by Tara Sivec
Bodhi: Or better yet, a nice, slow kiss with tongue, and make sure to video it and send it ASAP. It’s so boooring here.
I look up when I finish reading the texts, my heart pounding in my chest, my feet starting to dance again with the need to kick a little Palmer ass as I show my mom and my sister the text when they come right up to the other side of Greg’s desk.
“Bodhi’s been sending me panicking texts since lunch about how much Putz has been sucking today,” Tess explains. “I told him to pull whatever strings he could to get you there, and I’d let him know when you were ready to hear it.”
Tess smiles at me, and I have just enough time to smile back before Wren is suddenly shouting.
“What are we standing around waiting for?! Birdie’s got a bag to pack and a list to make of all the ways she’s going to beat the shit out of Palmer for making her second-guess her worth!”
“I mean, he didn’t make me second-guess it. That was my own stupid—”
“Shut up and rage!” Wren shouts, throwing her fists in the air, making all of us stare at her with our mouths open. “That piece of shit didn’t have the decency to ask my amazing baby sister to go with him! Fuck him! Let’s burn his shit!”
Tess laughs uncomfortably, slowly sliding off my desk and then moving to stand behind my chair, where I’m still sitting.
“She got a phone call from you know who today,” my mom says, whispering that last part.
Tess and I both say “Aaahhh” at the same time, giving Wren a sympathetic nod now that we know the sperm donor must have messed with her again.
“I’ll be fine,” she reassures us, dropping her arms, clearing her throat, and going back to being my quiet, sweet sister. “Let’s get you home and packed so you can go get your man.”
Getting out of my chair, I walk around my desk to meet Wren as my mom leads the way out of the room and Tess follows behind us, flipping off the lights in Greg’s office as we go.
Wren wraps her arm around my waist and gives me a squeeze as we walk out into the bar.
“We can still make that list about all the ways I can hurt him just for fun though, right?” I ask her.
CHAPTER 24
Palmer
“Has anyone seen my balls?”
“You okay there, Pal?”
Slamming my putter into my bag myself and ignoring Bodhi’s outstretched hand to take it from me, I grab my bottle of water out of the side of the bag and take a drink. Glancing around to see where the closest manned camera is and realize it’s only about 10 feet away, I lower my voice before answering, making sure none of the emotions raging through me show on my face.
“Well, considering I pulled my tee shot low and left and it went up into a hazard, and this is now the second hole I bogeyed this morning, I’m doing fucking fantastic.”
The water bottle crinkles in my hand I’m squeezing it so hard, and I shove it back into the side pocket of my bag as Bodhi pulls his phone out of his shorts for probably the hundredth time since we got on the course four hours ago.
“You maybe wanna put your phone away? It’s not like I’m currently playing in a nationally televised golf tournament or anything,” I mutter.
I’ve played The San Francisco Open several times, and it’s a beautiful course overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge with cypress-lined fairways. Those cypress trees are pissing me right the hell off at this moment in time, since my damn balls seem to be obsessed with them.
“So you’re actually going to call what you’ve been doing all morning playing? That’s cute.” Bodhi snorts as he slides his phone away and picks up my heavy golf bag.
Hefting the strap up over his shoulder, we start walking to the next hole, crowds of people walking back and forth between holes over in the trees and rough about fifty feet away behind the spectator rope. Not even a beautiful view of the Golden Gate Bridge through a break in the trees off in the distance can put me in any kind of peaceful mood, because everywhere I look, there are people watching, holding up their phones for pictures and video, and that doesn’t even cover all the TV cameras. There are camera crews sprinkled around every hole, making sure to keep their distance, but they’re still allowed to get closer than the spectators. There are also TV towers built thirty feet up in the air all over the course for a bird’s eye view of the golfers and their shots and a blimp flying overhead recording every moment of the day.
“What the hell was I even thinking leaving Birdie and playing in this tournament?” I mutter as we continue walking until we get up to the 5th hole tee box, and Bodhi sets my bag down off to the side, reorganizing my clubs while Rick Michaelson tees off.
“I have asked you that repeatedly since your stupid ass got on the ferry two days ago,” Bodhi reminds me.
He pulls his phone out of his pocket to check it again, smiling when he sees something, and then quickly puts it back as we hear the thwack of Rick driving his ball off the tee. The crowd cheering, clapping, and shouting his name when his ball sails at least 350 yards right down the middle of the fairway fills the air. Something I haven’t been able to successfully do since I got here yesterday morning.
Seriously… what in the hell am I doing here?
The reason I started hating my job so much in recent years was because of being in the public eye and having to play on TV instead of just relaxing and enjoying the game. And here I am, putting myself through it all over again, shitting the bed in the most epic way, and I’m only on the 5th hole, not wanting to be here, not wanting to golf, hating every second I’m not on Summersweet Island with the woman I love, who asked me to stay.
