by Tara Sivec
CHAPTER 16
Birdie
“It looks pretty wet down there.”
“What’s her problem?”
I hear Murphy’s voice as I lift my head from the bar, where I had been thumping it repeatedly, to see him walking across the room.
“She set her vagina on fire masturbating last night.”
Murphy never stops walking; he just turns right around in the middle of the bar, going back the way he came as soon as Tess says masturbating.
“Always a pleasure to see you, Murphy!” Tess shouts after him, topping off my to-go cup of coffee and putting the plastic lid back on the Styrofoam cup. “You ready for day three?”
“Of the golf outing or of slowly being tortured to death by a hot, annoying golfer?” I ask, sliding off the bar stool and clipping my radio to the waistband of my short, black, fitted golf skirt that clings tightly to my hips and upper thighs but is stretchy and moves with me when I walk all over the course.
Unfortunately, I slept right through my alarm, because I was, in fact, guilty of what Tess told Murphy, and the only clean skirt I could find before I had to shimmy it on with my white SIG tank top and run out the door after my shower was the only one that doesn’t have a pair of tiny shorts sewn inside. I have to remember that when I bend over, or I’m going to flash everyone my ass cheeks and white lace thong. Fucking Campbell.
Everything is his fault today after I had to spend ten excruciating minutes sitting on his lap in a golf cart last night. I was perfectly fine doing a squat above his knees, my thighs only screaming in pain a little bit, until he had to go and yank me back against him. And then I had to go and do something stupid like turn and look at him, my mouth hovering right by his, wishing on every star above us that he would just lean forward and kiss me already. When he didn’t, any semblance of behaving like a fully functioning human being went out the window after that, and I couldn’t get away from him fast enough when Bodhi pulled into my driveway.
“Well, I think we’re on day fourteen of that second one, plus the fifteen years on top of them, which is too much math for me to calculate how many days that is in total, but it equals you should be an old pro at squeezing your thighs together and girding your loins by now around him.”
“5,489 days,” Mrs. Plas, who obviously teaches 7th grade math, helpfully adds as she sips her coffee and watches the morning news on the TV.
My radio crackles to life thankfully, saving me from any more of this conversation.
“Hey, sweet cheeks, you there? Someone gave me a radio. Isn’t that fun?”
I groan when I hear Palmer’s staticky voice, and both Tess and Mrs. Plas chuckle.
“Now I can talk to you all the time whenever I want, and I don’t have to wait for you to reply to my texts. This is going to be so much more conveni—”
Palmer’s voice immediately cuts off when I quickly turn the volume knob all the way down until my radio shuts off.
“Reach out and grab what you want!” Tess reminds me as I take my coffee from the bar and start heading to make sure everything from breakfast has been cleaned out from under the tents so we can start setting up for the closing awards ceremony at the end of the day.
“She means his penis!” Mrs. Plas once again helpfully adds.
Palmer: Help me. I’m dying.
Birdie: I just saw you fifteen minutes ago, and you were fine. You were filling up the children’s wading pool for the driving range contest. Did you forget how to swim? Need some arm floaties so you don’t get scared when you have to get the golf balls out of the kiddie pool if anyone hits them in there?
Palmer: I already have a pair of Frozen arm floaties, thank you very much. Did you fail to mention Miss Abigail would be here today? You have betrayed me. A hex upon your house! Why is she here?? She is a teacher of nothing except how to abuse sweet, juicy, firm buttocks. Buttocks’s. Buttockses? Whatever, MY GODDAMN ASS HURTS.
Birdie: You’ll be fine. And did you forget she’s been the head of the PTA for like, thirty years? Think of the children, Campbell.
Palmer: They can buy their own wrapping paper and shitty chocolate bars. She spilled her coffee on my shirt and then grabbed the hose and tried to soak me “So it won’t stain.” You’re lucky I have quick reflexes or I would be sopping wet from my head to my feet.
