Chapter 13
brOOKES
My phone vibrates against my thigh as I hate-fuck a bucket of balls with my driver under the guise of long-range practice.
Today has been a day, and it is barely noon.
Tugging my phone from the pocket of my shorts, I see Poppy’s name on the screen and I briefly consider ignoring her call, but then I realize, right now, I could probably do with the distraction.
Tossing Matt my driver, I walk away and answer with a low, murmured, “What’s up?” A sniffle greets me, and immediately I’m on edge because… is she crying?
“Hello?” I press, my voice firm.
“Oh, hey,” Poppy says, clearing her throat. She was definitely crying, but now she’s trying to act like she wasn’t. Something’s up. “I’m sorry, I-I don’t think I can come tonight.”
What the fuck?
“Uh, you have to,” I scoff and then, looking around to make sure I’m out of ears’ reach, I lower my voice again. “It’s literally your job.”
“It’s just—” Her voice cuts off, a loud, wailing sob blubbering out of her and through the phone. I’m forced to pull the device away from my ear to prevent any permanent loss of hearing.
“What’s wrong?” I demand, cutting to the chase.
Poppy sniffles again. “I went… to get a dress,” she says with a hiccup. “And normally I never let anyone get to me but they… they were so mean to me.”
“Who was mean to you?” I shake my head, more lost than I’ve ever been before because what the hell is going on? “Poppy, take a damn breath.”
She takes a stammering breath and continues, “The sales assistant. At Bellamy’s. I’m too fat to shop in their store.”
“I beg your fucking pardon?” I growl before I can stop myself.
Poppy sighs. “I mean, it was my own stupid fault for even going there in the first place. Of course they don’t stock my size. I’m a sixteen for chrissake. I’m not going to be able to find a dress for tonight, Brookes. I’m not a size six.”
I find myself pinching the bridge of my nose because I don’t know what any of those words even mean, and I can feel a headache fast approaching. Then, glancing up, I look at Jonesy sitting in his fold-out chair, reading his newspaper while he and Matt wait for me.
“Where are you?”
Poppy sniffles again. “In your car. Worth Avenue.”
“Okay. Just… wait there. Go... get a coffee or something.”
“I don’t drink coffee after midday.” She’s still blubbering. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Then get a goddamn milkshake or something, I don’t care.” I snort. “Just stay there.”
Ending the call before she can annoy me more than she has already, I walk back to where Matt is waiting for me, looking none too impressed. Bypassing him, I continue to Jonesy.
“Can you call your wife?”
Jonesy looks up at me from his newspaper, one bushy eyebrow arching. “Do… do I have to?”
“It’s Poppy,” I say by way of explanation. “She needs… help.”
Jonesy is fully aware of my agreement with Poppy, since it was technically all his idea.
He refuses to believe it’s fake, having told me with the utmost certainty that by the time we come to the end of our contract, it will be anything but, but he’s also toeing the outskirts of dementia, so unless it has to do with golf, I take what Phillip Jones says with a grain of salt most of the time.
With a grumble, Jonesy pulls his phone from the pocket of his trousers and, holding it at arms’ length to see the screen, he fumbles with the device before moving it to his ear.
“Sweetheart? Yeah… baby girl, I’m with Brookes… yeah, he needs your help, darling.” He looks up at me, listening to whatever his wife is saying to him in response, and then, with a smug smirk, he hands the phone over to me.
“Hey, Lori,” I say.
“Well, hi, honey!” Lori Jones’ thick Texan accent rings through the phone.
“Are you… free right now?” I ask, hopefully.
“Oh, baby, for you I’m always free; you know that.”
I sniff a laugh. “I know you technically have never even met her, but… Poppy… she needs some help finding a dress for the children’s hospital charity gala tonight.”
“Well now, don’t you go threatening me with a good time,” Lori shrieks. “Where’s she at, baby?”
“Worth,” I say. “She just had a… shitty experience at Bellamy’s… apparently.”
“Well, now that does not surprise me one bit with those assholes who work there.” Lori scoffs. “You tell that cute little ray of sunshine that I’ll be down there in less than ten minutes and that Black Amex of yours better be ready for a workout, okay, honey?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I smile.
“Bye, baby.” Lori makes a kissy sound into the phone, and I take that as my cue to hand it back to Jonesy.
Grabbing my cell again, I text Poppy.
Me: Lori Jones is on her way to you right now.
Poppy: Jonesy’s wife??
Me: Yeah. She’ll help you.
Me: And you’re not fat.
Poppy: Yes, I am.
Me: You’re not! Don’t say that.
Poppy: I am fat, Brookes. And that’s okay. Fat isn’t a bad word. There is literally nothing wrong with it. The only people who ever make it an issue are non-fat people who try to use it like a weapon.
As I read her rant, I realize she’s right. In my opinion, I wouldn’t classify Poppy as fat. But I suppose technically she is. Fuck, I don’t know. I also don’t know why I am currently texting a girl, arguing over whether she’s fat or not.
Poppy: I’m fat. And I’m hot. Sure, I have my off days, but even the most beautiful people feel self-conscious sometimes.
Wanting to lighten the mood, I can’t help myself with my reply.
Me: Yes, yes we do.
Poppy: OMG, Brookes
Me: People are assholes, Poppy. Don’t listen to them.
Poppy: I try not to. Sometimes it’s hard though. I’m human, after all…
I chew on my bottom lip as I mull over my next response, not sure if it could be considered as crossing a line. The last thing I need is to make anything blurry. But, I’m also a sucker when it comes to a crying woman.
Me: Fuck the haters. You’re beautiful.
Poppy: Thanks, I know
I can’t help but chuckle at that, but then, when I realize both Jonesy and Matt are watching me, I snap back to reality, wiping the smile from my face and tucking my phone into my pocket.
“Alright, let’s get this over with,” I mutter, grabbing my driver from Matt and moving back to the tee.