8. Peyton #2
After seeing his obviously fake smile when he interacted with Bobby, the genuine one that spreads across his lips gives me a little rush. I’ve never been this happy to see someone’s teeth before.
Callum rubs the back of his neck, clearly a little uncomfortable with my praise. “Um, thanks. I think I mentioned that I played competitive sports in the past, so I guess that’s where I get it from.”
“Yeah, but you said high school, which immediately made me believe you were one of those Glory Days Guys.”
He tilts his head, and the little line that I’m kind of obsessed with makes an appearance between his brows. “What’s a Glory Days Guy?”
“Like those guys that swear if they didn’t pull their big toe senior year of high school, they’d be a professional football player right now.”
Callum laughs, leaning forward against his seatbelt—which remains buckled, even though the cart isn’t moving. “I’m happy to report that I don’t know any Glory Days Guys.”
I place my hands over my cheeks dramatically. “Consider me shocked. Not even one of your former teammates? Which sport did you play in high school again?”
“Soccer,” he says quickly, glancing at his watch. “But I think I see the rest of the group arriving. We should grab our clubs.”
Callum exits the cart and picks up his bag, which looks brand new.
He removes the sock from his driver, and I do the same.
We both wave to Abigail and Vincent, who are wearing matching monogrammed sweaters.
Paul follows closely behind them, his luxury-brand sunglasses screaming “I work for my dad.” I need to reel them all the way in before I dial up the influencing back at the clubhouse, so I turn my charm back on.
By the ninth hole, our group has nicknamed Callum Gremlin of the Green. He absolutely hates it.
And as each golfer waits for their turn at the last tee, I mingle.
With Callum by my side, I speak comfortably with the men, asking them questions about themselves.
When they tell me about their jobs and education, I nod as though hedge funds and ivy leagues are two topics I’m extremely interested in.
Callum even chimes in here and there with follow-up questions and compliments on their form.
Surprisingly, he’s been socializing just fine all day. I even heard him lie once, telling someone that he golfs “every weekend” and has been enjoying this course “immensely.”
Immensely? Wow, I’d mouthed. This man broke out a whole thesaurus for that comment.
Shut up, he’d mouthed back with a crooked grin.
I eye the only other woman in our group, a younger blonde wearing jewelry worth at least a few grand.
“Abigail, I love your golf bag,” I gush. “Is that vintage embroidery?”
She runs her hand over the thick red stitching. “Oh, yes, thank you. Vincent got it for me last year at the Summer Soiree auction.”
I place my hand over my heart. “It’s stunning. Just like your tennis bracelet. Cartier?”
She nods, and a faint blush dusts her cheekbones. “A wedding gift from my husband.”
“Well, he did great.”
“We’re lucky that our men know how to pick quality jewelry. Yours did good, too. Look at the layering.” She gestures toward my necklaces.
The shorter one is my medical necklace from Medical Necklaces, Incorporated. It cost three easy payments of $9.99.
I purchased the longer one at a gas station kiosk on my way here.
I run my fingers over the necklace I found by the Waterton Quickway register next to the Altoids, hoping my white glove doesn’t come back dyed green. “Thank you, I’ll tell him you think so.”
I peek at Callum, but he walked over to the beverage cart with a few of the men who finished the hole, and while they’re all within eyesight, it’s still parked away from the green. There’s just Abigail, Paul, and me left to play, then we’ll join the rest of the group at the clubhouse.
“Peyton. You’re up, babe,” Paul says.
I haven’t had a lot of contact with him yet, but at first glance, he seems like a quintessential country club bro. I think he’s in his late twenties like me, though his hairsprayed comb-over ages him up a bit.
My eyes dart to Callum again, but his back is to me.
I’m antsy to put this work assignment behind me, but I also find myself wanting to wait for him to join me before I swing.
We’ve been playing a secret over/under game on what my final score will be, and my initial estimation was so overly confident that it’s actually comical now.
But I can’t hold the group up, so I roll up the sleeves of my sweater, bend down, and place my tee.
Taking a couple of practice swings before aligning my feet, I’m about to bring my club back for a real one when Paul presses the front of his body against my back.
His hands slide down my arms, and all I can do is freeze, silent panic screaming through me at his touch.
No! I shout in my head. Run! My mind screams it so loudly that my ears ring. The words claw at my throat, but I choke on them. Numbness invades my limbs.
