26. Shelby
SHELBY
In the few weeks I've been living with Beau, we've learned how to navigate a lot of things.
We don't run into each other in the kitchen each morning anymore.
I can now successfully estimate when he's going to choose to walk around the house without a shirt on and therefore successfully avoid him because...
well, seeing Beau without a shirt on makes me stupid.
We've even settled into a nighttime schedule that includes dinner and chill time where sometimes I read and he plays on his phone, sometimes we watch a show together, and most times I fall asleep on the couch.
But today is the first day I feel like I'm being held hostage in a house that's not mine, because all I want to do is go outside and work on my putting.
Why can’t I? Great question. It’s not raining. Not one thousand degrees outside. The putting green hasn’t been overrun by tiny, annoying, furry rodents. No, my husband is filming a fucking YouTube video, and I want nothing to do with that, which means the only place safe is in this house.
“Gah!” I start pacing around the kitchen for the hundredth time, feeling like I’m in a really fancy prison.
I had my whole day planned. I got up. I’ve already been to the driving range.
I’ve done a workout. And the next thing on the to-do list was to get in an hour of putting before…
Well, I actually have nothing else to do for the rest of the day, but this is what I wanted to do now.
Live with your husband, they said. It won’t be that bad, they said…
I’ve known for a while that I need some hobbies, or to make more friends than just Gabi, but I kept putting it off, always figuring out a way to fill in my time with golf.
That decision is really biting me in the ass right now.
Because my one friend isn’t available today because her son has a doctor’s appointment.
I could go over and play a round at the club, but that’s going to come with stares and whispers.
It could all be in my head, but I swear they never looked at me before like they are now.
Like somehow I’m using Beau. For what? His money?
Clout? Tips for my golf game? I’m not sure what they could be thinking, but I have to be in the mood to ignore the whispers and side-eyes, and today isn’t the day.
Along with that, I’ve heard rumblings that Chad is back in town.
That’s an interaction I'd like to delay as long as possible. And, while I don’t need Beau to defend me, I really don’t want my first run-in with him to be alone.
He’s never been physical toward me, but with how his mood swings have been, and how things ended in Vegas, I wouldn’t put anything past him at this point.
Which is why I’m standing on Beau’s expansive back patio, looking down at the putting green, wondering when he’s going to be done. Judging by the putt he just missed, not anytime soon.
“Are you almost done?” I shout out, not caring if I interrupt his video. I’ve seen enough to know that they’re all recorded. He can edit this out later.
Except Beau doesn’t acknowledge me. He had to have heard me.
I’ve been accused of a lot of things in my life, being a quiet person has never been one of them.
But Beau doesn’t look up. He doesn’t even give me a “one second” finger motion.
He just goes along with his day, talking to his phone—that I’m assuming is in camera mode—and ignores me.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I say as I march down the stairs to the putting green.
Which…I don’t even know if this can be called a mere putting green.
Beau wasted no expense on it. It’s so large you can practice every angle, speed, and turn of a putt depending on where you put your ball.
As for what he’s doing right now? It looks like he’s trying to make a fifty-footer that has more ups and downs than a roller coaster.
“Ah! So close!” he says to the putt he just misses. “If you had attempt one hundred nineteen, sorry I ruined it for you.”
“One-nineteen!” I yell out. “You seriously haven’t made that putt in a hundred nineteen attempts!”
Again, Beau ignores me. Well, verbally. He does give me a side-eye.
Is he trying to tell me something? I barely speak Beau let alone receive Beau telepathy.
But if he thinks his silence is going to get me to move, he has another think coming. No, I’m going to stand right here next to his phone, arms crossed, hip popped, and wait Beau out.
Because, unluckily for my husband, I’ve got nowhere to be.
“Thanks for the gift, Scottie. Appreciate it, man.”
Who the fuck is Scottie? Is his gift going to beam him up? And why is Beau purposefully still not making direct eye contact with me? While that’s a thought I never thought I’d have, it’s annoying now that it’s happening.
“Alright, folks! We’re on to attempt number one hundred twenty. Who in the comments thinks this one is going to be the time!”
I can’t believe he hasn’t made it yet. Sure, it’s a long putt, and Beau’s never been a great putter, but even he’s not bad enough that it would take him more than a hundred chances to sink a putt on the green he built.
