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“I hate that I feel like I have to hide. That I have to prove myself time and time again.” My hands shake on the wheel and I find a spot to pull over. Eyes stinging, I admit, “I want to move on.”

“From Sabrina?” she asks.

I shake my head and sniff. “No, I knew that relationship was dead even before the cheating and the divorce. I want to stop feeling like I have to hide who I am. I see the way people look at me at the country club. They stare. They judge. Sometimes I get the feeling they’re scared of me, or at least my reputation.” A few tears stream down my cheeks and I rush to wipe them away. “I want—” My voice breaks and I grit my teeth.

“You want connection,” she says, letting the word hang between us.

Connection. That’s exactly right. I blow out a breath and let my body relax. Connection.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Why do you think you can’t have that?”

“I—” My mouth snaps shut. Why can’t I?

Once the silence stretches on too long, she changes the subject. “How are you handling the news?”

“I’m going to participate in a pro-am for charity. My agent thinks being out in public and changing the narrative will help.”

“Do you agree?”

I rap my fingers against the steering wheel. “Yes.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I agree with him. Doing this might be a good first step in finding those connections too. But start small,” she adds.

“How so?”

“Find one person who is not in your close circle and aim to make a connection,” she suggests.

My mind immediately goes to Hazel. She’s worked at the country club for months now. I’ve seen her and interacted with her before, but never really gave her the time of day. I was too caught up in the perception of how others saw me, that if I were to let them in, they’d see how miserable I actually am. That they’d decide I’m not worth their time.

“One person?” I ask, mind still on the cute brunette and her wild, curly hair.

“Take that as your homework for the week. Find one person to connect with, on whatever level you feel comfortable with. It could be the barista at your favorite coffee shop, or someone in your employ,” she says.

“Okay.” I nod along. “I’ll try.”

“Call me next week and we can talk more in depth,” Dolores says.

I thank her, ending the call. I wait on the side of the road for another few minutes, taking in deep breaths. When I’m ready to drive again, I turn back towards the country club.

Hazel is still in the pro shop, this time cleaning shelves. I hesitate for a moment, unsure if this is still the right choice. Mike’s words echo, telling me I have to find a partner for the game. They blend in with Dolores’s instructions to try and make a connection.

I sigh and make my way to her once more. “Hazel, do you have another second?” I wince as I realize I’ve startled her again.

Her brown eyes widen and her hand goes to rest over her heart. “You really have a way of sneaking up on me,” she says. Then she smiles, so wide that it lights up her whole face.

I stare for longer than what’s deemed appropriate, I’m sure. “What?” I ask, when she’s still beaming at me.

“That’s the first time you didn’t call me Thomas.”

I huff a laugh and shake my head. I want to say something flirty back, ask her if she likes me calling her by her name or if she’s open to nicknames. But the image of her boyfriend grabbing her by her waist and kissing her comes to mind. My smile dims and I clear my throat.

“Right. Listen, there’s something I want to talk to you about⁠—”

“Is it Brody? I’m so sorry about the way he behaved, I promise that will never happen again,” she says vehemently, wide eyes looking around, almost embarrassed.

What does she have to be embarrassed about?