Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 133655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Her question lands like a fork dropped on a glass plate.
I blink and swallow hard against the irrational emotion that migrates into my throat. “I…I don’t know. I don’t really know what Ace is up to these days.”
Even my own voice sounds wrong. Too light. Too practiced.
“What?” my mom questions, her eyes very much fixated on me now. “What do you mean, you don’t know what he’s up to? It’s Ace, Julia. The two of you have been inseparable since you could walk. He lives across the hall from you.”
When I look across the table, I see that Evie’s eyes are on me now too. Goodness, is it hot in here? You’d think the Plaza would keep their shit comfortable, not sweltering. “Isn’t Ace with Dad today?” she questions and Mom nods.
“Yeah. He’s playing golf with Kline and Thatch and Wes.”
“Well, if they’re golfing together, it’s safe to say that big fight between Kline and Thatch has officially come to an end,” my grandma chimes in. “Glad to hear that’s resolved. I know Thatcher is an emotional kind of guy. Always wearing his heart on his sleeve.”
“Yeah, he is, but he’s also a troublemaker,” my mom adds in defense of my dad. “It’s not every day someone tries to give you a crocodile.”
“Did that idiot Gunnar go golfing?” Evie asks, rolling her eyes. Evie and Ace’s little brother Gunnar have a bit of a love-hate relationship.
“I’m not sure,” Mom responds, and Evie refocuses back on me.
“Are you and Ace in a fight or something, Julia?”
“No… I mean…” I pause and look down at my plate as if it holds answers. “He’s got a new thing…a club of sorts that he’s running.” I skirt over the Double C truth I’m not supposed to talk about. But I also skirt over the harsh reality of the state of our friendship. “We’re both just really busy these days.”
Evie’s eyes are judging me from across the table, but eventually, she picks up her phone and goes back to ignoring all of us.
But while Mom and Grandma start chatting about a DIY disaster in their trailer that involves our grandfather Dick and a sex swing, my phone buzzes on top of the table.
Evie: You’re lying about something. I can tell.
I roll my eyes.
Me: What are you talking about? Don’t tell me you’re drunk off those two mimosas I saw you chug behind Mom’s back…
Evie flips me the middle finger, and I go back to pretending that everything’s fine.
And I do a pretty good job of it until my phone buzzes again with a new text message.
Aunt Cass: I need my weekly Ace update, Jules. Don’t hold anything back. Give me all the details, even the horrible ones where I realize my son is an idiot like his father. Oh, and I know you’re currently at brunch with Georgia and Savannah. I’ll buy you a new Chanel if you ask your grandmother about the hump pillow your mom had when she was a teenage girl. I’ll only accept video evidence of the conversation as proof.
I love Chanel as much as the next girl, but knowing Cassie, that conversation would lead to more trauma than it’s worth, and I’ve got my fill of emotional cutting these days. Even this message from Ace’s mom—a regular weekly occurrence for years now—makes my stomach dive to my feet.
Our parents, our siblings, our families aren’t aware of the current state of our friendship—our nonexistent friendship, that is—and somehow that hurts as much as the fight itself.
Our lives are so intertwined…what else will we lose if we can’t find a way to fix this?
Ace
It’s a warm, overcast Sunday morning at Winged Meadow, the kind of private NYC-exclusive golf course where memberships cost more than most people’s cars and the grass looks like it gets Botox.
My dad invited everyone out for a casual round. Though, Gunnar already bailed, and only Kline and Wes showed up to suffer through the experience that is golfing with Thatcher Kelly.
Not to mention, nothing is casual when it comes to him.
He’s wearing limited-edition Jordans on the green, teeing off like he’s trying to launch satellites, and putting with his driver “for efficiency.” He slices every third ball into oblivion but insists he’s having “an off day.”
Wes is trying to pretend it’s not getting to him, but I see the muscle twitch in his jaw every time Thatch skips a wedge and takes a full swing out of a bunker.
Which leads me to believe this round of golf might have nothing to do with bonding and everything to do with my dad finding an opportunity to prank my uncle Wes.
And clearly, it’s working.
My own golf game? Utter trash today.
We’re currently at hole five, and I step up to tee off. I take a swing, and the ball slices hard left and disappears into the trees.