Page 63 of The Perfect Putt

Miles Day

There are three days until the U.S. Open and I’m playing like I’ve never touched a golf club in my life. I growl as I hit another slice.

“Take a few breaths before we walk,” Fitz says, sounding annoyingly calm. Everything is annoying me at the moment though, so it’s not his fault.

I’ve barely slept since my conversation with Ellie on the beach. Every time I close my eyes I see her tear-streaked face staring up at me. Not that being awake helps me avoid thinking of her. Everywhere I go, she’s there. I can’t walk on the beach without seeing her laughing in the waves. Can’t get food from the diner without thinking of sharing key lime pie in the kitchen. I can’t open my fridge or work out or step onto my balcony. She’s everywhere. I can’t even be on this course without thinking of her in my arms.

I haven’t said a word about it to Fitz, or any of the guys. I can’t handle whatever they’re going to say. So I’ve been dealing with it by myself, and it’s not going well. It feels like crawling on my hands and knees on the beach at noon on the hottest day of the year. Progress is minimal and painful.

Fitz takes my driver from me and slides it into the bag on his shoulder.

“Breathe,” he repeats his advice.

I ignore him and start walking to where my ball landed–in a bunker. A few deep breaths aren’t going to fix anything. Because the very air reminds me of Ellie. Of the way she would always drink it in every time she stepped out on the balcony or onto the beach. And she’d get this little smile on her face afterward that conveyed her contentment. It brought her peace.

We walk in silence, the only sound is the bag bouncing on Fitz’s back and the occasional golf cart cruising by.

“Your shots are curving right because you aren’t accounting for the wind,” Fitz says as we get closer to the ball.

“I know.”

He sighs, but doesn’t say anything else. I feel bad for taking my frustrations out on him, but I can’t help it. I have to practice, he has to be here, and I’m miserable without Ellie. There’s no getting out of this.

We make it to my ball and I walk down into the bunker to assess how to get the best shot. Fitz hands me a sand wedge.

“Just focus on your chip up. You can even take your frustrations out on the sand. Then sink your putt and let’s go to the next hole,” Fitz says.

I nod and set up to hit it out. My shoes press into the sand as I position my feet. I pull the club back and swing it forward. I miss. Sand kicks up, and the ball rolls deeper into the bunker.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I growl and snap my club over my knee before throwing the pieces aside.

I walk up out of the bunker and pace a few steps away, threading my hands in my hair and tugging. I can’t keep going like this. I’m going to lose and I can’t lose. Not to Zane. Not again. When I turn back around I see Fitz putting the broken club in the bag. He looks over at me, his expression still neutral.

“So are you going to talk about what happened between you and Ellie? Or do you need to hit a couple more bogeys, maybe snap a few more clubs? We’ve still got five more holes to play, so you can have at it.”

I glare at him, but he looks unfazed. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

“You have to deal with it eventually, Miles. Or else you’re not even going to make the cut this weekend, much less win.”

“Thanks for the encouragement.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I’ve tried to encourage you to talk about the issues with your parents. If not me, then at least Ellie. But you didn’t listen.”

“Some good your encouragement did for me. You and Shaw pushed me toward Ellie over and over and guess what? I hurt her! Just like I knew I would.”

Fitz drops his serene act, taking a step toward me and glaring. “Do you even hear yourself right now? You’re still throwing the blame on everyone but yourself. You aren’t some puppet not in control of your life. You made a choice, Miles. Not me, not Shaw, you.”

“I chose to keep her safe!” I yell at him. “She deserves better than what I can give her. I won’t end up like my parents. I don’t want to hate her like my dad hates my mom.”

Fitz’s expression softens.

“I don’t understand why you think you don’t have a say in the matter. If you don’t want to hate her, you won’t. You’re not cursed, Miles. You just have bad parents. It sucks, and I hate it for you, but it doesn’t mean you have to be alone forever.”

I think of Shaw, and how he said we aren’t our fathers. It’s easy for me to agree when it comes to him, but less so when it comes to myself.

“How can I be a good person when I was raised by two terrible people?”

Fitz sighs. “The same way you’re good at golf even though both of your parents aren’t. Practice.” He lets the golf bag fall to the ground, his shoulders sagging. “You’re a good guy, Miles. Even now, when you’re acting like an idiot, you’re still a good guy.”

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