“That’s not going to go in…” I mutter as I watch shot number one-twenty in its path. To the common eye, it has a chance. But I know there’s a dip in the green three feet before the hole that he’s going to hit perfectly. It’s going to push the ball to the right and he’s going to lip out.
“Damnit,” Beau mutters.
Did he really think it had a chance to go in? Or is he playing it up for the camera? My guess would be the second.
“Alright, here we go, attempt one hundred twenty-one!”
“Absolutely not,” I say, now just tired of this whole thing. “Give me the damn putter.”
Completely ignoring the panic in Beau’s eyes, I grab the putter out of his hands.
“Shelby, maybe you shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t what? Make the putt?”
“Shelby…”
“Watch and learn so you can end this,” I say, lining it up. “You need to hit it more to the left, the right break is killing you.”
“Shelby, you should probably know—”
“Know what? That I’m a better putter than you? I’ve known that for years, Big Boy.”
My comeback doesn’t get a reaction from Beau, which gives me the silence I need to hit the perfect putt. I step back and watch it roll. Good speed. Good line. And because I put it exactly where I wanted to, the break is going to come and put the ball….right in the hole.
“There,” I say, shoving his putter back into his chest. “There’s the line.”
“Yes. That’s the line,” Beau says, his eyes still wide while he’s also looking at the video camera, and then back to me, then back to the video camera. “And to everyone who’s on the live stream, that would be my wife showing me why she’s the better putter in this marriage.”
Did he— Did he just say…live stream?
My eyes nearly pop out of my head. “Oh…I…”
Beau steps up to the camera, reaching for my hand as he does. “Let me hit pause on this real quick, make sure I don’t need to take the trash out, then I’ll be back to see if I can do better than Shelby just did.”
I’m speechless as I wait for Beau, who I see hit something on his phone before stepping out of it’s line.
“I told you I was on a livestream.”
I make a circling motion around my face. “Does this look like the reaction of someone who knew it was a livestream? Also! When did you tell me? I promise you never said those words.”
“I just did!” he shouts. “I said it with my eyes.”
“Your eyes?”
“Yes. I gave you a look.”
“That was your ‘I’m on a livestream’ look?”
“Yes! What did you think it was?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?” I shout, throwing my hands in the air. “So you’re telling me I went on a live stream, made a putt you couldn’t make off the cuff, and now that video is going to be on the internet forever?”
Beau shrugs and nods. “Someone’s probably already edited it and put it on a fan page somewhere.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“How did I marry a woman so chronically offline?” he asks, but I’m pretty sure that’s a plea to whatever God he believes in to help him in this situation. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen.”
“What’s going to happen is you’re going to delete that video from the internet.”
“Doesn’t work like that,” he says. “Sorry, Shelby, the internet is forever.”
“Ugh, I hate you,” I grumble. “Can you at least wrap this up? I’m trying to practice. You know, because I’m a golfer.”
“And I’m not?”
“You’re…” I’m so frustrated I can’t speak correctly. “I don’t know what you are besides a pain in my ass."
Beau takes what I believe to be a “trying to calm down” breath.
He even adds dramatic zen hand motions with it.
“I’m not going to stop the live stream. If I don’t get it by one-fifty, I’ll wrap it up.
But I do this every Monday. Or at least I try to.
Some sort of live, interactive stream. It helps with my engagement, and the money that comes in is stupid considering I’m just sitting out here and putting. ”
I study his face, and I don’t even know why. It’s not like he’s lying to me about this. Or if he is, it seems like a stupid thing to lie about.
“How long do you think that will be?”
“Another hour. Max.”
I take a breath. The damage is done, and I guess the only choice I have at this moment is to wait it out. “Fine. One hour. Tops.”
His smile is reminiscent of a child who was just told he could have the sleepover. “You’re the best.”
He leans in to kiss my cheek, but I quickly push away from him. “One hour, Devereaux. I’m timing you.”
I start to walk away when I hear Beau’s voice, apparently talking to his audience again. “Alright, guys. Sorry about that. I’m back. Shelby wanted to stay, but she didn’t want to show me up anymore. She’s the best wife ever.”
I don’t turn back, instead I just put up a middle finger as I walk back to the house.
“Aw, guys! And she just told me she loves me. God, I’m a lucky man.”