3. WYATT
CHAPTER 3
WYATT
“Fuck,” I mutter, hanging my head and fighting the urge to chuck my iron into the air.
“What the hell is that cart doing there?” My father stalks toward the cart my ball just hit, his gloved hand balled into a fist at his side.
I race after him. “I shouldn’t have hit anywhere near that cart, anyway. The green is ten yards to the left of it.”
“One mistake at a time,” he tosses over his shoulder as we reach none other than Larissa Emerson in a beverage cart.
She puts it in reverse, and the beeping of it rings so loudly that a few birds flit from the trees. A couple of squirrels scatter too. “Shoot,” she clips as she turns off the fucking nuisance and releases a huff.
“Miss Emerson,” my father says on a heavy exhale. “I thought that was you in the clubhouse. How nice to see you.”
His tight smile suggests it’s not nice to see her at all, and my muscles tense. I grip my club harder as my entire body surges to the proverbial edge, ready to jump into action if need be.
“Likewise.” Larissa flashes us a mediocre grin, and her shoulders rise. She visibly steels herself.
My father is not her favorite person, and vice versa, so this is just fan-fucking-tastic .
“What are you doing off the cart path? And why did you come to a stop right here?” Dad grills her. “You could’ve been injured. Plus, you ruined my son’s shot.”
“Like I said, I shouldn’t have sliced it so far to the right, Dad. It was my fault,” I say as evenly as possible, then turn to Larissa. “I’m sorry.”
Her shoulders relax a fraction, but she clams up again when my father speaks.
“If she hadn’t parked the thing here, there would be nothing to apologize for,” he snaps.
“You’re totally right.” She grips the steering wheel until her knuckles turn white, and my stomach churns. “I’m sorry. You won’t see me for the rest of the day. No need to worry about me ruining anything for your son.”
The double meaning splits open a wound I thought I’d sealed years ago, and I wince as if I just ate something sour.
I sidestep my father to stand between him and her, and I open my mouth to apologize again, especially for Dad’s harsh tone.
But she speaks up again. “Good luck today. Don’t hit it into the water.” Her usually melodic voice assumes a sarcastic edge, and when my father steps out of earshot, she takes her sharp jab a step further and mumbles, “Or do .”
Then she jerks the cart into drive and zips away, leaving me alone with the sound of drinks and ice cubes rattling in the coolers. The echoes mix with the thundering beats of my heart.
“No distractions,” my father calls out in warning as he marches back to his ball in the fairway.
I remain frozen in place for a beat before I shake myself out of my trance and trudge after him.
When we find his ball, he points toward the pin. “We still have a chance to par if I get this onto the green.”
I grumble my agreement and give him room to show me up, all while the guilt I felt in the clubhouse earlier continues to fester.
Dad lobs the ball onto the green, where it bounces once and settles seven feet from the hole. I drain it with minimal effort, which is impressive, considering my head is in fucking turmoil.
My father places the flag back into the hole, then drives us to the next tee box. All the while, he drones on about what I did wrong instead of what I did right with that putt.
While we wait for the group ahead of us to finish, I pull my phone out and open my social media. I’m hit with several tags from posts with my interview right after I secured my tour card a couple of months ago. Many highlight my winning putt and publicly congratulate me on my levelheaded attitude through every shot.
But I bypass it all and search for Larissa.
The trees along the cart path, plus the birds and clouds, blur as I click on her profile and immediately find a picture of her taken in the clubhouse lobby with the giant turkeys. Her server friend occupies the second turkey, and their matching smiles are wide and overly exaggerated. I’d think they were at Disney World with those kinds of grins.
Of course, Larissa would be this excited about a couple of turkeys. They were probably her idea. She’s always been vibrant and fun like that.
I scroll through her most recent pictures. A Halloween party last month, where she dressed as a sunflower. A pumpkin patch with her friends. Coffees and mimosas with her sisters.
I skim all the way to the pictures of her summer, most of which consist of beach days with books and margaritas in a can. She still likes oversized floppy hats too. They’ve always been her beach staple.
“Do I look like a Hollywood starlet from the fifties?” she asks, tugging on the edges of her large hat on either side of her face and pursing her lips into kissing fashion. The white-framed sunglasses perched on her nose are also large, swallowing half her face, and it makes me chuckle.
I snap a picture with my phone, add a vintage filter, and sit on the checker-patterned blanket next to her. “Maybe from the sixties,” I say and show her the picture.
She nudges me with her shoulder. “Smartass.”
“You like my ass.”
“Not as much as you like mine.”
“Damn right.” I cup Larissa’s cheek with my free hand and nudge her glasses upward with the tip of my nose as I kiss her.
The waves crash along the shore, and kids squeal with delight as they chase one another with water guns. Couples and groups of friends lay out on beach towels. Umbrellas of various colors are perched in the sand like trees in the ground, providing shade for families.
These afternoons with my toes in the sand and Larissa in my arms—ones we spend away from reality—are my favorite.
I know, even now, that someday, I’ll look back on these days and wish I’d experienced more of them.
I grip my phone and smile. I’m happy Larissa hasn’t changed, although curiosity has been clawing at me since our run-in.
Why isn’t she in New York taking the fashion industry by storm? It’s what she always dreamed about. She talked about fashion as much as I did golf.
“What are you doing?”
I glance up to find my father glaring down at me from the tee box, and I scramble to get out of the cart and get my head in the game.
When I stand, I drop my phone, but I don’t stop to check that the screen isn’t cracked before I toss it back onto the seat and snatch my rangefinder from its holder.
Without a word, I sidestep my dad and use the rangefinder to discern the distance to the hole. “Three hundred yards.”
“I’m aware,” my father states. “I already checked it, which you would’ve known had your head not been buried in your phone. You know the rules, Wyatt. No phone during golf. It’s a distraction.”
“I know, Dad,” I clip, and I follow it up with an exasperated exhale. “Can I hit the ball now?”
I don’t wait for his response or permission. With my head low and nostrils flared, I march to the back of the cart, slide the cover off my driver, and climb the short hill to the tee box. The phantom smell of sunscreen and taste of salt infiltrate my senses as I remember those beach days now more than ever.
I shove the tee harder than necessary into the ground and have to adjust its height. With the ball balanced on top, I step back for a practice swing, then line my stance up, center the driver face, and breathe.
The crack of the club against the ball is music to my ears. The echo vibrates in my damn soul as the ball soars into the cloudless sky all the way… into the pond.
The splash fucking mocks me, and my eye twitches as I come to terms with the fact that today is not my damn day.
And it’s all because of a girl from my past whom I never stopped wanting.