Page 17 of Perfect Praise

I laugh and pull another dress over my head. This one is more complicated, and I can’t find the armholes in the stretchy, tight fabric. “I don’t even know what it is really, and I don’t think professional golfers actually keep track of theirs… whatever the word means. Something about comparing them maybe. I don’t know. My handicap is probably a thousand. Or wait? Is higher better? Golf is backwards, obviously. Why is it backwards?”

“Don’t hold back. Talk birdie to me. Locke could give you a hole in one. It’d be so intense that after eighteen holes with him you wouldn’t be able to walk the next day,” Camille says before we both burst out laughing. “Yeah, not my best work.”

Though I don’t tell her, I imagine it would be extremely intense. The way his eyes latch onto me like hooks. I bet he’d have the stamina of a racehorse.

“What about this one?” I ask with my arms finally out to my side, eking out the image of what Locke must look like naked from my brain. While he doesn’t smile, he’s still very nice to look at, and I’d bet those hours in the gym don’t hurt.

“Nope, you look like a middle-schooler who’s trying too hard.”

“Ouch,” I tease her before I rummage around and find an ivory shift dress with brown buttons down the side.

She shakes her head after I put it on. “You look frumpy, Grandma. Like Nana when she wore that nightdress in public. You need something that hugs your hips. What do you have that’s in between that?”

“God,” I huff. “Good thing I packed half my closet.”

I root around in my overflowing suitcase for yet another dress until I find the one I think Camille will like the best. I really did pack eight of them just in case.

“Where is he taking you?”

“I was too scared to ask him.”

“That’s practical,” she teases. “What if you’re going ax throwing or rock climbing and you show up in a dress?”

“‘Dinner and drinks’ is enough to assume a dress.”

“‘Dinner and drinks’ is enough to assume a date.”

“It’snota date.”

She nods like I’m full of shit. “Riiiiight. The fake-girlfriend debacle of the twenty-first century. Explain this arrangement to me again. I’m not quite sure I get it.”

“Locke says he’s tired of talking. I think he thinks it will take some of the pressure off him if I’m there because I ‘talk too much.’ And I know he hates me taking his picture because I’ve been subjected to his glares now for years. He swears he can hear me taking his picture.”

Camille munches on a pickle from a jar that appeared from thin air. “No way.”

“I don’t believe him either. But now, he’ll get his wish. Like I told you, selfish.”

“Well, he’s helping you too,” Camille points out. “You haven’t sent me a single bitchy social media comment in days.”

I don’t want to admit how much quieter my brain has been. It’s nice not trying to change myself so I come across differently the next time I’m filmed. Camille has been telling me for months to stop reading them, but she never went as far as to stare me down with blackened eyes and demand I delete the apps.

“Yeah, I feel happier,” I say lightly and prepare myself for theI told you sothat doesn’t come.

“He’s good for you then,” she says instead. “Those strangers were hurting you, and they made you compare yourself to every other woman on that show.” Her eyes fly down to my dress. “Let me see.”

I stand back for the full effect and twirl in place.

“Perfect,” she gushes.

“Hair up or down?” I ask, gathering my long hair into my palms.

“Down. It looks so pretty long. Don’t cut it. More to grab onto.” She winks. “And maybe someone can pull it harder at that length tonight.”

I drop my hair. “Worry about your own relationship,” I joke. “This one is a non-relationship. I think he called it ‘fake friends, if anything.’ So eloquent.” Sliding on my heels, I glance at the clock. “I’ve got to go. It’s 6:58.”

“Okay, but Maren, let a teeny bit of his asshole rub off on you. You could use it.” Her eyebrows shoot up at her unintentional words, and she cackles. “Ew. Let’s never mention that I just said that ever again—unless you’re into that kind of thing.”

“You’re disgusting,” I laugh. “I’m hanging up.”

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