3. Bryn
Chapter three
Bryn
“Bryn, there he is. You have to go apologize for calling him a stupid dick.”
Izzy shoves my arm, forcing me to stop inhaling my french fries and focus on the spot where a freshly showered “Dick” has just walked through the door into the club’s restaurant and bar area.
I thought golf-attire Dick was handsome, but he is nothing compared to the version walking in front of me in slacks and a white button-down shirt. His dark hair is just long enough to need to be brushed back from his face, and his eyes are a piercing green that is noticeable even from twenty feet away. The man has a presence that can’t be denied, and, based on the number of people staring at him when he walks in, I’m not the only one who feels that way.
It’s unfortunate he was so hot and cold this afternoon. After our rocky start, there had been a minute there when I thought he might be worth getting to know.
“I didn’t call him stupid. I implied he wouldn’t pass some made-up test to get into Wild Bluffs. Or a secret society. Maybe Atlantis?” I groan. “And I’m honestly not sure if I was insulting his character, IQ, or his psychological state. All were included in the test.”
Izzy blinks a couple of times, clearly trying to work through what I just told her. I drop my head into my hands. “You know things just come out of my mouth without me knowing what I’m saying!”
I quickly glance up, eyeing his table, and again feel the twinge that comes with knowing I’m forgetting something.
“Do you recognize him, Iz? Is he from Wild Bluffs?”
Not many of the locals are members out here, with the club primarily catering to out-of-town big shots who fly into the small airport in town on their private planes, but enough are members to warrant the question. While unlikely that I wouldn’t recognize a local, I’ve been out of high school long enough that it’s possible I don’t know everyone in town anymore.
“Hmm…” She turns, giving him a long once-over. “No. Definitely not a local. But he does seem familiar. I think it’s the beard that’s throwing me off.”
This is what I love about Iz: though she is very different from me in temperament—the sweet to my sour, if you will—we always seem to be on the same wavelength.
“That’s what I was thinking too.”
Taking a bite of my cheeseburger, I watch as Dick looks over the menu at his table. Seeing him sitting there all alone, I do feel a bit bad about what I said earlier. Even though he is a dick, clearly something I said hit a nerve with him in a way that I really hadn’t meant it to.
“Wait.” Becca leans over me, craning her neck to get a better look. “That’s Dick? He is hot.”
“I told you he was. You’re the one who chose to give me a five-minute lecture on how you and I do not see attractiveness the same way. Then you ate my s’more.”
Becca takes a drink of her margarita, shrugging as she puts it down. “I was drunk then.”
“And you’re not now?”
“That’s beside the point. Now I’m feeling just the right amount of buzz to go introduce myself to Hottie McHotterpants.”
Izzy rolls her eyes. “You would. I could be hammered and would still never be drunk enough to go introduce myself to a complete stranger. People are the worst.”
Pinching her cheek, I smile. “Yes, Iz, it’s one of the things we love about you. And, while you aren’t wrong, I luckily did not inherit the anxiety and overactive imagination genes that burden you with expecting to become a pariah following each of your social interactions.”
She rolls her eyes at me, self-aware enough to not argue the point.
Mentally squaring my shoulders, I push away from the table. “I’m going to go say sorry.”
Becca widens her eyes at me, clearly surprised by my decision. Izzy, on the other hand, wears a slightly smug smile. Damn. She does know me too well. Actually, she might’ve just reverse-psychologized me into this whole thing.
As I make my way across the room, I notice a deep furrow between Dick’s eyebrows.
Looking up, his eyes land on me, and his frown deepens. He can’t still be mad, can he?
Shoot, deciding to apologize may have been a mistake.
Maybe I could detour to the bar? No, I would definitely look like a crazy person after pulling the necessary ninety-degree turn it would take to get there. I quickly run through any other possible escape routes and realize there’s no bailing on this plan at this point.
Shit, shit, shit.
With that helpful thought, I stop just shy of Dick’s table, forcing a slight smile on my face.
“Hi!” I squeak out in a voice much higher than normal. Clearing my throat, I try again. “I mean, hey, sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to apologize for earlier. I definitely shouldn’t have said what I did earlier. I’m sure you could pass the Wild Bluffs/Atlantis test.”
