of gets shipped across the border, and the talking heads have a great deal of professional curiosity about the return. I catch myself scanning the names for a thirteen that refuses to arrive.
At eleven, Murphy declines a sandwich, so I make him one anyway, and we endure another hour of the cycle. He feeds me clues out loud and gets a date wrong on purpose just to see if I’m actually listening.
“Seven letters. Street in old Vegas.”
“Fremont.”
“Hm.” He scribbles. “Duh.”
At eleven forty, one of the talking heads mentions interest building in Charlotte, and Murphy’s hand freezes mid-clue. Neither of us moves for nine agonizing seconds, the air thick with the possibility of Briggs being booted, until the broadcast pivots to a backup goalie in Boston.
“Well,” Murphy says finally, the breath leaving him in a long, heavy rush.
“Yeah.”
“Hell of a way to earn a check. Sitting in a chair waiting for a man on the television to tell you where you’re gonna live.”
I have no rebuttal, so I go douse a basil plant that’s already bordering on a swamp.
The deadline crosses at noon without a sound. The four men keep talking, the energy slowly leaking out of the studio, and twenty minutes later, the consensus arrives: the dust has settled for another year.
Charlotte traded a late-round pick for some veteran depth, and the uncertainty is officially over. He’s still a King.
I’m standing in the kitchen, clutching the watering can, and the relief hits me so hard I have to lean into the granite. He wanted to stay in Charlotte, and I’m glad he’s one step closer to whatever version of peace he’s currently hunting.
“Ah,” Murphy calls out from the next room.
“Don’t you start.”
“Didn’t say a word.”
“You made a noise, Murphy.”
“Noises aren’t words.” The recliner groans as he adjusts his weight. “Get in here before you drown my basil.”
I collapse onto the couch, still holding the plastic can, only noticing it when I go to cross my arms. When I set it down, the silence feels physical.
Murphy folds the crossword away, his expression going uncomfortably perceptive.
“He sent you those dahlias,” he says. “Last week, right?”
“A small forest of them, yes.”
“And?”
“And they died, as flowers tend to do.” I focus on a scuff in the floorboards. “Tossed them Tuesday. Spite had nothing to do with it; they were just biologically finished. I kept the vase.”
“Kept the vase.”
“It’s a nice vase, Murphy.” And it is—heavy crystal and obviously expensive. I’m not throwing out good glass because of a grudge.
“Mm.” He pauses, studying me. “How long has it been since you talked to him?”
“A while.”
His chest heaves with a long sigh. “I want to talk about my boys for a second,” he says. “And then I’m letting it go, because it isn’t my business to manage you.”
“Murphy, please—”
“Two weeks is a blip. I know that.” He anchors his hand on the armrest. “But I watched it start at two weeks. No fanfare. Nobody formally plans on two years of silence.”
The television glow has faded. He hits the power button, and the room feels heavy with the sudden quiet.
“Every week, the distance between them grew wider. Zig would say after the break. Briggs would say middle of the season. I’d call them both fools, they’d laugh, and then nobody would move.”
“This isn’t that.”
“I know it isn’t. He hurt you, and I’m not defending that.” There’s a rough edge to his voice. “But you’re waiting to see if he’ll give up. I watched that game in real time once, and then I ran out of sons to play it. It cost me everything.”
I stare at the plastic watering can.
“He calls me every day,” Murphy adds. “Want to know what he asks?”
“How you’re feeling.”
“He wants to know how you are.” Murphy swallows heavily. “The whole thing is getting tiresome, kid, because you aren’t telling me a single damn thing.”
“I’m an excellent assistant, Murph. That’s all you need to know.”
His lower lip wobbles, but he lets it go because he’s a man of his word.
I finish my tasks in a quiet blur before heading back to the funeral home to close out the day. My father’s sitting in the arrangement room, practically drowning in a tide of invoices and folders.
“Well, look who decided to show up.”
I frown. “Did you need me this morning?”
“We managed just fine. Why’d you cover for Tomás on Sunday?”
“He had stuff to do.”
“He had stuff to do last week, too.” Ray sets his readers on the desk with a heavy sigh. “You handled the Alvarez removal at four in the morning when it was Phil’s turn, and you’ve managed the entire supply cycle for three weeks. Which is also Phil’s job.”
“Phil ordered a casket with a Corvette-yellow finish, Dad. Someone had to step in.”
