Page 28 of Perfect Praise

When I looked at the newspaper that was left in front of my hotel door this morning, my heart swelled with pride. One of the few pictures I took of him on hole eighteen sinking the winning shot ended up on the front page of the sports section with my tiny name beneath it:Photo by Maren Murray.

I’d pathetically imagined my mother opening the Florida newspaper and doing the same thing—smiling and running her finger over my name. But I don’t think she follows golf at all. Instead, she’s probably drinking her coffee on her front porch and online shopping for her grandson.

My dad did text me, though, with an iPhone picture of my picture, along with a “Nice!” and that brightened my day like he tends to do in his little ways. It’s not both parents I’ve had to seek attention from my whole life.

They’d mentioned Russell’s name about mid-way through the article. After his and Locke’s weirdly cordial conversation, Russ had been flustered the rest of the tournament and fell behind to twelfth place.

His angry eyes and scowl followed me for days, hole after hole, but now, you’d think he was in love with me. Eyes sparkling, too muchteeth when he smiles, shifting his good side toward the camera, always glancing to make sure I’m getting a good shot.

His voice doesn’t even sound like him, not since the minute he walked into the children’s hospital. It’s all a PR opportunity for him.

The little boy in the hospital bed with stars in his eyes is looking at Russ, smile wide, cheeks flushed, with a neon yellow cast covered in names on his leg, and Russ is looking at me.

“Did you get some good ones?” he asks.

Instinctively, I look at the little screen on the back of my camera before I balk and lie, “Looks great.”

Craig stands in the other corner, catching every second of our terse exchanges with his blinking red light, though I notice it’s not focused on me nearly as much as it used to be.

I want to ask him if he erased the footage of Russ and Lydia on a wave of sympathy, if he ‘lost’ it, if the producer is going for extra shock value with the future season finale, or if they think we’re going to somehow reconcile.

But mostly I want out of here. This room has become too small for anyone to fit inside with Russ’ ego. I want the comfort of Locke’s presence, which I never thought I’d say. Because I do feel safe with him, where I know the camera can’t reach me, where I’m confident he goes out of his way just a tiny bit to make sure I know he has my back in our fake friendship.

Even if Locke has ignored me for the last few days, content that I’m standing an appropriate enough distance away from him, and likely mad at me for whatever happened between us four days ago at the bar, he doesn’t make me feel likethis.

Russ watches me go, stuck in place, as he playsSorry!with the little boy who’s idolizing him.

Back in the hallway, I press my back against the closed door and feel like not enough.

Not enough for anyone. All the time.

A blonde nurse shuffles by in her blue scrubs and eyes me like she isn’t sure if she should call security or not—maybe I’m a crazed fan with my stalker camera slung around my neck.

I attempt my best smile, which I realize may look a little crazed. My heart feels like lead, and my head is about to float off from the anxiety.

I slip in and out of the next two rooms fairly unnoticed.

Landon, the young new golfer on the PGA tour with an infectious laugh and a boyish charm greets me enthusiastically before he poses for me with the smile of someone who has so much in life to look forward to, then goes back to the story he was engrossed in.

He’s the golfer who’s friends with everyone, who can say whatever he wants and get away with it. The one who goes out the night before tournaments and still manages to get up bright and early and play eighteen holes of golf despite being slightly hungover. His episodes on the reality show are always the most fun.

Bryan, the quietest pro-golfer I’ve met since I started this job, gives me a head nod and lets me take a few candid shots because he’s doing a puzzle.

He’s the golfer whose family travels with him, who goes out of his way to say thank you, and will typically keep to himself then disappear as soon as the day is done so he doesn’t miss a minute with his children. His episodes always bring the sweet family aspect.

You pick up on things when you observe the same people for years—but you also become too complacent and miss other obvious things.

When I open the next door, Locke looks up from the end of the hospital bed, eyes dark. He’s coloring with a little girl on the table they’ve wheeled in between them.

His eyes dart down to the camera I’m holding and back to me. One of his eyebrows twitches, so I let it fall against my stomach and dangle from the strap around my neck. I suppose I won’t get into any trouble if Locke is missing from the line-up.

“Hi,” the little girl says, startling me back into reality. She has on pink pajamas and is nestled under a white blanket. She and Locke have spread out two Disney princess coloring books across the table, and the crayons are stuffed in a cup at the edge. “Do you want to color?”

“Oh,” I say, “hi.”

I’ve forgotten how to talk to children, and I should probably work on that since I’m going to become an aunt soon.

“This is my friend Maren,” Locke says. He pats the spot on the bed next to him. “Maren, this is Sarah.”

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