With a frustrated sigh, I abandon the typewriter and pad to the kitchen. It’s nearly two o’clock, and I haven’t eaten lunch, so even though I’m not hungry, I open the fridge and scan theoptions. Looks like it’s a turkey and cheese on wheat. Then maybe, I’ll try to read a book.
I put the ingredients on the counter, but they sit untouched as my gaze drifts to the TV in the family room. I swore I wouldn’t watch the round today. That I needed space to breathe.
But I cave.
The Golf Channel springs to life, a wide shot of the Harbor course filling the screen. The commentator’s voice, in that hushed, reverent tone they always use during tournaments, is saying, “…and Granger’s really struggling to find his rhythm today. After starting the day four shots back, he’s now fallen to six behind the leader.”
My stomach drops as the camera cuts to Hays lining up a putt. Even from this distance, I can see the tension in his shoulders. He takes his usual three practice strokes, but something’s off about his timing, and his grip seems too tight.
The ball slides past the hole.
“Another missed opportunity for Granger,” the commentator continues. “He just can’t seem to find the bottom of the cup today.”
Another analyst chimes in. “You have to wonder if the media attention surrounding his personal life is affecting his concentration.”
The camera zooms in on Hays’s face, and my heart clenches. Frustration etches in every line of his features. This is my fault. I know it, and from the looks of things, so does everyone else.
I reach for the remote to turn it off, but freeze when they cut to a slow-motion replay of his swing on the previous hole.
“Notice the rhythm there. It’s just not clicking for Granger today. He’s built his reputation on unshakeable self-confidence, that impenetrable mental game, but it’s almost like hesitation is creeping into his swing today.”
I snap off the TV and make my way to my bedroom, cracking open the jewelry box on my dresser, and staring at the engagement ring nestled inside. The happily ever after it teases is an unlikely scenario now, not that I ever really believed it was a real possibility.
I snap the box closed and set it back down. Next to it, in my ring dish, sits the pressed penny. The token I learned, months after he gave it to me, Hays used as his ball marker for years. I slide it out, rubbing the surface between my fingers and close my eyes, remembering the night on the boat when he pressed it into my palm.
“So you know without a doubt I’m serious about this. About you. About us.”
Even then, his faith in me, in us, was unwavering. While I’d been cataloging all the reasons it wouldn’t work, he’d been carrying around proof some things are worth holding onto forever.
The sound of car doors slamming makes me freeze. Then, a few seconds later, when my doorbell rings, I startle.
“Leah? It’s us!” Sarah calls through the door. “We brought reinforcements!”
I breathe a sigh of relief and slide the penny into my pocket, heading to the front door. Sure enough, through the peephole, I see Sarah, Cora, and Emma standing on my porch, loaded with a tray of coffees and what looks like enough takeout to fuel an army.
Grateful for the distraction, I unlock the door and open it wide enough for them to slip inside. “What are you guys doing here?”
“Rescue mission,” Cora announces, squeezing past. “We figured you might need some company.”
“And coffee,” Emma adds, carrying the to-go cups that smell like heaven.
Sarah gives me a long look as she enters then she pulls me in for a hug. “Tabitha said you look like hell, and she was right, babe.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, grateful Tab’s holding down the fort atHigh Tide Taleswhile I’m in hiding, and for my friends’ presence. I close the door and lock it. “How did you guys get past the media circus?”
“We may have created a diversion,” Cora says with a mischievous grin.
Despite everything, I find myself smiling. “Do I want to know?”
“Probably not,” Emma replies. “But they deserve it.”
We settle in my living room, the coffee table quickly covered with an assortment of sub sandwiches, chips, and cookies. For a few minutes, we eat and chat, but I feel something coming as they glance at each other.
Finally, Sarah breaks. “So, want to tell us why you’re hiding in here instead of out supporting your man?”
“He’s not my—” I start then stop. The denial feels hollow even to me.
“Leah,” Cora says gently, “we saw the interview footage from Wednesday. The pictures of the two of you at that swanky party. That man is completely gone for you.”