“I saw the photos. We’ll find a buyer for it eventually. Maybe a race fan.” He points a finger at the guest chair, and I drop into it, because a command from Ray Sutton is nonnegotiable. “You’re spending all your time covering everyone else’s blind spots, Evie.”
“It’s the job.”
“It’s a job, but it isn’t the one I envisioned for you.” He links his fingers over the desk. “You’re done at the Maxwells in a month.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“So what does your calendar look like for April?”
I watch a dusty sedan crawl past the window. I let the silence unspool until it starts to itch, which has always been my father’s most effective way of winning a dispute.
“Tomás offered me a chair,” I say finally.
Ray stays perfectly still. “At his shop.”
“An apprenticeship. Two years until I’m licensed. No actual pay for the first one—just drawing all day.” My throat feels suddenly tight. “He asked me back in December. I told him I’d think it over, and then I just . . . didn’t.”
“You never mentioned it.”
“I didn’t think it made sense at the time. With the loans and everything.”
But I’ve squirreled away enough from the Maxwell gig that I can cover at least the minimum payments for a year until I start taking my own clients. I’ve done the math. It’s tight, but it could work.
My dad leans back in his swivel chair, fumbling absently with his glasses.
“I used to cover the entire fridge in your sketches,” he says, a ghost of a smile appearing. “Every square inch of it, until your mother had to start taping them to the sides.”
“Dad.”
“I’ve had you in a removal van and on the phones for three years, and I never once asked what you intended to do with your degree. Because it was easier for me if you just stayed.” He clears his throat, looking away. “I should have.”
“But I like it here.”
“I know you do. You’re exceptional with the families.” He slides the readers back onto his nose. “Go part-time come April. Three days here. Spend the others at the shop and see if you like the view from a different stool.”
“You’d be short a person.”
“I’ll hire one. That’s the trick, Evie—you just hire someone.”
I laugh, and it comes out a little wet and broken. My dad focuses intently on the desk to let me have the moment. I stand up and kiss the top of his head before I head out.
A full week after the trade deadline has come and gone, and Murphy still hasn’t worked up the courage to actually ask if I’ll fly to Charlotte with him. Instead, he’s been performing a version of a man interested in the standings, reading them out loud and waiting for me to take the bait.
I’m busy clearing grocery bags from the counter when he finally tries for it. “The final Kings game is on the fourth. Did you know?”
“Of April?” I ask, feigning a total lack of interest.
I want to force him to get the words out in one piece. He shouldn’t be this hesitant to ask for a favor after five months of enduring my questionable attempts at shepherd’s pie.
“Saturday.” A page of his crossword flips with a sharp snap. “Yeah.”
“Hmm.”
“They’re still in the hunt. Need the points and an Ottawa loss. Ottawa’s been doing them plenty of favors on that front lately.” Another flip of the paper. “It’s a home game.”
I stop moving, a can of tomato soup suspended in midair like a prop.
“Are you asking if I’ll take a trip with you to North Carolina?”
“Just noting the schedule,” he mutters.
“Murphy Maxwell. You can ask me for things, you know. Out loud. Using real words. I’m not going to bite your head off.”
“I know that.” He doesn’t look up from the clues. “Doesn’t make the asking any easier. I just—I’ve only seen him play in person once since the stroke.” He directs the confession to the puzzle on his knee. “I’d like to be in the building if they clinch.”
“You’d have to fly, Murph.”
“I’m aware.”
“That’s five hours in a cramped seat and a wheelchair through the shitty CLT terminal. We’d have to map out your medication like a flight plan.”
“So you’ve already done the math. You want to go see him just as much as I do,” he says with a shrug, and I have never wanted to smack a stubborn old man more in my entire life.
“I’ve been considering the logistics. But I feel like if I go, it’s a signal to Briggs that I’m ready to be with him. That I think we can actually handle the distance and whatever comes after the season.”
“So what’s the problem?”
I let out a groan, rubbing my temples. “You Maxwells are so incredibly difficult to manage.”
He grins, the right side of his face hitching up. “Inherited trait.”
We spend the next twenty minutes negotiating the details until I finally cave and agree to book the tickets. I pull out my phone to check flight times and find a new text waiting in the thread.
Briggs
still thinking of you. game 82 is april 4th. no pressure. I’ll leave 2 at will call either way. you could bring Hazel?
I don’t hit Send on any of the four drafts I type out in response.
Because I still haven’t decided anything concrete. I know I want to see him, and I know I’d like to take back a great deal of what I said in my apartment that night. But that’s as far as I’ve gotten.
I’ll know more when I see his face in person.