And I fucking walked away from her, for what? Because I thought I had to impress her? Birdie doesn’t have a shallow bone in her body, and I am a complete asshole for thinking she would even care or judge me about anything. I should have asked her to come with me. At least then I’d have the promise of her lips, and her body, and her smile at the end of this miserable day to make everything better. I’ll have nothing at the end of this day except a boner from thinking about her, a pain in my chest from remembering the look on her face when I walked away from her after she begged me to stay, and a best friend snoring on the pull-out couch with a joint still smoking in the ashtray on his chest and a piece of half-eaten pizza clutched in his hand.
Bodhi hands me my driver, usually the deadliest out of all my clubs until today, as soon as Rick and his caddie step to the side to wait for me to take my shot. Stepping into the tee box, I try to block out the sounds of people talking in the distance as they walk between holes, someone sneezing, someone else coughing, and the buzzing motor of the damn blimp flying overhead and filming. I shut it all out and focus. I set the club face of my driver two inches directly behind my ball. I check my stance and check my grip. I’m doing everything right, but it all feels wrong. Birdie’s face when she begged me to stay flashes through my mind and I have to squeeze my eyes closed for a minute.
Stepping back from the tee, I take one last practice swing before getting into position again, taking a few deep breaths again, and trying to focus again. I can hit this damn ball just as well if not better than Rick. I pull back my arms, and Birdie’s face when I told her I had to go flashes through my mind on my downswing, and I know my ball is going to slice right before my club even connects with it. With a muttered curse, I don’t even bother staying behind the tee to see where it went. Gasps from the crowd and a collective “Ooooh”—but you know, in the bad way—tell me all I need to know.
I walk back to my bag and do not chuck my club into the crowd like I want to, handing it to Bodhi like a gentleman, since there are currently three cameras aimed in my direction. And since Birdie did such an amazing job putting my image back on the right track.
Fuck! What am I doing here?
The radio on the hip of a golf course employee not too far away crackles to life as Bodhi takes my club from me.
“Anybody got eyes on that ball yet? It went into the rough where spectators were walking and no
t paying attention. A few people are starting to look for it.”
Bodhi snorts quietly as he shoves my club into the bag before pulling the strap back up onto his shoulder.
“If there weren’t cameras on me right now, I would punch you in the face,” I whisper as we start walking down the fairway.
“Oh, please do! Pretty please? I’m so bored I want to diiieee-uh,” he complains, dragging the word out like a toddler as he hefts my bag up higher on his shoulder while we walk.
Maybe when I disappear into the rough to get my damn ball as soon as someone finds it, I could just sneak away through the trees and get the hell out of here. It’s not like anyone would notice. I’m currently in last place. My name isn’t even on the leaderboard.
Bodhi and I continue walking in silence until we see a crowd of people gathered around in the rough about 250 yards away from the tee in the area where my ball went. We start heading that way, when over in the crowd someone shouts, “Got it!”
I can see one of the officials through the small crowd of spectators behind the rope in a large cropping of trees with his arm high up in the air so I can spot him. The officials are easy to pick out of a crowd, because they’re all wearing bright red polos and khakis. They’re like a bunch of Jakes from State Farm wandering the course all day.
Another red polo official starts backing spectators away from the area, being very careful that no one touches or moves the ball in any way. I’ll have to decide if I want to play it where it lies, tee off again, or move it two club lengths to the left or right, each one costing me a damn penalty shot. My eyes are down by the official’s sneaker-covered feet, trying to see where my ball is before I get up there so I can start making a game plan in my head. My eyes are down and moving quickly through the weeds as I walk, another official lifting up the spectator rope for me so I can go under it. I finally spot my ball sitting right at the base of a damn cypress, and I shake my head as I walk right up to it, stop, and put my hands on my hips, staring at the stupid ball, wondering why it can’t just do what it’s supposed to.
“Thanks for finding it,” I say to the official, finally looking up at him.
“Oh, I didn’t find it, Mr. Campbell. It was this young lady.”
The fifty-something-year-old man lifts his arm out to point to the other side of the trunk of the giant, bald cypress. My eyes follow the direction of his arm, and then my stomach drops right down into my goddamn feet, right along with my heart. And possibly my bowels.
“Man, you’re away from me for not even two full days, and you’re already losing your balls.” Birdie shakes her head at me. “It’s a good thing I keep a close eye on your balls, huh?”
She winks at me, and I have to close my eyes for a second and shake my head, opening them back up to realize I’m not high from Bodhi’s second-hand pot smoking and I’m not dreaming. She’s really here, in San Francisco, standing six feet away from me, making jokes about my balls.
And she looks so fucking beautiful I want to drop to my knees, wrap my arms around her waist, and cling to her, apologizing for every stupid thing I ever did to hurt her. She’s got her blonde hair loose and wavy around her shoulders with little braids circling the crown of her head, keeping her long bangs from bothering her as the wind gently blows through her locks. A VIP badge is around her neck, draped down the front of her and hanging against her stomach. She’s wearing another one of those short romper things, this one bright orange with tropical flowers on it, with thin little straps over her shoulders and her long, gorgeous legs on full display. She’s got on a pair of sandals that wrap around her delicate ankles and tie into a bow in front.
