Deacon hovers over his club, his eyes squinted in concentration. He adjusts his grip, draws back slowly, and explodes through the swing. He holds his pose as if that will somehow magically guide his ball back on trajectory. The ball hits the back of the green, releases, and rolls into the rough. “Fuck!” he shouts, striking the club against the ground. He paces, then wipes the sweat from his brow.
We hop in the golf cart and zoom down the fairway. When we come to a stop, Deacon grabs a hat and puts it on, then carries his club over to his ball.
“If I make this shot, you’re buying lunch,” he says.
His mouth curls into a smirk, face turning red with focus as he adjusts his grip. Finally, he raises his club a bit, a slow whoosh before it connects with the ball, which then rolls quickly across the green. The thud and subsequent spin inside the cup precede Deacon’s raised fist and single jump in the air.
“Yes! That’s what I’m talkin’ bout, baby!” He slams the club on the ground in excitement.
“Nice shot. Ramen sound good?”
“Fuck you,” he says.
I walk to my ball, which sits only a few inches from the cup, as Deacon gets back in the cart. I hit it lightly, knocking it in.
“Dude, your phone rang,” Deacon yells.
I cross the green, my shirt sticking to me because I am drenched. I sit in the passenger seat, grateful for the excuse to be in the shade, and he reaches in the back of the cart and grabs a couple beers. I swipe my phone off the seat, routinely holding my thumb over the home button to unlock it before my brain processes the alert of a missed call from Emily. Emily. Fuck. One glaring unread text, too, but it doesn’t mean it’s from her. I rotate my shoulder a bit so Deacon doesn’t have a front-row view of my screen.
Totally just butt-dialed you. Sorry.
I swallow the swelling lump in my throat before locking the phone and shoving it in my pocket.
“Was it the realtor?”
“Uh, yeah. Gonna meet up later.” Deacon and I are going in together for a lake house—somewhere we can take off for the weekends and forget the bullshit without worrying about renting. My parents’ properties in Myrtle Beach and Florida are only a plane ride away, but flying is a pain in the ass for a weekend trip.
“Cool. What time?”
“Oh, I don’t know yet. She’s gonna get back to me.”
“The one with the private dock? Or Steep Driveway House?”
I crack open my beer and gulp down half of it, trying to come up with a topic of distraction when my phone chimes and vibrates—another text, fuck. “Yeah, the private dock.”
He laughs. “Well, I need to know if we’re meeting so I keep the day open.” He gets out of the cart. “Be right back. Gotta piss.”
I drink the rest of my beer as I watch him climb the hill, and then open my phone again.
Her text says: Anyway, hope you’re having a good weekend :)
I stare at her words, unsure if I should reply. What was I thinking—really—when I had dinner with her. I liked touching her a little too much at Nelly’s when I helped her out of the booth. I wanted to fuck her. I was honestly thankful for Kate’s interrupting text when Emily invited me to come inside her house. It isn’t like it has been four years since she dated Deacon, for fuck’s sake. It has only been four months. A connection with her probably isn’t worth losing a friendship. That type of thing never works out. Sounds like a steep, uphill battle—one I am not ready to fight.
But I don’t want to be a dick. So, I text her back.
Golfing. Killing it. And against my better judgment, I add, How about you?
Deacon trudges down the hill now as a typing bubble appears, indicating she’s responding. My eyes dart from my phone to Deacon.
Have fun! I just worked out. Getting in the shower.
The Jaws theme song seems to play in my ears as Deacon is a mere twenty or thirty feet away now. The shower. Mmm, fuck. What I wouldn’t give to see that.
I grit my teeth as my fingers betray me. Nice :)
I ordered a pizza as we left the country club, and am surprised to see the delivery guy as we pull toward my gate, repeatedly punching the call button. I get out of the car and walk up to his window.
“Sorry, man. Didn’t expect you to get here so fast.”
His silence and the roll of his eyes tell me what he’s thinking. Generously, I hold out a twenty for him, and he snatches it from my hand before practically shoving the pizza box at me and backing out.
Inside, Deacon and I binge and reload on the booze, exhausted and parched from four hours of being in the sun.
“Mind if I save the last slice for Janie?” He motions toward the box.
“She can’t eat fucking pizza, man. She’s a dog.”
“Pfft. She had some two days ago, and she was fine.” He holds up a finger, shaking his hand. “Though, she did shit on my favorite rug.”
“Well, I hope it left a stain. How’s she been otherwise?” I haven’t seen my dog in two weeks. I try to visit, but not too often. The last thing I want to do is confuse her. I miss her, but it wasn’t fair to her when I was paralyzed with grief and staying drunk in bed all day. Now, it’s just half the day. Deacon is still grieving, too, except he gets up and does shit, some of it a little shocking, but it is probably better than staying in bed watching reruns of Friends.
“Awesome, as usual, but dude—the hair. This week I found it in my butter … that was in my fridge. My damn butter.”
I laugh. “You’ll be finding it for months after she’s gone. Maybe years.”
“You ready to get her back?” I can’t figure out if his question is one of hope or worry.
“Not quite. Maybe another month, if that’s okay with you.”
“Fine with me, dude. She’s a cool bitch.” He puts his plate on the coffee table and leans back into the couch, closing his eyes.
“What about you, though? I feel like I haven’t asked you how you’re doing in a while.”
He speaks to me with his eyes closed. Shrugs. “Still a little fucked up.” After a minute, he sits up and walks over to where we left the cooler after bringing it inside. He pulls a beer from it, but he doesn’t say anything.
“You okay?” No response. “Sorry I asked, man. I know it’s rough.”
“It’s cool.” A long pause. “It’s me who fucked shit up. I guess that’s why I’m still not over it. I still regret blowing her off for something that had already failed.”
Shit. He’s more gutted over Emily than Kara. One more reason to feel guilty. Jesus.
“Anyway, it is what it is.” He turns, facing away from me now. “Hey, the girl Eliza got pissed about made that for you, right?”
“What?”
“The panda thing.” His finger points toward the framed sketch on my bookshelf. “The night we all went to dinner and you two got into it after Emily asked you about your first love.”
“Oh.” I walk over and pick it up, the innumerable pencil strokes delicately and perfectly forming three pandas surrounded by bamboo. “Yeah. Same girl.”
“Sounded pretty dramatic.”
“It was.”
“What happened?”
I bite my lip and set down the picture, thoughts of Ivy winding through my mind. “It’s a long story.”