Not because she needs me.
Because I choose her.
And it's time I said so.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Tala
I finish third.
The final hole at Oakmont is a par-4 with teeth — a fairway that narrows into a corridor guarded by bunkers and thick rough, a green that slopes treacherously back-to-front, and a pin position tucked behind the deepest sand trap on the course. I'm two shots behind the leader, a Japanese player named Ayumi Kuroda who has been methodically, quietly, relentlessly brilliant for four rounds.
The aggressive play exists. A high draw around the corner of the dogleg, carrying the bunkers, landing on the front apron, rolling to birdie range. If I make eagle — a possibility so remote it barely qualifies as mathematics — and Kuroda bogeys, we're in a playoff.
Keoni gives me the yardage. He doesn't recommend a club. He's been careful about that all week — offering information without opinion, letting me build the decisions myself. It's a different style than Nerys's. Less precise. More respectful of whatever process I'm currently running.
I think about what Nerys would say.
Not the specific words — I don't know what she'd say about this hole, because she's seven hundred miles away and I don'thave her notebook. I think about the framework. The way she'd present the probability. The way she'd stand beside me, close enough that her voice arrived before the wind did, and give me the math without choosing for me.
The aggressive shot is a fifteen-percent play. The conservative shot gives you a realistic birdie from eighteen feet, which locks up third place — your best-ever major finish. You don't need eagle. You need to not make a mistake.
I select the 7-iron. Lay up to a hundred yards. Pitch to eighteen feet. The birdie putt rolls past the hole by two inches. I tap in for par.
Third place at the US Women's Open.
The gallery applauds. Keoni takes the bag. I sign the card. I walk to the media center.
The interview is brief. The reporters want drama — they want me to discuss the scandal, the separation from Nerys, the sponsors who suspended their campaigns after my press conference. I give them golf.
"I played every shot the way I wanted to play it. Third place following the right process feels better than winning because I got lucky."
A reporter asks: "Do you wish you'd gone for eagle on eighteen?"
"No. The math didn't support it. And I trust the math."
I leave the press room. I change in the locker room. I walk to the parking lot.
Keoni is loading the bag into his car. He's driving back to Sacramento tonight. I asked him to caddie for one tournament. He agreed to one tournament. The terms were clear.
"Keoni."
He straightens. Looks at me.
"Thank you."
"You played well."
"I played your cousin's strategy. The one she built. She's a better caddie than me and a better strategist than anyone I've worked with and I lost her because I hesitated for one second when she needed me to be certain."
Keoni is quiet. He leans against the car. The evening light makes his face look older than thirty-two — or maybe it's just the light of a man who has watched his cousin grow up and is recalibrating his assessment.
"Then go tell her that."
"She said she won't take my calls."
"Who said anything about calling?"
