Page 52 of Wedge

“Well, what do you want to do?”

“I’ll tell you I’m scared. Out loud, in words. Then I’ll ask you to talk to me.”

“Okay.” His voice goes rough. “That works.”

“But I need that from you. Talk to me. Even when it’s hard.”

He swallows. “That is hard.”

I smile and run my fingers over his jaw. “We’ll work on it. What else is in no?”

“Nothing sudden from behind, no grabbing, no cornering me in a room, no suddenly pinning me down. Slow and asked is fine. Sudden isn’t.”

This one is pointed, and I know why.

“Always from the front. Always slow. Nothing sudden, ever.”

“No jump scares,” he adds.

First time I’ve heard it put like that, but I get it. “Never.”

“Golf is mine. My schedule, whether I play Steamboat or New York. You’re my caddie, you advise, I decide. Money’s mine. Ben’s mine to deal with. If I want a club and you disagree, tell me why, but I’ll decide.”

My lips twitch at that last one, but I just say, “Understood. Except food. I’m feeding you, Adrian. That one’s mine.” He nods.

A breath. “You drink your Scotch, or beer, or whatever, and I don’t, and you don’t ask why or hide it from me.”

“Done.”

“And some days I’ll say no to being looked after. It doesn’t mean I don’t want you. It means I said no.”

“Some days I’ll hover like a pain in the ass about it.”

“You already are a pain in the ass about it.”

“I know. So tell me when it’s too much.” I say it plainly, because he deserves plain. “I like being needed. Taking care of you is the best thing about me, and it’s the thing most likely to get me into trouble. With you, it’s close to a compulsion. If it’s ever too much, you say so.”

He nods slowly, a small private smile tugging at his mouth. “One more thing. A word. If something’s wrong and I can’t explain it, I say it, and everything stops. No questions.”

“What’s the word?”

“Mulligan.”

I laugh, and he does too, and then I’m not laughing anymore. “A do-over.”

“A stop. And then a do-over, if I want one.”

“Everything stops. I don’t ask why unless you want to talk.”

“Yeah.”

“Perfect.” I pause. “Is there a bedroom list?”

His grin goes wicked. “That maybe list is very long.”

He holds out the pen. “Your turn,” he says. “What’s on your list?”

“One line.” I write it in the margin in my careful caddie block capitals, under his last item, and turn the page so he can read it.