Page 71 of Perfect Praise

“Camille,” I say, “and yes, but she handles it better than I do. She’s the confident one, remember? Camille stands up for herself and doesn’t let my mom push her around or guilt trip her into doing anything she doesn’t want to do.”

“Maybe she’s that way because of you,” Locke muses.

I laugh. “Maybe.”

“Parents are harder on their first child,” he insists. “You’re like the guinea pig.”

“What do they say about the only child?” I joke.

His laugh comes out a little too low, a little too morbid. “I don’t think I had a typical only-child experience.”

I place my hand over his and play with his knuckles. I have no clue if he’ll elaborate, and I have no clue if I actually want him to or not.

Things are shifting. We’re wading into personal territory—territory I’m not sure why we’re navigating. It seems dangerous, almost like wecare.

Which I do. But I tellmyself I don’t.

But only a beat passes, and then he decides to test the slope of the hill, this new terrain we’ve found ourselves on, like I actually coaxed him with my silence.

“My mom and I got into a car accident when I was three. I don’t really remember it, but she hurt her back and was prescribed opioids. Things spiraled from there. Sometimes my mom was great. Happy. Stretches would go by when she showed up for my games, when she cooked dinner, read me a book before bed. And then there were other times when she’d be so strung out, she couldn’t walk straight. She would be passed out on the couch or disappear for a few days when I got older. I took care of myself, did the laundry, cleaned the house, took the bus by myself to and from school. It took a while for my family to realize what was happening. I was so secretive, didn’t want anyone to find out about my reality. And I didn’t grow up in a nice house in a nice neighborhood like you thought. But underneath all of that, my mom is truly the sweetest woman. Just like Elise. They were close growing up.”

“And your dad?” I ask.

“He left shortly after I was born, wasn’t ready to be a parent,” Locke explains. “Which didn’t stop him from trying to reenter my life after I became a professional golfer. So, I do tend to shut people out, because it’s easier to let people think of me as an idea, because it’s not alwaysmethey really want.”

“Locke,” I say, my hands suddenly clammy.

My armpits are sweating more than they did when I was golfing, but Locke doesn’t let me finish, doesn’t let me express that I now feel like I’ve been usinghim.

Instead, he hushes me as he pulls through his gate. His hand roams up my legs, wraps around the back of my neck, when he parks in the garage.

The air turns thick, sudden need pulling at us.

He smiles at me, full dimples on display, before he leans over the console and kisses me gently.

Locke exits the car and waits for me to do the same in the darkened garage.

After I open the door and cross in front of his car, he says, “You look all sweaty from your work out,” before he removes his polo in a quick, fluid motion, exposing every line I wish I could run a finger over. “Let’s go jump in my pool I never use.”

I laugh, heart hammering, as Locke slips my yellow straps down my arms and pushes my dress to the ground around my feet.

He kisses his way back up my body, starting at my knee and ending at my boobs. Then he turns and throws open the door that leads to his backyard, flooding the orange sunset through the garage.

“It’s too cold to swim,” I protest, following him as he walks through the door.

Locke shakes his head. “It’s heated.”

I hear his belt buckle clink before he slips it out of his belt loops, drops it on the path, and turns to face me.

First his button is loose. Next his pants and boxers are at his ankles. Last, he kicks them off.

He’s already hard. I’m already wet. And we’re staring, taking each other in like we’ve never done this. Like we’ve never been naked in front of each other. Like we’re seeing each other for the first time.

“What are we doing?” I whisper.

“I don’t know,” he whispers back.

He takes half of a backward step, close to the edge of the pool, and I instinctively take one forward. Locke takes that as some kind of signal and reverses his motions to scoop me into his arms and jumps into the deep end. I can’t even squeal because I have to take a deep breath.

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