Page 10 of Perfect Praise

It was a quiet fight, because Craig was filming it, and I moved out the next day.

I think about it daily, wonder what I could have done differently to make him happy, keep him faithful. But this time I don’t have to relive it through reality television because after every commercial, I think it will be next, and it just isn’t. They never air it, and when the credits start rolling, my mind is in complete disarray.

If Russell had anything to do with it, maybe he has a sliver of a heart left. Maybe he still cares.

It’s depressing thinking thatthis little closet is the only thing I have in my life that ismine.And even other people borrow it sometimes.

No house—I moved out of Russell’s and into Parker and Camille’s the day after he cheated.

No furniture—I sold it all when I broke my lease to moveinwith Russell.

No boyfriend. No pets.

Now that I think about it, not even this closet is really mine. I have the key, but it belongs to the golf club.

I suppose I have my car—which is on its last leg and makes a weird sound that I ignore when I accelerate.

As I’ve been packing up my camera equipment for the tournament in San Diego this week, all I’ve been able to think about is Russ.

I thought I had been exactly what he wanted—always by his side, smiling and supportive. I gave him space when he asked for space. I held his hand through every loss.

So now, I’m wandering out into the sun with a smile on my face and my camera slung over my shoulder in search of him—to what, I’m not sure. Make up? At the very least, I need to know if he had anything to do with last night’s television omission.

I find him on the practice green, deep in concentration.

When he feels my presence, he looks up and slightly startles at the sight of me. “I didn’t know you were here today,” he says, a little wisp of softness in his voice that reminds me of the man I thought he was.

Back then, Russ caught my eye because he seemed larger than life, but I also wasn’t sure I wanted to date a professional golfer. It seemed daunting, almost exhausting. He persisted though, made me feel wanted, special. He was always the first one to text or call. Always asking me on another date, even when I hadn’t kissed him. I was blinded by the over-the-top dedication and the excitement of being in a new city every week. I’d always end up caving to him, anything he wanted I’d eventually give him. Maybe that was what he saw in me—a weakness, a person who was easy to manipulate. And once he had me, it was like a knife cutting into soft butter. Zero resistance.

And even when it came down to infidelity, I’d still considered taking him back. He promised he’d only let the fame go to his head, how all these girls threw themselves at him. The evening that it happened, when I spent the first night at Camille’s, she’d begged me to be done with him forever. She didn’t think he would ever change. But can’t everyone change, or at least have the ability to?

“I’m just packing up equipment for tomorrow. Lots of lenses and boxes and equipment.” I hesitate while I muster the courage. “Did you watch last night’s episode?”

He shakes his head. “No, I didn’t. I was at dinner.”

The sting radiates outward from my chest. We used to watch it together—he always insisted. Now, I’m sitting here every week on my little sister’s couch, spiraling into dark black holes, while he’s out here living his best life, moving on.

He opens his mouth to speak again but decides against it, almost like he wants to wait to see what I have to say.

“Oh, okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “I thought—”

“I tried, Maren,” he says quickly, glancing around. “But you know how these things go. Producers and editors and scheduling. I promise I tried so hard to convince them not to show it.”

The cadence of my voice quickens, brightens. “So, you did have something to do with it?”

“What?” His brow knits together when his eyes spring back to my face. “They didn’t air… it?”

It.

He doesn’t know what else to callit.

This is what our relationship has been reduced to. Two little letters. The moment everything shattered.

But maybe he still cares? Maybe he still feels some protectiveness over my feelings. Enough to ask them not to put our deep personal issues on the show. And should I let one mistake define him? Especially if he’s trying?

“Russ?”

It wasn’t my normally sing-song voice saying his name.

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