Page 55 of Poolside

“No.” Tommy refused to look at him as he moved to pick up his discarded suit from the floor. Woodenly, he pulled it on, and then went to grab a wad of paper towels from the dispenser by the sinks. He walked back to where he’d come all over the wall, wiping it clean. Chuck watched silently as he chucked the balled-up towel at the trashcan on the other side of the room.

It went in.

“You don’t get to do this to me,” Tommy finally said, hands balled up into fists at his side. He looked devastated. “I’m here in this room because I want to be. I wanted what we just did, and more. But this,” he pointed from his chest to Chuck. “I’m not just going to stand here and let you hurt me like this.”

“I’m not saying?—”

“I can’t right now, Chuck. I really fucking can’t.” Tommy moved toward the door.

“Will I see you Thursday?” Chuck asked, needing to know he hadn’t broken everything.

Tommy paused. Chuck heard him sigh. “Yeah, Chuck. I’ll be here.”

CHAPTER15

I LIKE FISHING

TOMMY

“What’s up with you?”

Tommy squinted at the speck of white that rolled inches away from the hole. He let out a frustrated sigh, and wiped his forearm across his sweaty forehead. “Nothing’s up with me.”

“Bullshit.” Keaton stood beside him, looking put together as always in his white polo and khaki shorts. “You’re normally not this pissy until the back nine.”

They were only on their second hole of the day, the mid-morning sun already brutally warm on the backs of their necks.Golf is supposed to help me feel better, Tommy thought as he walked over to where his ball had settled about six feet from the hole.Why isn’t it working?

He lined up his putt, relaxed his shoulders, and swung with just enough force to nudge the ball forward. For a split second it looked like it was going to go in, but then it broke left inches before it hit the cup. “Fuck,” he shouted, barely refraining from slamming his putter into the green like an axe.

“Alright. That’s it.” Keaton was already walking back to the cart. “Load up.”

“Wait.” Tommy pointed to where his ball had somehow ended up even farther away from the hole. “We’ve barely gotten started.”

Keaton was shaking his head. “Get in.”

“But—”

“Get in the cart, Tommy.”

Keaton whipped the cart around to head back in the direction of the club house. Tommy looked at him, confused. “Where are we going?”

“Fishing.”

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, the two men, still dressed in their golf clothes, stood side by side with their bare feet sinking into soft mud on the bank of a wide creek with fishing poles in their hands.

Tommy had no idea where they were. Keaton had driven them through a residential neighborhood, down a back alley, and then they’d parked Keaton’s Lexus SUV in a flattened patch of grass next to an old fence. Once they’d armed themselves with poles, a tackle box, and a rack of warm Bud Lights conveniently stashed in his trunk, Tommy followed Keaton down a single track path through the woods, over a fence, and then to this spot.

“How the hell did you find this place?” Tommy reeled his line back in before casting toward a partially submerged log.

“I like fishing,” Keaton said, as if that explained everything.

“Right.”

“Talk to me.” Keaton tossed a beer to him, and Tommy caught it easily. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

Tommy cracked the beer and took a long drink. He needed to fucking relax. Between the extra work hours and the omnipresent ache in his chest that hadn’t eased since he and Chuck had hooked up, he was walking through life with his body tensed like a stretched rubber band.

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