—List written on a hot-pink Post-it in July Fielding’s handwriting.
57.
now
I’m hoping to catch another whiff of watermelon lip gloss, of something that makes me think of Syd or someone else.
But there’s only the smell of cut grass and dirt and old wood.
It reminds me of that night, of course, but there’s nothing new.
Wait.
Is there?
Another deep breath.
And then I smell it.
Fresh spray paint.
Close by.
But where?
I don’t see it until I walk around to the back.
There, bright red against the yellow-painted cement of the dugout.
GET TH3M BACK.
58.
once
“Who’s winning?” I asked Alex. We were almost at the end of the course. We had three holes left. Mount Rushmore, Redwood, Yellowstone.
“I am,” he said. “As always.”
“It’s just because I always let you,” I said.
“Ha.” Alec putted toward Theodore Roosevelt, who was missing his nose. He sank it. “I’m unstoppable now that I have this,” he said, twirling one of the golf clubs I’d given him as a gift. “Who knew they even made miniature golf club sets? I thought everything was putters.”
“It took some sleuthing,” I said. “I may have had to drive to Cortland to meet a guy in a shed who’s a metalworker.”
“Good grief,” Alex said. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It wasn’t,” I said. “He was legit. And like eighty years old.” I rolled my shoulders. “What’s the actual score?”
Alex scratched at the tiny notepad he was carrying. “Huh,” he said. “We’re tied.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “That’s surprising.”
I putted. It went right into the face of the one of the dudes in Mount Rushmore—Washington—and then bounced into the hole perfectly.
“Comeon,” Alex said.
I did finger guns. A victory dance. “Please,” Alex said. “Make it stop.”
