Chapter 50
Ace
It’s a warm, overcast Sunday morning at Winged Meadow, the kind of private NYC-exclusive golf course where memberships cost more than most people’s cars and the grass looks like it gets Botox.
My dad invited everyone out for a casual round. Though, Gunnar already bailed, and only Kline and Wes showed up to suffer through the experience that is golfing with Thatcher Kelly.
Not to mention, nothing is casual when it comes to him.
He’s wearing limited-edition Jordans on the green, teeing off like he’s trying to launch satellites, and putting with his driver “for efficiency.” He slices every third ball into oblivion but insists he’s having “an off day.”
Wes is trying to pretend it’s not getting to him, but I see the muscle twitch in his jaw every time Thatch skips a wedge and takes a full swing out of a bunker.
Which leads me to believe this round of golf might have nothing to do with bonding and everything to do with my dad finding an opportunity to prank my uncle Wes.
And clearly, it’s working.
My own golf game? Utter trash today.
We’re currently at hole five, and I step up to tee off. I take a swing, and the ball slices hard left and disappears into the trees.
Thatch whistles. “You trying to tee off or snipe a bird out of a tree?”
“Like you should talk,” Wes chimes in. “I feel like I’m out with the Temu version of Tiger Woods today with your incompetent ass.”
“You talking about my game, Wesley?” my dad counters, and Wes nods.
“Yeah, Thatch. I am. It’s shit.”
“I’m warming up,” Dad retorts. “Just wait until we hit the back nine. That’s always where I catch my fluffing stride.”
“That’s if you have any balls left to tee off with,” Kline interjects.
It’s pretty clear that my dad and Kline are back to being friends, though one might complain the timing is complete shit now. I mean, it would’ve been nice if the bastards could’ve sorted their crap out when I still had a shot at making Julia fall in love with me.
Now, I’m out of her life, and our stupid fathers are the only ones with a fucking friendship.
I tune out the Three Stooges, reset my stance, and try again. This time, the ball soars straight down the fairway, landing clean.
“There he is!” Thatch cheers. “Only took some warm-up swings and a minor emotional crisis, but we’re back, baby!”
I don’t bother to respond. My head’s not in it—not with Kline casually mentioning back at the first hole that Julia was having brunch with her mom, grandma, and sister at the Plaza. Said it like it was no big deal.
Which, it shouldn’t be a big deal. But it is. I used to be part of those brunch recaps. Used to know what she ordered, how annoyed Evie was through the whole damn thing, and how Savannah kept trying to sex-therapist Julia’s mom.
Hell, there’ve been plenty of times that I’ve tagged along. Today, I probably would’ve. Golfing with my crazy fucking dad is always a last-option kind of gig.
But now, I’m finding out about the brunch through her dad, and I’m not a part of it all.
I’m not part of anything when it comes to Julia.
My dad and Wes and Kline walk ahead, arguing about whose turn it is to pick up lunch at the clubhouse. And I hang back and pull out my phone.
Julia’s name is still pinned at the top of my messages.
Still no new texts from her.
Before I know it, I’m typing.
How’s brunch?
I pause and backspace each letter away.
What the fuck is going on with us, Julia? Everything feels wrong
Delete.
I miss you so much it hurts
Delete.
I stare at the blinking cursor until it disappears, and then I lock the phone and shove it in my pocket.
“Acer!” Thatch is waving me forward. “You good?” he calls out.
“Yeah,” I say and start to jog to catch up with them. “All good.”
But it’s a lie. I’m not good.
I’m not good at fucking all.