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Since I can’t rely on my sister for details, I’m on my own, and there’s really nothing I can do. I don’t have his phone number or email address, which means there’s no way to contact him. Besides, what would I say if I could? I would love nothing more than to cyber-stalk him, scroll through his Instagram feed and get a feel for the type of person he is. Who knows, maybe I could find a photo of him stepping on puppy tails or something to moderate my rapidly developing schoolgirl crush, or maybe I’d find photos of him on a rented yacht with sleezy girls in bikinis. But, from what I know about him so far, I’d be much more likely to find a picture of him on a barge with nuns, delivering aid to Haiti after a hurricane.
One night, after a long shift, I type his name into Google just to confirm he has no Facebook. No Twitter. No Instagram. He’s a rare breed of human, floating through life untethered to social media. Isn’t he curious what every single person from his high school is up to at any given moment? He’s missing out on such important events as Kathleen introducing little Josie to solid foods and Macy returning from her fourth trip to India, feeling #superenlightened.
The other possibility is that James is lying about who he is. With such scant social media presence, it could be the case, but another quick Google search confirms that I’m just paranoid. There are enough articles about him published online to confirm everything he’s told me. The Google rabbit hole leads me all the way back to his senior photo from some preppy boarding school. His dark hair was longer then, hanging over his forehead in the way only high school boys (and Justin Bieber circa 2009) can truly maintain. He is so handsome and confident in the photo, like he knows he’s only a few years away from grabbing life by the balls. High School Me would have had a major crush on High School Him. Hopefully, Present Day Me will be smart enough to keep that information from Ellie.
The next day, I walk into the club for my lunch shift and casually peruse the reservations. James’ name isn’t on the list. COME ON. I breeze past the kitchen and employee locker room, running into one of the caddies for the golf course.
“Anyone good on the course today?” I ask like I couldn’t care less.
The guy—Harrison—stops dead in his tracks and beams at me. We haven’t talked before; I guess there’s never been a reason.
“Hey! Yeah!” Then he shakes his head, as if coming out of whatever spell my attention put him under. “Oh, wait, no. The course is closed for maintenance today.”
“Oh, bummer.”
It is a bummer, because that means I have to go another day without seeing James.
My luck continues when a major rainstorm rolls in during my shift. There are flash flood warnings and clouds that look like they’re coming directly from Mordor. I rode my bike to work today, and usually I would call Ian for a ride, but when we bumped into each other in the co-op hallway earlier, he pretended like he didn’t see me. The days of him playing the part of my chauffeur are long gone, and I wasn’t smart enough to cast an understudy.
My Uber arrives quickly and then promptly drives away without me once he sees my (now muddy) bike propped up beside me. I would have moved it off the bike rack earlier if I’d known it would get drenched.
My last hope is Ellie, but it’s her day off and she’s not answering her phone. Chances are she’s sucking face with Tyler, but I send off a few desperate text messages just in case.BROOKE: Hey! I need a ride! CALL ME.
BROOKE: Major rainstorm. Flash flooding. Could die. Please call me.
BROOKE: Currently floating down the Colorado River. Can’t…hang on…much………loongeerrr…Movement to my left catches my attention and I glance up before I can shoot off a text to Ellie outlining my death in great detail.
James is walking out of the entrance of the main clubhouse with a pretty woman in tow. I freeze, shocked that he’s here after I didn’t see his name on the reservation list, but I suppose it wouldn’t be there. It’s 3:30; whatever he’s doing here, it’s not for lunch or dinner. I assumed I’d have to endure another shift at the club without him, but here he is looking just as handsome as I remember.
I’m sure his date thinks so too. Date—I bristle at the idea. No, it’s the middle of the afternoon, so they can’t be on a date, right? It’s too bad I can’t hear what they’re saying. I’m standing about 15 feet to their right, tucked beneath the porte cochère so I’m out of the way of the valet and protected from the rain pelting down from the sky.
