Page 11 of Summer Ever After
The dawn of recognition awakens. “Oh, yeah, Dustin.” I reach my hand out to him. It’s an awkward handshake since I’m sitting in a booth and he’s standing, but we make it work. “Sorry, it’s been a while.”
It’s been more than a while. I left the island for the amateur tour the second we graduated, and I rarely come back.
“It’s good to see you, man.” Dustin takes an uninvited seat across from me, unfazed by my memory loss. “I’ve been following your golf career. You were always a stud in high school, but the PGA tour…”—he whistles—“it’s impressive stuff.”
“I don’t know about impressive.” Especially my scores the last year and a half.
“Seriously. I watched on TV when you won the Masters two years ago. We were all freaking out.”
In truth, I was freaking out too. Winning the Masters is one of the best moments of my life. Any golfer who wants to be taken seriously has to win one of the big four: Masters, PGA Championship, US Open, and the British Open. I was six years into my career when I finally won one, and the fact that my first Major win was at the Masters made everything even better. I’d been ranked top fifty in the world and hadwon multiple PGA tour tournaments, but nothing comes close to winning one of the four Major Golf Championships. I thought my career had finally taken off. But the pressure became too much, and I crashed and burned.
“What did you do with the green jacket?” Dustin asks. Everyone always wants to know about the iconic Masters green jacket. “Is it just hanging in your closet?”
“No, the champion can only keep it for a year, then they have to return it to Augusta National.”
“That’s crazy they don’t let you keep it.” Dustin shakes his head. “I guess you’ll just have to win the Masters again so you can get the green jacket back.”
Win the Masters again? He says it like it’s easy—like once you’re a winner, you’re always a winner. But that’s not how it goes…at least not with me.
“What about you? What have you been up to?” I ask, trying to avoid any question from Dustin about my freakout at my last tournament.
“I live on the mainland, about five minutes from the ferry. I own my own landscaping business.”
“That’s great.”
“What are you doing in Sunset Harbor?” Dustin steers the conversation back to me.
“I’m just here to visit Pete Luca. I won’t be here long.” Better to downplay my reasons for coming and not make it seem like I’m staying long. I don’t want Dustin asking to hang out.
“Oh, that’s too bad. I was going to suggest we get together and hang out sometime.”
How did I know that was coming?
I nod a few times as I look him over. He’s a decent guy—a little bit of a hothead with a short fuse, but I’m sure he’s gotten over that since high school sports. I remember likinghim when we were teens, but that doesn’t mean I want to hang out. It’s not him. It’s me.
I force a frown because telling people what they want to hear is how I get through life. “Dang, that would’ve been fun.”
“I heard about your back problems.” The typical pity eyes appear. “That really sucks.”
I don’t need Dustin Pearce’s pity. “Thanks, but I’m fine now.”
He leans forward. “So, are you friends with Tiger Woods?”
I can see where this is going. “Yeah, I know Tiger.”
“Do you have his number in your phone? Like, could you text him right now?”
“If I had something I wanted to say to him.”
“That’ssocool. What about Scottie Scheffler? Rory McIlroy? Jordan Spieth? Ricky Fowler?”
Yes, he plans to name every popular pro golfer, as I suspected.
“Yeah, friends with them all.” I stand, abandoning my last two taquitos. I open my wallet and throw some bills on the table. “Uh, listen, I’d love to stay and chat, but I really have to get going.”
“Sure.” He looks like a depressed puppy. “You should go.”
“But it was great seeing you a?—”