He looks me up and down, taking in my bright orange golf shorts that I still haven’t changed out of. Shoot, I probably smell. Can I casually smell myself without him noticing? As I tilt my head down and start to breathe in, I think better of it and return my head to its full upright position. Flight attendants everywhere would be proud.
“You,” he starts, his bearded jaw tightening, “think apologizing to me for saying I can’t pass some imaginary test will make me give you the time of day?”
What the actual fuck?
“I’m actually not looking for any time out of any of your days, thanks. I felt bad because you seemed way more offended about not being let into an imaginary secret group than the average person does. But I don’t know anything about you, so I figured that maybe it was some random sore spot because at your dental practice back home you have a hygienist who won’t let you into her secret club, and it’s demoralizing, and you’re beginning to question your intelligence and self-worth, and you just can’t take it anymore. So I wanted to say sorry.”
Dick stares at me for a moment, confusion prominent on his face before his frown turns into a smirk. “No worries.” Running a hand through his hair, he takes a deep breath. “I may have misread the situation and reacted a bit aggressively. I was also in the middle of a shit round in what is turning out to be an overall shitty year. Not that that’s a good excuse for acting the way I did, so I’m sorry too.”
I turn to go but am pulled back when he releases a deep chuckle and asks, “You think I’m a dentist? Who is being bullied by his hygienist?”
“Well, I mean, not necessarily a dentist. My dad is a dentist, so it just popped into my head. My mom is his hygienist. Though, to my knowledge, she doesn’t bully him. Or lead a secret society…or lost city.”
His eyes twinkle a bit at my story. “Ah, well, that clears up so many things.”
I notice his waiter, Tony, hovering a few steps away, clearly waiting to take the man’s order.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. But yeah. Again, I’m sorry for”—I wrack my brain trying to remember what I did to make him angry—“whatever I did, I guess.”
I nod at Tony. “Hey, Tony, how’s your mom?”
“She’s doing all right. Hip is getting stronger every day. Started being able to walk up and down stairs again.”
I smile, thinking of his mom, Brenda, and her love of puns.
“Hip, hip, hooray!” I chuckle at my own joke. “Glad to hear it. Well, I may have accidentally hit this guy’s ball today and then insulted him through unknown means.” Tony, whose sister I was friends with growing up and therefore knows about my lack of filter, laughs. “So can you put his drinks tonight on my tab?”
Tony glances between us, his eyebrows furrowing. “You want me to put Mr. Walker on your tab?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just this once.” But that name releases the memory that has been bouncing around my head. I turn, squinting at the man in question, trying to see past his annoyingly attractive beard. I stare harder at the dangerous cut of his jaw as my pulse kicks up.
“Wait. Did you just say Walker? As in Jameson Walker? The professional golfer?”
I start laughing. I can’t help myself. I called him a dentist when, in fact, he is one of the top golfers on the PGA Tour. Or at least he was until this last season when he became notorious for how quickly he fell. No wonder I thought I recognized him.
He dips his chin in acknowledgment.
“Oh God.” I continue chuckling. “I take it back, then. If I’ve learned anything from Nike and Titleist, it’s that I should not be seen sponsoring this guy.”
I slap my hand over my mouth. “And now I’ve insulted you again, the one thing that I came over to fix. Classic me, really,” I say, wishing I could find a rock to hide under forever. “I’m double sorry. Tony, keep his drinks on my tab, and I’ll go ahead and leave you alone so you have a chance at having any sort of a good night.”
I quickly walk back to our long table on the other side of the dining room, strangely aware of his eyes following me.
Is it possible to die of mortification? Maybe I can get some version of a shock collar that zaps me before I say things like that? I still have no idea what I did to offend him in the first place, but I guess, on the positive side of things, I do know what I said to offend him the second time.
Utterly embarrassed, I slouch down in my seat next to Becca, who is basically bouncing in her seat at this point.
“Guess what Kelli told us when she came over to take our order?! ‘Dick’ is actually Jameson Walker. Like, that Jameson Walker.”
“Yeah.” I bang my head against the back of the tall seat. “I found that out. It would’ve been helpful if Kelli could’ve shared that information about five minutes ago, before I completely made a fool of myself.”