AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“What now?” I ask.
“Shut out the shit you shouldn’t care about. Care the hell out of the things you should.” Locke shrugs. “Live.”
“Live,” I repeat. “Happy.”
“Happy,” he says sleepily, closing his eyes. “Because you deserve it. You deserve everything, Maren. This is the beginning.”
None of the other things matter because we’re happy for now. I’m happy with myself, and there’s no guarantees, so all I can do is keep going; living.
And yeah, sometimes I’m just not going to give a shit.
It’s so quiet onthe eighteenth hole, you could hear a pin drop in the grass.
Locke finished nearly twenty minutes ago, five under par, before he retreated to the clubhouse to watch the rest play out on television.
Russell has been battling to five under, one hole behind Locke all day. And right now, he’s positioned to win if he makes this putt for birdie.
It will be an incredible shot if he does; about ten yards out, just a straight line. One swing of a club away from his lifelong dream.
I’ve got my monopod ready, another camera strapped against my left shoulder in case.
Russ crouches to examine his ball and the path it has to travel. He rises before stepping back to have another word with his caddie.
I still don’t understand how many different ways there are to discusshit the tiny ball in the tiny hole. But of course, they confer with each other for another three minutes—checking their book, examining the club, clearing nonexistent obstacles in front of the hole.
He nods, chuckles, then his face forms into a look of mean concentration.
I went through this tournament twice with him, but he’d never been in a close enough position to win either of those. I can only imaginehow nervous he is, how close he feels to being able to grasp something so significant with his fingertips.
And I’m going to capture the moment when he putts. If it goes in, he wins. If it doesn’t, and instead he makes par, then he and Locke will go into a sudden-death playoff.
Russ finally steps up, and I hold my breath along with everyone else as his club connects with the ball.
It hurtles along, and I snap a thousand pictures, capturing his putt like stop-motion as it curves along the edge of the hole and drops—Russ’ amazing winning putt is perfection.
“Smile!” I exclaim. “Youjust won the Masters!”
Despite everything, I’m still excited for him.
Russell lifts his lips and shows me his teeth, but nothing reaches his eyes.
Everything he’s ever wanted—the silver Clubhouse trophy he holds up next to his face and the gold buttons of his green jacket glimmering in the sun—right in his hands.
And he doesn’t even look happy.
But it’s not my job to worry about his feelings. It’s my job to take his picture.
And it will be my job to take his picture tomorrow—but hopefully not for forever. I have a spring family portrait session this week and a newborn shoot the next. While it’s only a couple hundred dollars, and I won’t be quitting my day job any time soon, maybe one day I will. I have a real website with galleries that aren’t just my family and regular bookings. It’s steady enough right now, especially since Elise tells everyone she knows (and everyone she doesn’t know, like the barista at the coffee shop yesterday). And I have a lot of social media followers, but I have to limit the comments because they mostly talk about how hot Locke is and debate why he’s not in any of my pictures.
The most important thing is though—I’m happy, which only seems to piss Russell off more. Locke was right. This is the best revenge, and I don’t even want revenge anymore.
I turn my head over my shoulder and smile. “Lydia! Come get in the photo.”
She practically squeals in excitement, while managing to ignore me somehow. Every time I see either her or Russ, it amazes me how they faded to black in my mind. Nothing about them bothers me.
Russ looks bothered though. His mouth pinches like he wants to say something, some explanation that maybe I deserve but don’t care enough to hear. I’ve heard enough of his voice to last me a lifetime.
He stares at my hand, then his blue eyes glint in the sunlight when he scowls back at me, over and over. Maybe the ring on my finger is catching the light at just the right angle and blinding him. Maybe that’s what really pisses him off more. That he has no control over me or my thoughts—because he doesn’t even cross them. Unless he’s standing right in front of me.
