1:22 a.m.
You suck.
2:20 a.m.
Henry. Could you just let me know you’re okay?
2:48 a.m.
I texted your mom. She told me you arrived. Thanks a lot.
Shit, I think when I read those time stamps. I saw that she’d texted last night when I got back to Dad’s, but I didn’t open the thread because I’d just spent a drama-free hour with a girl, and it was so rejuvenating that I didn’t feel like taking a step backward.
But it was a dick move, making Whit worry.
I check to be sure it’s not the ass crack of dawn in Spokane, then shoot her a text.
Henry 10:27 a.m.
Sorry! Yeah, I made it.
10:33 a.m.
Whit, I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m good.
Whitney 11:02 a.m.
I’m so glad.
The sarcasm saturating those three little words is mind-blowing.
I head out for a quick beach run. By the time I’ve gotten home, guzzled water, and cleaned myself up, Dad’s shouting that it’s time to head out. We’ve got a tee time at a very nice local golf course, the Emerald Outlook. Tiger Woods plays there when he vacations in Sugar Bay, according to Dad, who whoops me even though what he’s drinking is a lot stronger than my Gatorade. He’s not very humble about his victory, either.
When we get back to the Towers, I stand beneath the cold spray of the shower, hoping to soothe the sunburn I earned onthe course. Afterward, I swipe a hand over the foggy mirror to find that my face is thoroughly charred. Fantastic.
I slather on aloe I find in the medicine cabinet, then throw on shorts and a T-shirt before grabbing a bottle of water from the kitchen. I hole up in my room, thinking about how skiing with Dad is a thousand times better than golfing with Dad. Why’d he have to move all the way to Florida?
My phone buzzes with a text: Whitney again. I still feel bad about cold-shouldering her last night, so I fire off a response.
Whitney 4:29 p.m.
How’s Sugar Bay?
Henry 4:30 p.m.
Okay. You good?
Whitney 4:33 p.m.
Fine.
Henry 4:35 p.m.
You sure?
Whitney 4:36 p.m.
Yep.
