Page 14

14

QUINN

Two weeks. That’s all we have left before summer ends, before I can walk off this course for the last time and leave it behind me forever.

Unless, of course, I come back again next summer.

It’d be pathetic, wouldn’t it? To graduate and still be working at this overpriced playground? But a job’s a job. And money’s money. And an English lit degree doesn’t exactly come with a golden ticket to financial security.

Maybe I’ll teach. Maybe I’ll write. Maybe I’ll spend the next ten years waiting tables while I figure it all out.

I adjust my bag, shifting the weight across my shoulders as I lead Davis and Mancini down the fairway. It’s an overcast morning, heavy with heat, the kind that seeps into your skin like a warning.

The sun’s tucked behind a thick layer of gray, which should make the air feel cooler, but it doesn’t. It just makes everything stickier, thicker, harder to breathe.

I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth, checking in with myself. My chest is tight, but not too tight. My breathing is even, but I know better than to trust it. Humidity like this always makes it worse.

I ignore it, adjust my grip on the clubs, and keep moving.

Beckett isn’t here today, thank God.

I noticed the second I checked the schedule this morning, the second I stepped onto the course and saw only the two older regulars waiting for me. A small mercy. One I won’t question. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he’s out of town. Maybe he just decided not to golf today.

I don’t care. So long as it means I don’t have to see him, hear him, pretend I don’t want to claw his eyes out for touching me. Besides, I’d rather not be questioned about the whole tire debacle and accidentally give away something I shouldn’t.

Davis lines up his shot, adjusting his grip. Mancini huffs, watching him struggle.

“Jesus, just hit the damn thing already.”

Davis ignores him, takes the swing. The ball soars through the air, not bad, but not great, either.

Mancini claps him on the shoulder. “Nice. Should’ve done that the first time.”

Davis flips him off. “Let’s see you do better, then.”

Mancini grins, stepping up. He likes to act like he’s a laid-back guy, like he doesn’t take this seriously, but I know better. They all do. They might not play for anything more than bragging rights and a few bucks here and there, but that’s enough.

I step back, shifting my bag, keeping my breathing measured as they play. I’m hyperaware of the way my lungs pull a little too hard with each inhale, the way my skin feels flushed and heavy, like I’m wearing the humidity as a second skin.

I glance toward the golf cart, where my water bottle is tucked into the side compartment. It’s not far. I should grab it and take a second to cool down, reset. Instead, I just draw a slower breath, press my tongue to the roof of my mouth again, and keep moving. No one likes a caddy who slows things down.

The round stretches on, shot after shot, hole after hole. My steps grow more automatic. The air gets thicker. Every blade of grass feels like it’s sweating.

And then it shifts.

Not the weather—though it’s still pressing, still stubbornly gray—but something in the air between them. The rhythm changes. The banter dies off. A beat of quiet slips in, sharp and purposeful. Davis adjusts his glove. Mancini takes a little too long lining up his next shot. They exchange a glance. One of those looks. A silent handoff of whatever thought they’ve both been sitting on.

I feel it before they say anything. That prickle across the back of my neck. The slow, creeping sense that whatever comes next, I’m not going to like it.

Mancini clears his throat, shifts his stance like it’ll make this easier. “So, uh . . . we heard about Beckett’s car.”

My heart skips. Just once. But I keep my expression blank. “Oh?”

Davis nods, adjusting his glove. “Yeah. Apparently, someone slashed the tire on his Maserati. Real clean cut. Almost surgical.”

I grip the strap of my bag tighter. “And?”

Mancini shrugs. “Well, there are a few theories floating around.”

I don’t respond, just keep walking, leading them toward their next shot. Keep your head down. Keep moving.

Davis exhales, feigning casual. “He’s saying it was you.”

I stop. Slowly, I turn. “Excuse me?”

Davis shrugs, like this is normal conversation. “Yeah. Says you’ve had it out for him. That maybe you’re a little, you know . . . scorned.”

It’s so absurd I almost laugh. But I don’t. I just blink at them, gripping my bag so tight my knuckles ache.