Palmer: Your silence tells me you feel bad. I accept your apology. Also, check the weather. Some storms just popped up on the radar for late afternoon/early evening. We’re all gonna get wet today.
Palmer: Fine. I guess you’re busy with the Frisbee Golf game happening on the front lawn for the non-golfers. See you after lunch. Don’t forget you said you wanted to take a picture of me for stupid social media then. I did some push-ups and sit-ups to get nice and firm if you need me to take my shirt off. Don’t worry, I grabbed a clean one without a coffee stain and changed in your office.
Palmer: See? This is why I needed that walkie-talkie and you shouldn’t have taken it away from me.
“Put the rotisserie chicken on your lap, hold The Lamp in your right arm, and then bring The Chevy Tahoe up closer to your face. The Meth can stay there in the grass for now.”
Palmer shakes his head at me as I try to get the camera on my phone to focus on him, where he’s sitting in the grass cross-legged and the empty 18th green is behind him. It looks indistinct enough in the background that he could be on any hole on any course in the world, and fans still won’t know where he’s disappeared to.
“There’s not many sentences you think you’ll never hear in your lifetime, and that’s got to be at the top of them.” He laughs, bringing The Chevy Tahoe—the orange-and-white tabby cat that roams the course and chases away geese, seagulls, and any other vermin with his kitty cohorts—up to his face. “So The is actually part of their given names?”
I rapidly snap a few shots when Palmer turns and laughs at The Lamp, a gray cat with white paws, when she swats at his face.
“Obviously The is part of their names, or it wouldn’t make sense. If I told you to go outside and feed Lamp, that’s just not proper English,” I explain, snapping a few more pictures and willing my heart to stop melting as I watch Palmer cuddle a bunch of stray cats in his lap.
The Meth starts to make her way onto his lap, clawing her way up the front of Palmer’s tight, clingy, SIG shirt. It’s a soft gray cotton that I want to claw my way up just like the damn cat, and knowing he got shirtless and changed into it in my office just makes me want to go back into the bar and beat my head on top of it again.
“I think I’m starting to bleed. Did you get enough?” Palmer asks.
I wave to him that I’m finished and try to stop drooling while I stare at him as he removes all the cats from his person, where they’ve all tried to climb up onto his shoulders. Deciding it’s best to keep my head down while Palmer gets up from the grass and the cats go racing off in search of something to hunt, I add some filters to the picture I like best where one of the cats is covering up the SIG logo on his shirt.
Since Palmer emailed me all his social media log-ins, I quickly post a black-and-white shot of him with his head turned to the side, smiling at The Lamp with his dimple popping, a clear shot of the flag coming up out of the 18th cup behind him, with the caption Thanks for the support. Enjoying some much-needed downtime with a few new friends in my favorite place. That will show the world he’s still kind, sweet, and not a raging lunatic who curses and throws things in water hazards and that golf is still part of his life.
“Why did you date him for so long?”
I jolt a little when I hear Palmer’s soft voice and look up to realize he’s standing right in front of me, my cell phone I’m still holding between us the only distance separating us.
“Who?” I ask stupidly, because what the hell?
He can’t stand so close after I’ve been girding my loins all this time, and after I had to use my vibrator twice last night just from sitting on his damn lap, and ask me a question like that.
Palmer’s reply to my dumb question is just a slight tilt of his head.
God, he smells so good. All I’d have to do is stop holding my phone between us, take a step forward, and press my lips to the underside of his smooth, freshly shaved jaw to see if he tastes as good as he smells. But he’s not closing the distance either, and I’m so tired of being confused by this man.
“I don’t know,” I finally say, not admitting the truth. “I wasted two years with that idiot when I could’ve…”
Could’ve what? Wasted those two years continuing to pine for this guy? Because that was so much fun the first time around. Also, you’re pining again. Stop it!