I’m trapped in his grasp, and the sky starts to turn bright red and fuzzy. Paul breathes hot air on my neck, muttering something about my form. The air, poisoned by his cologne, turns rancid, and I gag.
Words like “loosen up” and “relax” drone loudly in my ear like locusts I can’t swat away. The noise suffocates me, pulling me under.
And slowly, but surely, my grit dissolves. My No! turns lazy, and my Run! looks like resignation, as I succumb to the fear dragging down my body.
It’s Paul’s chuckle that breaks me, that causes me to drop my club. Once it falls to the ground, he releases my arms to bend and pick it up. As soon as his hands are off me, I know I’m going to be sick. “I… I… be right…”
I slam my mouth shut and sprint to the other side of the green, hoping that no one follows me into the forest preserve.
I make it only three steps into the rough before falling to my knees and vomiting.
Bile burns my esophagus as it rushes up my throat, and I throw up twice more, dry-heaving into the tall grasses that surround the trees. Hot tears stream down my cheeks.
My arms are on fire. I look down, expecting some blisters, but there aren’t any to be found.
Just sweat and goosebumps as my body makes desperate attempts to self-regulate.
My stomach lurches, and I retch again, though nothing comes out.
The sour stench hits me, and I cough and gag from the smell, unable to stop heaving.
After several minutes, when the nausea has subsided, the backs of my eyes start to burn.
I glance at my sweater, which is covered in vomit, and immediately pull it over my head, throwing it on the ground. The chilly breeze swirls around me, and I shiver in my polo dress with nothing to cover it. My adrenaline starts to plummet, teeth chattering from the crash.
I hear fast footsteps behind me and moan. If it’s Paul, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m too weak to move, and I can’t pretend to be fine. Fuck. My skin starts to prick like there are little bugs crawling up my fingers.
The sound of leaves crunching gets closer until I see Callum stepping around my sick and crouching down a few feet in front of me.
It’s almost worse, him seeing me when I’m like this, collapsed on the dirt surrounded by puke.
A mixture of shame and relief overwhelms me at the same time, and I hug my waist.
“I’m…” I start coughing again, my voice losing the battle in the war for air.
“Hey. Hey, you’ll be okay. Everything is fine,” he soothes, the low tone wrapping around me. He doesn’t come any closer, and I could emotionally hug him for it.
“Abigail told me you might be sick, so I brought some water.” He sets down two water bottles, both unopened. “But I’m not sure… I can go get whatever you might need if this isn’t helpful.”
Everything in me screams to grab the bottles of water and pour them over my arms, where Paul’s hands touched my skin. If I were alone, I would. I’d scrub my arms with the cold water until they felt normal again.
“Paul, um, touched me, and…” I wipe the snot dripping from my nose. “And I don’t like to be touched.”
I think I see a flash of protectiveness in his eyes, but he doesn’t look surprised, and he doesn’t look enraged. His neutral reaction makes me feel so safe. I want him to stay nearby, but the urge to wash my arms still floods my nervous system. I wipe my eyes. “Do you mind giving me a moment?”
He nods. “Should I come back in a few minutes?”
It’s not like I’d let him carry me to the golf cart, so there’s no point in him returning for me.
I shake my head. “No, I’ll meet you there. I won’t be long. I’m starting to feel a little better.”
He picks up the water bottles. “Should I take these back, or—”
“No. No, please leave them,” I say hastily.
“Okay, Peyton. Call if you need me.”
As soon as the sound of Callum's footsteps disappear, I crack open the water bottles and pour them on my arms. Even in the cold, I feel relief the moment the water hits my skin.
Cautiously lifting only the clean sleeve of my sweater off the ground, I scrub my arms back and forth.
First, my right arm, then my left. I keep scrubbing until the burning sensation lessens.
When my arms feel tolerable again, I notice a few scratches from where I rubbed them too raw. A new wave of shame envelops me, followed swiftly by embarrassment.
I flip my sweater inside out, and roll it into a small ball, careful to leave only the clean parts exposed, and stand.
I still feel slightly shaky on my legs, but gingerly walk back to the cart anyway.
I know my arms are cherry red. My humiliation feels heavier the closer I get to Callum.
At least it looks like the rest of the group went back to the clubhouse.
When I reach him, I slide into the front seat, leaving space between us. I bend down and set my ruined sweater on the floor of the golf cart.