Page 62 of Rewriting the Story

And if she’ll let me, she’ll never know what it feels like to be anybody’s second choice ever again.

21

Now

“Mistakes are human. They're as natural as death itself. To live a life is to live with mistakes.” —In A Room With Death, Henry Hayes

“Whyarewehereagain?” I ask as we get out of the car at the golf course.

“I don’t even like golf,” Oliver says under his breath.

“Yeah, well, it’s been a weird week, and I figured we all need to whack balls with clubs. It’s a nicestress reliever.”

“Unless you’re bad at it,” Leo says, and I nod. I’m not the most athletic person on the planet. In high school, instead of being out on the field, I was in a classroom at the creative writing club.

My dad was always a huge football fan, but when I tried to play when I was a kid, I was far too lanky. The gear was always too big, and eventually, my mom was worried another kid was going to tackle me too hard and I’d be broken in half, so they pulled me out after one season.

It’s safe to say, I have low expectations for this round of golf. Not only is Grant a former hockey player who plays golf regularly, but I’m sure Leo is good at it too. He just gives off an energy that he’s good at everything. Maybe it’s his ego, or he’s just built like an athlete.

Grant goes to get us all checked in, and the rest of us hang out by the first hole. He comes back a few moments later with two keys and a huge smile on his face.

“Are you guys ready for the best round of golf ever?”

Leo and Grant are in one cart, and Oliver is with me. I’m driving ours because Oliver won’t stop shaking. The last time I remember him doing that was when I brought him to the hospital after Paige got whacked back in college.

I wonder if he ever got over that fear, or if it’s just now manifesting in a different way.

“Are you okay over there? Any more shaking, and I’ll think you’re trying to tip this cart over,” I say as I slow down. Our balls aren’t too far apart because neither of us hit them very far. It’s only the first hole, and we’re off to a rocky start.

“I just want to be married already.”

“Don’t rush this, Oliver. Enjoy this time with your friends,” Grant says from his cart.

“I am, but this week is taking forever, and I’m tired of waiting. No offense to you guys, but if Paige and I could get married today, I’d drive this golf cart back to the hotel and do it now.”

“Is this the beginning of some sort of wedding freak out for you?” Leo asks him, and Oliver shakes his head. “It’s fairly common, I’ve heard.”

“No, it’s not. I’m just impatient and worried about everything coming together perfectly for Paige.”

“It’ll be fine, Ol. Don’t you trust me and Hads to make this perfect for you two?” Grant asks as Oliver steps up to his ball, taking a swing. It lands just shy of the green. “Damn, that was pretty good.”

“I trust you guys, I swear. It’s all the things I can’t control that I worry about,” he says as he slides the club back into his bag. “I want this to be perfect for her. After all she’s been through, a smooth wedding and a lifetime of happiness are the least I could give her.”

“Don’t put so much pressure on yourself,” I say as I step up to my ball. The three of them go silent, and I swing, feeling decent about that shot, only to have it land in the sand to the left of the green.

“Henry is right,” Leo agrees. “You’re only feeling so anxious because of the standards you’re projecting. Just let it be, and it will all work out.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Oliver says as we get back onto the cart. We head off for the green, and my head jumps back to the other night, when I kissed Amelia.

I wasn't thinking. Clearly, the drink I had was clouding my thoughts, but I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since it happened. That’s the bad thing about being in Amelia’s orbit again. I’m sucked back in just how I was in college, and I can't seem to let her go. Here she is, back in my vicinity, clouding all my thoughts, just how she used to.

I sigh heavily, trying to force the girl out of my head but knowing it’s not going to work.

“Dude, are you good?” Oliver asks. I feel the breeze stop as the cart slows down.

“Not really. I did something stupid the other night, and I can’t stop thinking about what a dumbass I am.” I park the cart and grab my wedge—I think that’s what Grant called it—before trotting over to myball resting in the sand. I have no idea how to go about this, so I’ll probably just smack it and hope for the best.

“What did you do?” Oliver asks me, and after a few hits trying to get my ball out of the sand, it pops up onto the green.

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