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She gets the hint, pouts a little, waves at us, and drives off, heading over to a group of middle-aged men who are already semi-sloshed. I’m sure she’ll get a much better reception over there. I’m glad to say that Maxwell and Chase are both loyal to the death to their wives, and Andrew isn’t the type to go for women who are flirty and frivolous.
“She was offering herself up on a platter to you, in case you didn’t notice,” Andrew mentions mildly. “In case you were interested in some kind of non-alcoholic distraction.”
“You think?” I scoff. “And no.”
“Interesting…” His words trail off. I don’t say a word. I don’t need to get into this topic with a group of men who have all their relationship shit figured out.
I need to focus on something else. Like hitting this damn ball.
Instead, we spend the next half hour watching me absolutely suck at golf. Bogey after bogey.
My final score is 140. Un. Fucking. Believable. I’ve never been a big golf fan, but I’ve played plenty of games with my father, and this is the worst I’ve ever done.
We retire to the clubhouse and sit outside, where we order dinner and a round of non-alcoholic drinks. The sun is low on the horizon, melting into a lake of glorious reds and yellows, and I am hating this place for no reason at all.
“Mason Raker,” a waiter crows. “Will you sign a menu for me? Man, I love you.”
I smile wryly and comply, happy to see that so far, my reputation appears to be intact. I’ve avoided all televisions, refusing to search for news on what’s going down in New York. It’s why I’m here. To allow the professionals to do their job and clean this shit up.
“Thanks, man.” He hurries off.
“It’s really hot out,” Andrew says to Maxwell. “Feels like 140 degrees.” They all laugh. Har de har.
“Fuck you very much.” I look at the menu. “I’m going to have the prime rib.”
“How much does that cost? $140?” Maxwell asks, and they all chuckle.
“Are you going to beat that joke to death? Are you going to repeat it 140 more times?” I grouse.
“You are an absolute joy to be with today,” Andrew observes. “Talk to us. Please. Seriously, I know we’re razzing you, but we’re doing it with love. We’ve all screwed up our lives at various times in various impressive ways. Did I ever tell you about how I tried to pick up a girl at a nightclub one night and barfed on her chest? I was banned for life, by the way.”
“Yes, you have,” I sigh. “At least you have freaking parents who actually care about you.”
Chase coughs. “My dad nearly murdered my girlfriend, now wife, and also poisoned a swamp by improperly disposing of toxic waste, and he’s serving a lengthy prison sentence, and my mother effed my brother and I over really badly, and it took a lot for us to forgive her.”
“Oh, hell. Sorry.” I wince. I remember it now. “Look, guys, I know I’m being a miserable bastard. Feeling like crap tends to do that to you. Why don’t I leave so you can enjoy yourselves?”
Andrew shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have a lot of fun knowing that you’re sitting in your room stewing in misery. So talk. What’s going on with you? You wanted to come here, you promised an explanation, and you have yet to deliver it.”
Our appetizers arrive, and I wait until the waiter walks away. I shove a bite of loaded potato into my mouth, chew, and swallow.
Everyone’s staring at me.
“Eat,” I suggest. “The food is delicious, and expensive.”
“We’re on a hunger strike,” Chase says. “Actually, I’m starving, so start talking, please.” He glances down at his pile of nachos. “I feel faint,” he adds.
They’re not going to let me get out of this.
“Okay. I’m an idiot. I met someone. She’s amazing, wonderful, fucking gorgeous. Actually, Rowan was assigned to be my publicist, and I gave her an enormous amount of crap ... what?” I ask, as Chase and Maxwell glance at each other.
“This is painfully familiar.” Chase smiles. “My wife started out as my personal assistant, and I wanted her so badly that I absolutely screwed everything up between us. For years.”
“He did.” Maxwell nods in agreement. “Please, carry on.”
“Anyway, after a little while we started kind of dating. She held back, she didn’t trust me, and she also was very, very dedicated to her career. As she should be. She’s great at what she does. I mean, she managed to make me look like a saint. That’s like scooping up horse manure and making it glitter like the Hope Diamond.” I give a bitter laugh. Self-mockery is always a good defense.
“Give yourself some credit,” Andrew says. “You always were your own worst enemy. You have a good heart underneath it all, and she was able to show that. You worked with kids with leukemia ...”
