“Your parents suck.”

“They are good parents. I would most certainly not be where I am today without them. It takes a lot of parental support to become a professional golfer, you know?”

“Yes, which they remind you of any time they want something from you.”

“That’s not true.”

“Remember when your mom pulled that card so she could use the jet you already had booked to go to New York for one of her friends’ art show openings?”

“I was happy to lend it to her,” I say, setting down my bag by the large cooler stocked with waters and grabbing one out.

“She met you at the tarmac with her other friends in tow as you were getting ready to leave. You ended up having to fly economy to get to Florida when you needed to.”

“Economy is fine. The flight from California to Florida isn’t so bad.”

“We are not discussing whether or not economy is fine, which it isn’t, by the way, some of us just don’t have another option.”

“Do I not pay you enough, Sam? You know I’ll give you a raise.”

“JT, do not distract me with shiny things. This is about your parents taking advantage of you. They can book their own flights and pay for their own renovations. They were the parents. Theychoseto drive you all over the country to go to all your golf stuff.”

I hear a rustle in the long grass and now am only giving about a fourth of my attention to Sam. If I’m attacked by a rattlesnake out here, I’m packing up my bags and living out of a hotel for the next six weeks. I cannot stand snakes. No living thing should be able to move their body the way they do. I swear I had a minor heart attack last time I was on a course and one slithered in front of me.

“My dad also gave up his future as a professional golfer to let me have the dream instead. He reminds me about it frequently. ‘I could’ve been a better golfer than you, but I wanted my son to have the dream, not me.’”

“What?” Sam asks, his voice full of anger.

“Um, what?” I say, not sure what we are talking about because…well…there is a snake that is about to pop out of the grass and wrap its far too bendable body around my leg before biting me and leaving me for dead in the middle of nowhere.

“Did you just say your dad frequently suggests he would be a better golfer than you?” he asks again slowly, in a tone that is far too controlled for Sam.

Shit. Did I just say that? It’s something I’ve kept to myself, particularly with Sam, who already judges my parents far too harshly. Not everyone can be as amazing as his parents. I still tear up a little thinking about how supported Sam felt when he told his parents he was interested in men. When Sam first told me the story, I wanted to track down his dad and give him the world’s biggest hug. Sam’s parents are essentially the definition of unconditional love. He is amazing at his job, smart, quick-witted, and takes shit from no one. I don’t know how anyone could be anything but supportive of him. But Sam’s parents have also not had to give up their lives for him to be who he is. On the other hand, I’ve caused my dad to sacrifice his dreams, and my mom to sacrifice her face.

“JT?” Sam asks.

“Oh, um. I mean, he’s mentioned it once or twice. And he was about to get on the tour when I started showing promise.”

The grass moves again, and fuck it—I can’t stand here and have a real conversation and keep an eye out for the snake. I climb on top of the cooler, sitting cross-legged, ensuring no part of my body is exposed to any possible snakes passing by.

“You make it sound like you forced your parents to give up their lives for you. You know that’s not true, right?”

“Nope. That is one hundred percent true,” I say.

“Leaving your dad and the outrageous claim that he was suddenly going to make it as a professional golfer at the ripe age of like forty aside, your dadchoseto give up on his golf career to coach you.”

I can practically hear the quotation marks around the term “golf career.”

“Tohelp mebecome a professional golfer.Which I am,” I respond.

“And what guilt exactly do you feel toward your mom? The lady who seems to think that what’s yours is hers, including your checking account.”

I pick at the top of the cooler as I picture Sam’s ice-blue glare right now.

“JT?”

“It’s my fault she has the scar across her face.”

“What scar?” he asks, as if the thin white stripe that traces her cheekbone isn’t the first thing anyone sees when they look at her face.