Page 81 of Perfect Praise

“God,” I chuckle. “It used to annoy the shit out of me.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “I knew you hated me.”

“I never hated you,” I say. “I hate having my picture taken. Clear distinction.”

“Sure,” she jokes, rolling her eyes.

“I don’t hate it anymore as long as you’re the photographer. I like knowing you’re close, watching me.” I tangle my feet with hers and close my eyes. “Bore me to sleep and tell me about your cameras. Why’re you always carrying two?”

“The exciting world of cameras and lenses,” she laughs, locking her body into mine. “Sometimes I have to standveryfar away according to picky professional athletes, so I need a telephoto lens. You don’t really want to hear about it. I was trying so hard to not talk so much when I was showing you how to photograph me golfing. It’s hard to shut up when you love something so much.”

“But I do,” I say seriously, holding her tighter. “I want to know everything about you.”

She pauses, and I wait patiently with my eyes still closed. Her voice starts slow and then falls into a comfortable rhythm, excitement ticking through her tone.

“Telephoto lenses capture an object and bring it closer using a long focal length, so that’s my camera with the huge lens. Other important factors: shutter speed is how fast a camera takes a picture. Motor speed is how fast a camera lens can focus. Even though golf is slow as shit, you swing your club like one hundred and twenty miles per hour. Golf ball speeds can average over one hundred and fifty. So, depending on the shot I’m taking, I need all those things to get the best photos.”

“Yours are the best, you know,” I tell her. “I’ve been looking for them now. In the newspaper. Online. I hunt for your little alliteration beneath every photo, but I think I’ve gotten good at picking yours out as soon as I see them. Something about your angles.”

Maren doesn’t reply, and I fight the urge to open my eyes to see if she’s staring at me like I’m crazy. I feel crazy. I can see Maren in photographs she’s not even in—photos of myself, and Russ, and Landon, and a hundred other golfers. She pours herself into them, takes each one with a little bit of love.

But at least she’s still here, wrapped up in my arms. At least she still wants me near her.

At least I won’t be crawling out of my skin tonight because she decided enough is enough. Right now, I just want to be existing with her on the verge of sleep.

“Locke?” she whispers eventually.

“Maren,” I whisper back.

“Are we still fake friends?”

My eyelids flutter open, but Maren’s are closed. Like maybe she’s scared of the dark and doesn’t want to see it. Whateverthisis. I trail my thumb across her cheekbone before I lift my head to kiss her lightly on the lips.

“No, but I don’t know when this stopped being fake.”

Two things I’m goingto do:

1. Not freak out.

2. Remain professional.

Because I’m still left wondering: if I openly like Locke, will this all come crashing down around me? I could make one wrong move, say one wrong thing, and destroy everything.

God, but I’m so happy—for him.

I’m happyfor himbecause I didn’t do anything.

It’s Locke who won the tournament. He puts in the time and the work. He has the drive.

It’s me who simply takes pictures of him.

But at the same time, I can’t help the selfish little hole in my stomach that screams I have more of a right to be happy than these strangers. Everyone around me is clapping for him and calling his name and whispering about his eagle on the seventeenth hole.

It’s also me who feels like Iknowhim now, who thought he was a completely different person. Maybe I’m suddenly the lucky one. Maybe he’s etched me as a blip into his tiny circle, and I get the rare pleasure of seeing the real him.

It’s also Locke who’s smiling at me as he stands there awkwardly waiting for the trophy presentation to start.

I’ve pulled more smiles from this man in the last two months than the last six years I’ve had this job combined, and I have no idea how, other than wanting something for myself.

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