Kiss My Putt (Summersweet Island 1)

Because that’s who Birdie Bennett is. And that’s why I fell in love with her when I was a fifteen-year-old kid who didn’t know his ass from his elbow. She always took care of me, she always made sure I knew her friends were my friends and her family was my family, and she went out of her way to make sure I never felt one second of loneliness when I was on Summersweet Island. She even managed to do it from hundreds and thousands of miles away, over phone calls and texts and video chats, checking to make sure I was okay and that I knew I had a home and people who cared about me no matter how far away I was.

Even now. Even when she’s scared, and confused, and still trying to forgive me for the hurt I caused her by ending our friendship, and even with how busy and hectic her life is, she’s still helping me. She’s still taking care of me. A golf cart showed up at my cottage the morning after the drunk Dip and Twist incident, with the keys in an envelope under the visor, and I know that was Birdie’s doing. But it wasn’t just any golf cart. It was my baby. My obnoxious, supped-up golf cart and the first big purchase I made with the first big purse I won. My dad was so annoyed, because he wanted me to spend my money on something he thought I should, like a boat or a car. No, thank you. I wanted a black golf cart with bright blue flames painted all over it, a tricked-out sound system that got Birdie and me in trouble more than once for blasting Dr. Dre through town, twenty-three-inch tires with fifteen-inch spinning rims, black-and-blue leather racing seats, and multicolored LED lights running all under the cart roof and along the undercarriage that would glow against the asphalt as we raced around the island. I fell to my knees and wept when I saw her in my cottage driveway, thankful that Birdie didn’t key the shit out of it, smash the headlights in with a 9-iron, or let Tess light it on fire since I’ve been gone. Baby Blue was just as beautiful as I left her, had a full tank of gas, and even looked like she just had a recent wash and polish.

I’ve been letting Bodhi drive me around or borrowing his cart when he’s not using it, because I kept forgetting to go down to the storage building next to the cart rental by the ferry dock and sign it out. Something I never remembered or had time to do when I got to Summersweet Island, and something Birdie always took care of for me, because she knew I’d forget.

She’s been answering all of my emails, and she’s been sending out apology letters to all my endorsements on my behalf, and I know I could say she’s just doing it because it’s her job, but everyone knows that’s not true, even Birdie. Greg knows damn well she has already earned that promotion, and there’s not one other person with her qualifications or her kind of dedication to SIG who could do it better. He just doesn’t want to try to find someone to replace Birdie, because he also knows he’ll never find anyone better than her to run the clubhouse. She’s helping me, because she wants to. Because she can never say no, even to me, because that’s the kind of person she is.

All three women finally make it out to our table on the deck, everyone greeting each other all at once while Bodhi pulls up a few more chairs from an empty table. I continue standing here forgetting how to use words, just nodding hello like an idiot, my eyes still glued to Birdie, who won’t even look at me, because she’s probably afraid I’ll back her up against the deck railing and try to sniff her again. Good God, we need more beer.

“You smell wonderful. Is that new perfume?” Bodhi asks Tess, leaning over the top of her bright-red head of hair as he pulls her chair out for her.

“That’s the smell of victory.” She smiles up at him.

“That’s the smell of bribery and smoke,” Wren mutters under her breath from right next to me, pulling out a chair and sitting down as I finally take my eyes off a nervous and fidgeting Birdie to glare at Bodhi.

“That lucky golf hat went up in flames super fast. Very anticlimactic, but still worth every piece of ash that got stuck to my shirt and in my hair,” Tess states, leaning forward in her chair to grab one of the two remaining bottles of beer out of the bucket and pop off the lid.