Mancini glances at Davis, then back at me. “So, did you two . . .?”

The implication lands like a slap. They’re asking if I slept with a man twice my age and then got mad when he wouldn’t commit.

I shake my head, disbelief curling in my chest. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

Davis lifts his hands, mock innocence. “Hey, we’re just trying to understand the situation.”

A flicker of heat rushes to my cheeks. Not from the sun, not from exertion. From the sheer, searing humiliation of standing here, on this perfectly trimmed patch of grass, while two grown men casually toss around rumors like they’re harmless.

I keep my voice even, but it takes everything I have. “There is no situation.”

Mancini whistles low under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “So, it’s not true? You and Beckett?”

I blink, stunned all over again. I thought the implication had been offensive enough. I didn’t expect them to double down.

“No,” I snap. “God. No.”

Davis lets out a low chuckle like I’ve just confirmed something, and I feel it again—that sharp, crawling sensation under my skin. Like I’m suddenly too visible. Like everything they’re seeing is being filtered through someone else’s lies.

“Well, he’s telling everyone you freaked out,” Davis adds, shrugging like it’s out of his hands. “Started screaming at him on the green last week. Something about boundaries?”

I go still. My breath falters.

So that’s it. He twisted it. Warped it into something else. Of course he did. Of course the version he’s telling has me emotional, dramatic, irrational. A girl who overreacted to something harmless. A girl who slashed a tire out of spite.

My jaw tightens. “He touched me.”

They both blink, the bravado slipping slightly from their faces. Mancini shifts his stance. Davis actually has the nerve to look uncomfortable.

I should stop. Should let it drop. But I don’t.

“He grabbed me. Without my permission. And when I told him not to, he laughed.”

Silence. Thick and heavy.

Davis clears his throat. “Shit. I mean . . . that’s not what he said.”

“Yeah.” I toss my bag to the ground, eyes hard. “No kidding.”

Mancini and Davis go still. The shift is instant, immediate. I feel the full weight of it, the thickness of the moment pressing in around us, sticking to my skin like sweat. I shouldn’t have said it. I should have kept my mouth shut. Because now, it’s real.

It’s more than just Warren that I’ve admitted it to.

Mancini is the first to truly react. His lips press together, like he doesn’t know what to say, like he doesn’t know how to hold this in his hands.

Davis exhales, low and slow. He looks away, jaw tight.

And then Mancini clears his throat. “You want us to get someone else to finish the round?”

It throws me off. The way he says it. Not dismissive, not accusing, just . . . painfully neutral. Offering me a way out.

I bristle. “You’d rather not deal with me now that you know?”

Davis shakes his head, stepping forward. “No. We still want you. You’re the best,” he says simply. “You’ve always been the best.”

Mancini nods. “And Beckett’s a dog.”

The comment is so quiet, so certain, I don’t know what to do with it. For a second, I feel the sting behind my eyes—the kind that comes when someone unexpectedly believes you, when you didn’t even know you were waiting for it. I blink it back. Swallow it down.

Davis glances at Mancini, then back at me. “We’ll handle him. Get him to drop the tire thing.”

I study them, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for them to laugh, to brush it off, to say something that proves this is still just entertainment to them. But they don’t.

Mancini just exhales, shakes his head. “Fucking dipshit’s gonna ruin his own life sooner or later.”

Davis nods. “Might as well make it sooner.”

And just like that, the round continues. Like I didn’t just lay something bare. Like they didn’t just hear something that should have meant more.

That’s what gets me—not their reaction, not their quiet solidarity. But the knowledge that it won’t stick. That this won’t change anything.

Because at the end of the day, they’re still his friends. And I’m still peripheral. Just another story that will flatten into anecdote. Something they’ll reference once or twice, then forget.

It won’t live in them the way it lives in me.

And I won’t ask it to. Because letting them forget is easier than trying to make them remember.

* * *

I don’t know why I said yes to this.

It’s been two years, and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve spent time with Alyssa and Jordan outside our apartment. Not because I think it would be a bad time—it wouldn’t. We get along well enough. Keep things easy. Just enough small talk to fill the space, never pushing past the edges of something safe.

