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And now I’m getting a semi.
While Glen’s still facing away from me, I adjust. I imagine Atlas standing next to me, teasing me,“You getting hard over me with my dad on the eighth green?”
“It’s the sixth, thank you very much.”
“What’d you say?” Glen asks.
Fuck, did I say that out loud? Really need to watch my mouth. This isn’t the time to be blurting out certain things I can’t get out of my head.
“I was making sure we’re on the sixth green,” I explain.
“Yeah,” he replies, repositioning himself for his swing.
“Even if Atlas doesn’t love golf, I think he’d appreciate the invite.”
“You just don’t know him as well as I do.”
I beg to differ, Mr. McCallister.
“Besides, it’d just turn into a fight. Always does.”
That, I believe.
Glen takes his swing, and his ball flies across the grass. He chuckles, clearly pleased with himself before we move along, like I didn’t say anything at all. Glen’s selective hearing is something of an art. I don’t know how Mom can stand it.
When we finish this hole, Glen says, “I think that’s all I have time for today. Is that all right?”
“Totally understand,” I say, suppressing a sigh of relief.
“Good game, Troy.” And then, of course, he reminds me of the disparity between our scores—in his favor, or he wouldn’t mention it. I figure we’ll head to the cart and then back to the clubhouse, but he says, “You know, what you were saying about Atlas.”
So he was actually listening? Damn.
“I know you mean well, but he has an entitlement issue. Thinks the world owes him something. Doesn’t owe any of us anything, and he’s just gotta get that into that head of his.”
My chest tightens, fist balls up.
I want to say,Well, I bet you didn’t know your son volunteers to help people less fortunate, and every time I hear you talk about charity, it’s only as a deduction, so maybe he gets how the world really works better than you do. Maybe he’s not like you thought at all.
Maybe he’s not like any of us thought.
I have to admit, before he revealed his activism, I never would have guessed. Not that anyone has to be a certain kind of person to help people, but it sounds like this is something that matters to him, and he’s never mentioned it. And clearly, he didn’t want to mention it to me. At least not until the other night.
We finish up, and it takes me about thirty minutes to get from the course to campus. I’m eager to get out of my polo and jeans and into a crop top and gym shorts. That done, I collapse onto my bed.
It’s nice having my afternoons back now that I don’t need to be working through all that crap with Ash. He’s still helping me, but the recent test has given me confidence that I’m at least caught up with the rest of the class, so it’s not the three-times-a-week cram study sessions they were.
I whip out my phone, and without thinking about it, I’m on Instagram, checking to see if Atlas is active.
He’s not, but if I send him a DM, maybe I can change that.
Why do I even want to message him?
I know the answer: since messing around, I have so many questions.
Why this particular charity? How long has he been involved with it? Has he messed around with other guys? Did he like having my cum on his face?
Okay, maybe that last one I’ll keep to myself.
