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The waiting is the worst part, and I take my phone out, looking for a distraction until they begin. There are multiple calls and texts from Rosie. I frown, hitting the call button. She answers after a few rings, sounding out of breath. “Haze, when will you be back again?”
Her voice sounds raw and strained. “Is everything okay? We should be back late tonight technically, why?”
Rosie sniffs. “I, um, I went back home last weekend, as you know. And I was helping my dad clean out his office. I found an old file that was sealed, and he wouldn’t tell me what it was.” She pauses, sniffs again.
“What was it?”
“I looked up the logo and title and it’s an adoption agency.”
My eyes widen as I parse the information. Oh, shit. Shaking my head, I say, “Maybe it’s not what you think.”
She scoffs. “I think that I’m the only member of the family who is tall, blue-eyed, and ginger. My two brothers are shorter, like my dad, and they have black hair. I’ve always wondered,” she says, trailing off.
“Can you get any confirmation?”
“I called my brothers and asked them to look at the file without my parents knowing. Clearly, they’re trying to hide this.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”
“I think I’m going to do one of those ancestry tests too, just in case anything comes up,” she adds, blowing out a shaky breath.
“Listen, take the day off tomorrow. I’ll call in sick too, and we can do it together. Okay?”
“Yeah, okay. Thank you,” she says, voice meek. I’m not used to my best friend being so frazzled and upset. I need her sunshine personality back.
“Love you, babes,” I say.
“Love you more.”
We hang up and Bryan waves me back over to the group.
On the screens, I see Scott setting up to go first. Everything is quiet as he hits a beautiful shot on the par three. It lands just shy of the hole and I groan. All he needs is a fucking tap-in.
My heart is in my throat as Levi lines up for his shot. He’s using a 7-iron since he only needs to go around 180 yards. I close my eyes, listening to the commentators.
“Carmichael is setting up. Now, from what we’ve seen the last few days, his drives have been straight and consistent, but a little short of what he desired.”
“It’s what led to this tie-breaker. If he had gained more distance on some of the other holes, especially the par fives, he would have already won this,” the other commentator says.
“C’mon, c’mon, baby,” I whisper under my breath, opening my eyes right as Levi hits the ball.
His follow-through looks stronger than other drives today. Murray sits up straighter in his seat, clutching the sides of the iron table.
“C’mon, c’mon,” I keep chanting, pressing my hands together and bringing them to my lips. The ball soars and soars—100 yards, 140 yards, 176 yards, and then, the whole crowd explodes into cheers as the ball clinks the flagpole and lands in the hole.
“Whoo!” I shout, jumping up and down. On the screen, Levi pumps his fist into the air and hugs his caddie.
Alan, Murray, and Bryan are staring at the screen, faces stoic. Um, did I miss the memo? Do we not celebrate?
But then they eye one another and start hooting and hollering. They give high-fives all the way around, squeezing me in a group hug at the end. I step back with a dopey grin on my face and shake my arms at my sides, trying to dispel the rest of my nervous energy.
“It’s not over yet,” Mike says, grabbing a champagne glass from a nearby waiter.
I run a hand down my lemon-and-orange-print sundress, smoothing out the wrinkles.
Levi has one more hole to get through; this one is a dog-legged par four. I know they’re not his favorite. He admitted that to me one night as we lay in bed, facing one another, nothing but the moonlight filtering through the curtains of the beach house.
I smile at the memories we’ve made this week. I’ve learned so much, not just about golf, but about him and how he handles the pressure—with ease and a clear head. I can’t help but get giddy over the prospect of being the one out there on the course someday, once I go pro.
