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I shrug and look down at the table, tracing the tip of my finger through a carving in the purple-painted wood. My great-grandfather built these picnic tables, and each one is painted a different bright color. Everyone on Summersweet Island knows the purple table is our table, and has always been our table, and not just because this is where Tess, Wren, and myself have held every single Sip and Bitch night since we were twelve and discovered how frustrating boys are. Back then, we called it Sip and Fuss, because we were twelve and classy young ladies. It wasn’t until we were older that we switched from drinking slushes from the ice cream stand and complaining about boys, to adding vodka to the slushes and complaining about men.
And everyone on the island also knows this is our table and no one is allowed to sit here after 9:00 p.m. just in case a Sip and Bitch urge grabs ahold of us, because we carved our names into the top of the purple table in the far back corner. And not just our initials or our first names. Our full first, middle, and last names. And they take up the entire top of the wooden picnic table, because we’re assholes, and I have no idea why my mom never grounded us for that.
“I call bullshit.” Tess shakes her head. “There is no way you saw Putz Campbell after what he did to you and you didn’t unleash a holy hellfire on him that lasted a minimum of ninety minutes.”
I wanted to. God, did I want to. I wanted to chuck my driver to the side, grab my 9-iron out of my bag, and imbed it into his skull when I turned around and realized the unwanted golf advice came from him.
You know, after I was stunned stupid for a few seconds, couldn’t believe he was actually standing in front of me, close enough to touch after all this time, and I wanted to cry at how good he looked. Even wearing that ridiculous golf shirt. I wanted to close the distance between us and launch myself into his arms just like every single time he’d been standing in front of me before, but I couldn’t. And that killed me. And then it pissed me off. Instead of jumping into his arms so I could see if he still smelled like that rich boy cologne he always wore that did some serious things to me, I backed up and wielded my club at him like a weapon.
“I did introduce him to his new nickname and called him an absolute piece of dog shit. But it didn’t make me feel as good as I thought it would,” I admit, taking sip of beer, since I just did some bitching.
“Are you high?” Tess scoffs. “It should have made you feel amazing to tell him off. He was one of your best friends since you were fifteen, and then he blocked you on social media and got a new cell phone number, but not before accusing you of being a stalker.”
And just like that, the rest of the beer in my bottle is gone and nice and delicious in my tummy. I’m digging a new one out of the cooler and halfway through that one when Wren speaks quietly.
“I still think there’s a logical explanation.”
Tess and I both scoff at the same time. Wren has always had a soft spot for Palmer, although she’s learned over the years to keep that soft spot to herself.
I only ever knew long-distance when it came to my friendship with Palmer. When we met, he went to school on the mainland, and depending on his school schedule, his golf team schedule, and traveling for whatever tournaments his dad signed him up for, he could be here on the island once a week, three times a week, or not for a couple months. It was always a crap shoot on when I got to see him during the school year, but summer… the summer months were always my favorite.
His dad made him focus on nothing but golf training then, and he would rent a cottage for the summer so they could be here full time. And his dad was rarely here, always going out of town to do something to boost Palmer’s career, and then I got to corrupt him in the best possible ways and get him to loosen up. After he graduated, Palmer always stayed here on the island in between tournaments, but those times were few and far between, and they would only last for a few weeks at most, but any time he was on this island were the best times of my life.
But he ruined that. I was always his biggest fan, even when he went pro and nine months could go by between his visits to the island. We still had the magic of technology and talked or texted or video-chatted almost every day. I always shared every accomplishment he made everywhere I could on social media. I was a proud best friend who sometimes—all the time—had inappropriate thoughts and dreams and fantasies about that best friend and what would happen if he ever stayed in one place long enough. And then he called me a stalker after too many shares of a freaking badass long-distance putt he made at The Bedford Classic and never spoke to me again.
