Page 104 of Perfect Praise

Lydia hangs on him, beaming in the same bright sun, in her cute floral sundress. She keeps smiling, so I keep taking pictures. She looks like she could do this forever.

I’m happy for Russ. I wish he could feel the same.

When I’m done with their pictures, I finally turn to Locke.

He’s standing on the edge of the crowd with his mom, Elise, Conrad, Blake, Emmie, Camille, Parker, and my nephew, Parker Jr., as they have a conversation around him.

All of his attention is on me.

I raise my camera to my eye and snap one picture.

Locke playfully frowns as I inspect every inch of him though my viewfinder—his blond hair that I get to run my fingers through, his broad shoulders I lay my head on, his abs that I’ve memorized every curve of. But my favorite is his layers underneath, the ones he reserves for me.

Comehere, pretty girl, he mouths, before flicking his eyes down with a knowing smirk to my now pulsing pussy and continuing down my legs.

I snap my camera back on its tripod, but when I turn, a woman with a media badge is speaking into Locke’s ear and he’s being whisked away to the post-tournament press conference.

Instead, I make my way over to our families and start with my sleeping nephew, kissing him on his forehead.

“He conked out on the eleventh hole,” Camille says softly. “But he was clapping and cheering for you.”

We just had his ‘One Happy Dude’ one-year-old birthday party, which is incredibly fitting because he’s the happiest baby I’ve ever met (only because I’m the world’s best aunt) at Camille’s house last month, where I captured every second of his cake smashing.

Both his and Emmie’s photos hang in my and Locke’s hallway (I lasted six months before I ‘officially’ moved in, by the way, because that seemed more appropriate, and Locke bet himself he could make it happen in four). They’re already the best of friends because Locke and I have group babysitting night.

Then I go around the circle. Camille gets an awkward hug because she has to hold little Parker. Big Parker picks me up off my feet in a hug the same way Phillip does next.

Each one praising me like I’m the one who just played a week of golf and almost won the biggest tournament in the world.

Elise, who’s holding Emmie, kisses my cheek. “Congratulations,” she says, beaming, and squeezes my arm. “Second is still amazing.” I’ve gotten used to people acting like I have something to do with Locke’s accomplishments, so I just let it roll off my back.

Blake hugs me tight after I smush Emmie’s cheeks.

Conrad, dressed in his white caddie uniform, throws an arm over both of our shoulders and teases me and Blake for wearing almost matching golf dresses. Then he picks us up by our waists and shakes us.

“Conrad!” Blake cackles.

“You’re a nuisance,” I joke.

“Wealmostwon,” he laughs, putting us back on our feet.

Locke’s mom, Joanna, holds me the tightest, the longest. A little over a year sober, she takes it a day at a time—working, repairing family relationships, going to therapy.

This has become my little family. My friends. We all live life, together, one day at a time—there for each other.

My heart clenches, andI smile at how remarkably similar this photography closet looks to the one at home. Ifeelat home. I rest the reflective umbrellas into the corner and lay the tripods on the second shelf.

All in one motion of events, the light flicks off, the door clicks shut, and my gasp gets sucked out into the pitch black.

Now temporarily blind, I turn slowly and nudge back into the wall.

“Locke,” I whine softly under my breath.

“Maren,” Locke whispers so close to my face it surprises me.

He presses my body against the wall with his.

“Saving me for last,” I tsk.

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