Page 95 of Cherry Picking
Men don’t cry, some still say, but then what stained my cheeks for days on end gazing at the ceiling fan swirl?
Is heartbreak supposed to affect me differently because I have a dick and like to roughhouse on—what did Parker call them?—knifeshoes?
What is it about men that I can’t seem to keep hold of?
Why do I let them fall through the cracks despite what I desperately want?
My phone vibrates in the pocket of my jeans, and while the name on the screen is familiar, disappointment rises to the forefront.
“Hello?”
“This party is boring without your cum shots!”
“Hi, Rory. Did you slip away from Mashburn again?”
“Um, no? He’s shaking his head disapprovingly. Want to talk to him?”
I stifle a laugh. “Will he say more than two words to me?”
“Fuck you,” comes Mashburn’s deep, gravelly voice.
“I think that’s Foster’s job!” Rory shouts.
There’s a short round of laughter, and I even let myself smile for a moment.
“Is he with you?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager or inquisitive in case Griff has kept our situation to himself. “Griffin?”
“Hm? Yeah. He’s playing table hockey with Hawks. We had a game tonight. Foster got in a fight. We won, though.”
“Another one?”
Rory’s laughter sounds like he’s teetering on the edge of tipsy. “Thirteen is going after the penalty record again!”
Griff was known for his fights when he joined the team, and for a while they were still fairly frequent. Some brawls are healthy, encouraged, but Griff has a habit of overstepping the invisible boundaries and getting himself in serious trouble.
He toned it down after a while with the Hornets because we wanted to fly under the radar. I guess without that in the equation, he’s back to throwing fists with reckless abandon.
“Hey, Rory. Think you could do me a favor?”
“Right now?”
“No, short stack. When you’re sober.”
Rory giggles and lets out a tiny ‘oomph’, which means Mashburn is anchoring him down for his own safety. “Shoot.”
“Be his friend,” I say, throat closing in tight. “Griffin’s. Make him smile, laugh. Tell him to play his ass off and watch his punches, because if he wants the Rippers to call him up again, he needs to be fierce but dependable.”
“Why don’t you tell him?”
My smile makes my face feel tight and holds anything but joy. “We need some time apart right now. Can you do that for me?”
He hums, but after a few moments pipes up with a quiet, somber, “I can.”
It’s rare to hear Rory’s voice be anything but loud and excitable.
“You should get back to your party.”
We exchange quick goodbyes, and I’m surprised to feel lighter after the conversation.