I prefer it that way. Surface-level. Simple. I like the kind of connection that doesn’t require work or vulnerability. What I don’t like is the weight of being known.

And yet, when they threw out the invite this morning—one of those casual, throwaway things, a flippant hey, we’re doing happy hour later if you wanna come —I didn’t do what I always do. I didn’t deflect. Didn’t give them my usual, nah, maybe next time or I ’ve got work in the morning or rain check .

I just said, sure .

The second the word left my mouth, their eyes widened, surprised I’d actually said yes. Like the invitation had been more of a courtesy than something they expected me to accept.

They recovered fast, masking it with casual smiles, and I followed suit. Shrugged it off, pretended it was no big deal. Like it wasn’t completely out of character for me to say yes.

Now, hours later, I’m on a bus heading to meet them in the next town over.

They’re like that. Economical girls. City girls. The kind who take public transit without thinking, who thrift their entire wardrobe and know which bars have half-off martinis before six. The kind who can throw together an outfit in five minutes and still look effortlessly pretty.

I can be that girl for one night.

The ride is short, but I still find myself fidgeting. I adjust my bag, check my phone, even though there’s nothing to check. No texts from Wesley, which means he’s fine. Nothing from work. Nothing from—

I shove my phone back into my pocket before I let my mind wander too far.

The bar is tucked onto a quiet street, all glass windows and moody lighting, with a name I can’t remember. Inside, the air smells like citrus and warm bread, and there’s a hum of conversation under the slow, thrumming beat of some indie song I don’t recognize.

Alyssa and Jordan are already at a high-top table near the window, a wooden charcuterie board spread out between them, two nearly empty cocktail glasses on either side.

Jordan sees me first. Her eyebrows lift in slight surprise before she schools her face, smiling. “You made it.”

Alyssa turns. “Damn, I was about to put money on you bailing.”

I smirk as I drop into the empty seat beside them. “I can turn around now if you’d prefer.”

Jordan kicks my shin lightly under the table. “Shut up.”

I roll my eyes but settle in. The lighting is warm, the scent of toasted rosemary drifting from the board in front of me. There’s a tiny jar of fig jam, some briny-looking olives, a neat stack of thin crackers.

Alyssa gestures toward the spread. “We already ordered. But get a drink. We’re staying for a couple rounds.”

I nod and let them fall back into easy conversation—some guy Jordan met at the gym, the playlist Alyssa’s been obsessing over, their half-formed plans for a beach trip that may or may not happen before classes start. It’s light, familiar, but it feels like I’m watching from the outside, like I missed too much time with them to fully fall back in.

It’s not their fault. I kept my distance. And now, I don’t know how to close it.

The waiter swings by, and I order something simple—a gin and tonic, easy to sip, easy to keep my hands busy.

Alyssa presses her hands to her cheeks. The slight flush of pink over her freckles tells me she’s already a bit tipsy. “So, what’s with you actually agreeing to come out with us? Is the world ending? Did you get fired?”

Jordan nudges her. “Don’t scare her off.”

I shake my head. “Just felt like getting out for a bit.”

Alyssa hums, skeptical. “And you chose us?”

“Would you rather I didn’t?” I ask.

“Nah, I’ll take it,” she says with a grin. “And I’m fully prepared for you to ghost us again for another three months.”

Jordan snorts. “That’s ambitious. Try six.”

I roll my eyes and take a slow sip of my drink. They fall into another round of chatter—Jordan ranting about her stats professor, Alyssa reenacting a particularly awful Hinge date—and I offer the occasional hum or half laugh to let them know I’m listening.

It’s strange, this whole thing. Sitting here, half-wrapped in the warmth of their voices, their jokes, the clink of glasses and hum of conversation around us. It’s not familiar, not really. But it’s simple. Undemanding. A version of connection I forgot I might still be capable of.

So, I let myself have it. Just for tonight. I press my fingers to the cool curve of my glass and stay exactly where I am.

Not watching the door. Not reaching for my phone. Just here.