Jesus, she’s stunning.
She looks just like any other golfer’s wife or girlfriend but a thousand times better, because she’s mine. She looks like she belongs here. And I curse myself a thousand times in a thousand different ways for never asking her to come with me. To be here standing off behind the spectator rope, knowing she’s watching, supporting me, cheering me on, and loving me. Because fucking hell, I know she loves me, even if she hasn’t said it. Her being here right after I walked away from her when she begged me to stay is proof of that.
Why in the hell did I never ask her to come with me?
Spectators are still walking back and forth not far away, rushing to another hole to watch someone who doesn’t keep hitting their balls into the rough, while an official still keeps the small crowd of people waiting for me to take my shot held back about fifty feet from us.
“What are you doing here?” I ask softly, not even caring that people are waiting for me.
“Apparently, I’m watching you really suck at golf, Campbell.”
I don’t like her use of my last name, but I deserve it, and I also deserve the tiny snort from the official still standing a foot away from me.
“Also, free hot dogs.”
Birdie shrugs, and I just shake my head at her with a smile as she brings a hot dog up to her mouth with just ketchup on it in a paper wrapper, taking a bite out of it.
My palms are sweating, and my heart is thundering in my chest, and I know I need to decide what the hell I’m going to do with my shot, but all I can do is stand here staring at Birdie casually eating a hot dog. She wipes her mouth off with a napkin in her other hand as Bodhi comes up next to me and hands me my 7-iron.
“You’re still 230 yards away from the pin and buried under a cypress. Play the 7-iron off your back foot and get the ball at least 50 yards closer to the green with the 10mph tailwind. Hey, Birdie, it’s about time you got here.”
I should have known this was Bodhi’s doing, and now him spending all morning on his phone makes sense.
“My flight was delayed twice,” Birdie answers him before pointing her hot dog in my direction. “Chop-chop. I didn’t fly almost three thousand miles overnight sitting next to a man who smelled like onions and ate a tuna fish sandwich at four in the morning to watch you play like shit for the first time at one of these things. You’re an asshole for never asking me to come with you. I just want you to know that.”
“I know,” I quickly tell her, gripping my 9-iron tightly in my fist, wishing I could go to her and wrap my arms around her, but there are still people and cameras watching from a distance. And even though she’s here, I don’t know how she’d feel about a bunch of PDA on national television. “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.”
Birdie sighs, cocking her head to the side.
“I’ve been in love with you since the day I met you. Soul-sucking, mind-numbing, can’t breathe or think straight in love with you for fifteen years. Not two years, not two months, not two weeks. Fifteen years.”
The blood is rushing through my ears so loudly I’m surprised I can hear the words coming out of her mouth, but I do. I hear them, and I soak them up, and I almost want to laugh and call her a liar, but I can see it written all over her face, and I don’t know how in the hell I never saw it before.
“Birdie…” I choke out, the only thing I can manage to say when she smiles at me with that full, beautiful, megawatt Birdie smile with the dimple.
“I think that deserves a little better than last place,” she finishes. “Now, I’m sure this lovely gentleman would like you to get your ass moving before he gets fired for you taking so long.”
Birdie smiles at the official standing next to me, and he just smiles at both of us.
“No worries, ma’am. This is the most exciting thing to happen to me at work ever. It can get very boring out here.”
“Word, man,” Bodhi agrees from the other side of me, giving the official a nod.
“Go kick some ass, Palmer,” Birdie tells me with another big smile, my heart finally thumping in my chest happily instead of in a panic before she jerks her chin back behind me and takes another bite out of her hot dog as she starts stepping back to move over by the other spectators, basically telling me to get back to work.
So I do. Because the woman I love and who loves me right back is going to be standing
behind the spectator rope, inhaling free hot dogs and cheering me on. I step up to my ball and line up my club, picturing Birdie’s face when she told me she loved me.
Birdie…
Birdie…
Birdie…
All I have to do is make this ten-foot putt. I can do this damn thing in my sleep.
My palms sweat around the grip of my putter, and I take a second to shake each one out, wrapping my hands back around the rubber and taking a few deep breaths. With a quick glance out the corner of my eye under the shady brim of my hat, I see Birdie standing about twenty feet away and off to the side behind where Bodhi stands next to my bag. Her stomach is pressed right up against the rope, and both of her hands are covering her mouth and nose in the prayer position. Her body doesn’t move an inch, and I know she’s holding her breath, just like she’s done with every shot I’ve made when I’ve snuck a peek at her, reassuring myself it wasn’t a dream and she’s still here loving me and supporting me.
And bringing me all the fucking luck and magic in the world. Ever since Birdie got here, I have successfully honored her declaration of love, and her nickname, by shooting for birdie on the next twelve holes in a row. All I have to do is make this putt for birdie one last time, and I will have gone from dead last to first place.