“Did you know he and I only saw each other twelve times in two years?” I keep going, because why not word vomit, since it’s always worked out so well for me in the past, and I’m feeling nervous and all out of sorts, because he’s standing so close and not touching me. “He called Summersweet quaint like it was an insult, and I let him get away with it, and he said ‘LOL’ all the time instead of actually fucking laughing out loud, and he fell asleep watching The National Tour. Who falls asleep watching golf?”
“Literally everyone,” Palmer deadpans.
There’s a few beats of silence, where I know he wants me to keep going and actually tell him something significant about why I wasted two years with Bradley, but that significant thing is standing twelve inches away from me. He’s rubbing the back of his neck and making his bicep pop, and I just want to slide my arms around his waist, press myself against him, and ease some of the ache he’s been building in me for years.
But I don’t. Because I’m a coward.
“Okay, well, I need to see if Greg’s going to want to cut the four-man-scramble short and have people start taking down the tents,” I finally speak again, taking a much-needed step back from Palmer as I point to the dark sky out over the water. “Did you notice as soon as everyone cleared out for lunch those storms you mentioned started coming in a little faster?”
Palmer doesn’t look away from me to glance up at the sky as I take a few more steps away from him, his fierce stare making my already heated skin from the sun shining overhead feel like it’s on fire.
“Got any plans for tonight to celebrate the end of three days of hell?” I ask just to fill the silence, since I can’t seem to figure out how to turn around and break his stare as I take another couple steps back.
“Nothing but relaxing on the deck of my cottage.” He shrugs, casually sliding his hands in the front pockets of his black athletic shorts. “I really missed the view. It takes my breath away.”
It doesn’t escape my attention that he’s still looking right at me when he says those words, and my analytic brain that didn’t learn its lesson the first time wonders if he’s talking about the ocean view from the deck of his cottage or me.
“I’ll clean up here then head over to the tents and start folding up chairs and tables,” Palmer says, nodding back to the pile of discarded beer cans and bottles we pushed out of the way for the photo op that the grounds crew must have missed during last night’s cleanup. “I’m sure Greg will want to move the dinner and awards banquet into the restaurant, so I’ll see you there later, sweet cheeks.”
I finally turn away from Palmer with an annoyed grunt and stomp over to my golf cart.
Yep. Definitely talking about the ocean view. I’m in hell.
CHAPTER 17
Birdie
“Want to join our threesome?”
“Good thing we got everything taken down and everyone inside. That thing blew in fast,” Adam says next to me, my eyes roaming the golf course’s packed restaurant as the rain starts to fall a little more steadily from the black clouds that are now directly above the course.
Murphy radioed me a few minutes ago when I was walking through from the bar that everyone had been cleared from the course, but I still haven’t been able to spot Palmer. I continue to scan the room, Tee Time decorated in the same deep shades of green and dark cherry wood as the bar, but the tables in here are covered with white linens and set with fine china and sparkling crystal goblets. This is the kind of place where small wedding receptions are held and where senior prom dinners are eaten, and then photographs are taken out on the deck, and where anyone on the island comes for any special celebration and a photo op. It’s where I always pictured a silly fantasy of Palmer and me celebrating something special, sitting out on the deck as the sun went down, toasting our glasses, and then leaning across the small table to share a kiss. The deck looks out on the lush, green, manicured lawn of the 1st hole of the private members’ side, and then beyond that is nothing but blue ocean. It’s beautiful and something that shouldn’t be missed when you’re here.
No one seems to mind that their steak and lobster dinner was moved from outside under the tents to inside where there’s partial air-conditioning. The chattering of everyone’s happy voices fills the room while their food is being served, and I scan a few more tables.
My heart flutters in my chest when I finally spot Palmer, just beyond the half-wall that separates the restaurant from the deck, standing under the protection of the deck ceiling as the rain starts to fall a little harder.
“This is ridiculous. Just go grab what you want, Birdie,” I whisper to myself.
“What? You want me to grab something for you?” Adam asks a little louder over the clanging of plates and silverware.
I ignore him, unclipping my radio from the waistband of my skirt and handing it over to him without taking my eyes off of Palmer.
