Page 8 of Bridesmaid to Bride

The Sand Trap

WEST

The breeze is a worthy opponent against Zach’s cement-gelled hair as he drives our golf cart along this over-the-top beachside course. “Thanks for coming today, man,” he says. “We’re one hole in, and it’s already brutal.”

“Yeah.” It’s definitely not off to a chill start. Zach and I make a foursome with Neil and Foster, the East Coast lawyer Neil invited as a potential love match for Eva. Gross. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that the chump’s dad’s a Georgia senator. Schmidt Easel, so unpopular us constituents call him Shitweasel. The whole thing’s messed up. “But you gotta try to enjoy this, Zach. You know, quality time with your future father and brother-in-law.”

Zach pops edible number three. Or is it four? He scowls. “Ugh. I don’t like that dude. And what kind of name is Foster?”

“Dunno,” I say, desperate to stay out of it. For the last two and a half years, I’ve never been able to see myself with any other woman but Eva. She was and still is the only woman I’ve ever met who’s watched all seven seasons of Star Trek: The Next Generation—and is as obsessed with it as I am. She was Beverly Crusher for Halloween one year, so yeah, she’s a bona fide Trekkie. Eva totally gets my random jokes, looks amazing in a hoodie and jeans, and we finish each other’s sentences. Which, by the way, I thought was corny as shit before her. But it’s actually kind of amazing.

Believe me, I’m well aware she’s not perfect. She’s a known flight risk with romantic relationships, and she uses a pumice stone on her feet while we’re watching Bingeflix. Those things irritate the shit out of me, but I never care. Hell—Eva could dump an entire bowl of hot soup in my lap and burn my balls off, and I’d think it was cute.

Pathetic. I know.

But I’ve sent her countless signals she’s never reciprocated. She also hasn’t forgiven me for going on Paige’s season of Bridesmaid to Bride. I get it—I’d be pissed at me too. But I had to shake up my life, and I’m glad I did. It got me over Eva, and now here I am, trying to play my cards right because I’m hoping to be selected for Groomsman to Groom this weekend. And she’s gearing up to run away into the sunset with this Dad-approved wet noodle who probably names his suits… and his junk.

At the second hole, a par three, Neil Steinberg hops off the cart with a nine iron in hand. “Couldn’t ask for better weather.” He squints toward the horizon where the ocean meets the sky, and I can’t help but be taken aback by his resemblance to Eva and Paige. They have his dark hair, bronzed skin, and piercing eyes. “And what a view.”

Foster nods. “Can’t beat it, sir.”

Yup. Foster Easel is the picture of East Coast douchebaggery, down to the monogrammed club in his grip and the stick firmly lodged up his ass.

“Nothing like the sound of the ocean to focus the mind,” I say, and Zach wipes the top of his nose, which is him calling me a brown noser. But I actually meant what I said. It helps me, and I have to use it because I need a major comeback after shanking my first shot into the ocean. I wasn’t warmed up.

Now on the tee, Neil studies his target with the intensity of a man who bills by the hour. He swings like he’s never lost at anything in his life—certainly not at golf. The ball takes off with a first-class ticket to the green, landing so close to the hole I half-expect it to wink at me.

“Beautiful shot.” Foster has to practice that grin in front of a mirror.

“Killer,” Zach says, transforming into the surfer dude he becomes after an edible. Or four.

“Thanks, boys.” Neil steps to the side. “Just keeping my eye on the ball.”

An ocean gust blows in the scent of salt and cut grass as Foster tees up. No doubt, he’s polished, his hair refusing to budge. He swings, and the ball takes off with grace, landing on the green. But then it rolls into the rough.

“Nice touch.” Neil’s voice drips with approval. “Almost where you want it.”

“Great swing,” I say honestly… and trying to be cool.

“Thanks. And you’re up, West.” Foster juts his chin. “Or should we call you East? You know, after your last shot went into the ocean?” He chuckles, and Neil joins in.

“Hey, I just shoot good swimmers,” I deadpan, a joke I would’ve never said in front of Neil if I was still trying to get with Eva. But I’m not, and I refuse to let Nepo Baby see me sweat. Not that he’s sweating—no, he looks like he’s ready for an ESPN photoshoot. At least Zach laughs.

I adjust my cap, feeling the weight of this crisp new polo I had to buy for this course. It’s like armor, not that I’m going into battle, but with this cheese dick, clearly, every swing is a statement. “Here’s hoping,” I say because, really, what else can a small-town guy in Vans do but swing for the fences... or, in this case, the pin? I line up my shot, going into a zone where all I hear are the waves. It’s weird, but it works. My driver connects with a solid thwack that’s far too satisfying. The ball arcs through the sky and lands with a soft thud, rolling up near the hole as if it’s magnetized to the flagpole. Nice!

“Quinn for the win!” Zach yells, clapping me on the back so hard I almost fall forward. “You’ve got a secret sauce in those sneakers?”

“Right here.” I pull up a pant leg to show him my lucky glow in the dark socks.

Neil nods, stoic as a statue that’s seen too many pigeons. What gives? So, Foster hits an okay shot and gets praise, and I hit a great one and get nada? Zach was right. This day’s going to be brutal.

“Good one.” The sharp edge to Foster’s voice slices through the tension. Could be he’s not used to sharing the spotlight, especially with someone whose idea of a power tie is a neon sock. He eyes the upcoming course like he’s preparing for war, and Zach leaves to swap out his nine iron for a seven.

“It’s a shame your dad couldn’t join us today, Foster,” Neil says casually, though I’m betting there’s nothing casual about it. “He would’ve enjoyed it.”

“Would’ve shown us all up.” Foster polishes his gold ball. Yes, it’s fucking gold. “He’ll fly in on Friday after his committee hearing.”

As soon as Zach takes his shot, which lands on the fairway, big oops, we’re back in the golf cart. My hands gripping the wheel, I’m now driving since Zach’s probably high. The wind tugs at the edges of my shirt as I slam on the brakes when we reach Zach’s ball. He says, “May the course be with you.”

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