Page 42 of Good Graces

QUINN

Two weeks.That’s all we have left before summer ends, before I can walk off this course for the last time and leave it behind me forever.

Unless, of course, I come back again next summer.

It’d be pathetic, wouldn’t it? To graduate and still be working at this overpriced playground? But a job’s a job. And money’s money. And an English lit degree doesn’t exactly come with a golden ticket to financial security.

Maybe I’ll teach. Maybe I’ll write. Maybe I’ll spend the next ten years waiting tables while I figure it all out.

I adjust my bag, shifting the weight across my shoulders as I lead Davis and Mancini down the fairway. It’s an overcast morning, heavy with heat, the kind that seeps into your skin like a warning.

The sun’s tucked behind a thick layer of gray, which should make the air feel cooler, but it doesn’t. It just makes everything stickier, thicker, harder to breathe.

I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth, checking in with myself. My chest is tight, but not too tight. My breathing is even, but I know better than to trust it. Humidity like this always makes it worse.

I ignore it, adjust my grip on the clubs, and keep moving.

Beckett isn’t here today, thank God.

I noticed the second I checked the schedule this morning, the second I stepped onto the course and saw only the two older regulars waiting for me. A small mercy. One I won’t question. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he’s out of town. Maybe he just decided not to golf today.

I don’t care. So long as it means I don’t have to see him, hear him, pretend I don’t want to claw his eyes out for touching me. Besides, I’d rather not be questioned about the whole tire debacle and accidentally give away something I shouldn’t.

Davis lines up his shot, adjusting his grip. Mancini huffs, watching him struggle.

“Jesus, just hit the damn thing already.”

Davis ignores him, takes the swing. The ball soars through the air, not bad, but not great, either.

Mancini claps him on the shoulder. “Nice. Should’ve done that the first time.”

Davis flips him off. “Let’s see you do better, then.”

Mancini grins, stepping up. He likes to act like he’s a laid-back guy, like he doesn’t take this seriously, but I know better. They all do. They might not play for anything more than bragging rights and a few bucks here and there, but that’s enough.

I step back, shifting my bag, keeping my breathing measured as they play. I’m hyperaware of the way my lungs pull a little too hard with each inhale, the way my skin feels flushed and heavy, like I’m wearing the humidity as a second skin.

I glance toward the golf cart, where my water bottle is tucked into the side compartment. It’s not far. I should grab it and take a second to cool down, reset. Instead, I just draw a slower breath, press my tongue to the roof of my mouth again, and keep moving. No one likes a caddy who slows things down.

The round stretches on, shot after shot, hole after hole. My steps grow more automatic. The air gets thicker. Every blade of grass feels like it’s sweating.

And then it shifts.

Not the weather—though it’s still pressing, still stubbornly gray—but something in the air between them. The rhythm changes. The banter dies off. A beat of quiet slips in, sharp and purposeful. Davis adjusts his glove. Mancini takes a little too long lining up his next shot. They exchange a glance. One of those looks. A silent handoff of whatever thought they’ve both been sitting on.

I feel it before they say anything. That prickle across the back of my neck. The slow, creeping sense that whatever comes next, I’m not going to like it.

Mancini clears his throat, shifts his stance like it’ll make this easier. “So, uh . . . we heard about Beckett’s car.”

My heart skips. Just once. But I keep my expression blank. “Oh?”

Davis nods, adjusting his glove. “Yeah. Apparently, someone slashed the tire on his Maserati. Real clean cut. Almost surgical.”

I grip the strap of my bag tighter. “And?”

Mancini shrugs. “Well, there are a few theories floating around.”

I don’t respond, just keep walking, leading them toward their next shot.Keep your head down. Keep moving.

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