He’s holding one of his clubs up behind his neck as it lays horizontally across his shoulders, his wrists draped over the titanium bar and his torso elongated as he twists a little back and forth while he stands there, doing a golfer stretch I’ve seen him do a million times. Except now I’m suddenly thinking about that spreader bar scene in that movie Wren made me go to the mainland to see ten times.
Fine. So she made me go once, and I dragged her the other nine times. Whatever.
“You okay, Birdie?” Adam asks when a sound comes out of me that’s part whimper, part moan, part dying cat, and I reply to him with a distracted wave of my hand.
Leave me alone. I’ve got thoughts to think, dammit!
Palmer might be snarkier, and hotter, and have more confidence, but underneath it all, he’s still that same shy guy who couldn’t flirt with a woman to save his life. It’s not like he’s laughing and getting close and neck-nuzzling with anyone else since he’s been here. Maybe he’s waiting for me to come to him. I didn’t imagine what he said behind the Dip and Twist, or even the way he looked at me last night, when I was pressed against his chest and he whispered my name. He was feeling something, and he meant those words behind the ice cream stand, and he really did look at me like he wanted to take a bite out of me before his guard went up.
Because maybe that’s what it is. A guard. Because I’m standing around wondering what the hell he’s feeling, and maybe he’s doing the same thing. At least he came clean about the Bradley thing. I haven’t opened my mouth and uttered one bit of truth to him since he got here.
I take one final deep breath of courage before I start walking toward the deck, watching Palmer pull the club down from around his shoulders to rest the heel of it on the floor before throwing his head back and laughing. Butterflies start flapping around in my stomach as I start moving away from Adam, an excited smile hurting my cheeks that I’m finally going to stop being a wuss and tell him how I feel.
That smile falls right off my face, my feet come to a stop, and all the butterflies die when I see Palmer lean down closer and press his mouth right against the ear of Miss Bradford, a kindergarten teacher who just made him laugh like she told the funniest joke in the world.
Miss Elizabeth Bradford, a young kindergarten teacher who looks like the kind of teachers you find in teacher porn instead of a real classroom, with her big pouty lips, long, thick, luscious red hair, and boobs that could poke someone’s eyes out. I
graduated with Lizzy, and I always thought she was sweet, but she needs to die now in a painfully tragic way. Palmer continues talking right next to her ear, and even from here, I can see her blush and shiver a little when he pulls back to smile down at her, running one of his hands down the side of her arm. Oh God, I think I’m going to be sick.
“Shit! I forgot to grab the Closest to the Cup pins from the finals out on the 8th hole with everyone’s name on them so we know who won,” Adam suddenly curses from behind me, where I’m frozen six inches away from a man loudly slurping his clam chowder, still staring at Palmer not being shy at all across the room and out on the deck. “It should be fine though. We wrote the names in Sharpie, so it’s not like they’ll wash off and we won’t know who won the two grand Miss Abigail donated.”
Palmer’s hand is still resting against the side of Lizzy’s arm, and my own arm burns like he’s touching me. Except he’s not. He’s touching her. And he’s laughing with her, and he’s leaning in again to nuzzle her goddamn fucking cheek as he talks to her, and I have to press my hand to my stomach so the cheeseburger he brought me out on the 5th hole earlier and forced me to eat because I skipped breakfast and forgot about lunch doesn’t come up out of my mouth and land in the bowl of soup this motherfucker next to me is taking seven years to finish slurping. Oh my God, you got like ten tablespoons of soup, not an entire bathtub, man!
“I need to get out of here before I kill someone,” I mutter, soup man looking up at me, and now I realize it’s Mr. Grega.
“Should have gripped the shaft a little tighter, and then you wouldn’t feel so murderous.” He smiles up at me, grabbing a homemade roll from next to his soup bowl and taking a big bite out of it.
“…but this wind is starting to kick up, so maybe I should go out and get them just in case. If they blow away and we can’t tell everyone who won two thousand dollars, they will not be happy.”
