Kiss My Putt (Summersweet Island 1)

Everything is his fault today after I had to spend ten excruciating minutes sitting on his lap in a golf cart last night. I was perfectly fine doing a squat above his knees, my thighs only screaming in pain a little bit, until he had to go and yank me back against him. And then I had to go and do something stupid like turn and look at him, my mouth hovering right by his, wishing on every star above us that he would just lean forward and kiss me already. When he didn’t, any semblance of behaving like a fully functioning human being went out the window after that, and I couldn’t get away from him fast enough when Bodhi pulled into my driveway.

“Well, I think we’re on day fourteen of that second one, plus the fifteen years on top of them, which is too much math for me to calculate how many days that is in total, but it equals you should be an old pro at squeezing your thighs together and girding your loins by now around him.”

“5,489 days,” Mrs. Plas, who obviously teaches 7th grade math, helpfully adds as she sips her coffee and watches the morning news on the TV.

My radio crackles to life thankfully, saving me from any more of this conversation.

“Hey, sweet cheeks, you there? Someone gave me a radio. Isn’t that fun?”

I groan when I hear Palmer’s staticky voice, and both Tess and Mrs. Plas chuckle.

“Now I can talk to you all the time whenever I want, and I don’t have to wait for you to reply to my texts. This is going to be so much more conveni—”

Palmer’s voice immediately cuts off when I quickly turn the volume knob all the way down until my radio shuts off.

“Reach out and grab what you want!” Tess reminds me as I take my coffee from the bar and start heading to make sure everything from breakfast has been cleaned out from under the tents so we can start setting up for the closing awards ceremony at the end of the day.

“She means his penis!” Mrs. Plas once again helpfully adds.Palmer: Help me. I’m dying.

Birdie: I just saw you fifteen minutes ago, and you were fine. You were filling up the children’s wading pool for the driving range contest. Did you forget how to swim? Need some arm floaties so you don’t get scared when you have to get the golf balls out of the kiddie pool if anyone hits them in there?

Palmer: I already have a pair of Frozen arm floaties, thank you very much. Did you fail to mention Miss Abigail would be here today? You have betrayed me. A hex upon your house! Why is she here?? She is a teacher of nothing except how to abuse sweet, juicy, firm buttocks. Buttocks’s. Buttockses? Whatever, MY GODDAMN ASS HURTS.

Birdie: You’ll be fine. And did you forget she’s been the head of the PTA for like, thirty years? Think of the children, Campbell.

Palmer: They can buy their own wrapping paper and shitty chocolate bars. She spilled her coffee on my shirt and then grabbed the hose and tried to soak me “So it won’t stain.” You’re lucky I have quick reflexes or I would be sopping wet from my head to my feet.

Palmer: Your silence tells me you feel bad. I accept your apology. Also, check the weather. Some storms just popped up on the radar for late afternoon/early evening. We’re all gonna get wet today.

Palmer: Fine. I guess you’re busy with the Frisbee Golf game happening on the front lawn for the non-golfers. See you after lunch. Don’t forget you said you wanted to take a picture of me for stupid social media then. I did some push-ups and sit-ups to get nice and firm if you need me to take my shirt off. Don’t worry, I grabbed a clean one without a coffee stain and changed in your office.

Palmer: See? This is why I needed that walkie-talkie and you shouldn’t have taken it away from me.“Put the rotisserie chicken on your lap, hold The Lamp in your right arm, and then bring The Chevy Tahoe up closer to your face. The Meth can stay there in the grass for now.”

Palmer shakes his head at me as I try to get the camera on my phone to focus on him, where he’s sitting in the grass cross-legged and the empty 18th green is behind him. It looks indistinct enough in the background that he could be on any hole on any course in the world, and fans still won’t know where he’s disappeared to.

“There’s not many sentences you think you’ll never hear in your lifetime, and that’s got to be at the top of them.” He laughs, bringing The Chevy Tahoe—the orange-and-white tabby cat that roams the course and chases away geese, seagulls, and any other vermin with his kitty cohorts—up to his face. “So The is actually part of their given names?”