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“Bitch, please.” Pat does hair in Fort Lauderdale and has zero patience for my bullshit. “You’ve been weird since Illinois. We all noticed. We just didn’t want to say anything because you get so pissy about it.”

“I don’t get pissy.”

The entire table looks at me in unison. I sigh.

“Fine. Maybe a little pissy.”

“There it is.” Bill leans forward delightedly, like he’s settling in for a show. “Spill. Who is he? The young guy?”

“There’s no he.”

“Gavin.” Netra, the only woman at the table and somehow the most terrifying of all of them, sets down her drink with real purpose. “I follow the Tour. I saw the clip of you at that Pride event in Denver, standing next to some pretty young thing who could not stop staring at your ass while you swung a golf club. I have questions.”

I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s always complicated with you,” Bill isn’t being unkind. “Last complicated thing was Marius Webb, and that ended with you not dating anyone seriously for six years, so forgive us for being a little invested.”

The table goes quiet for half a second, that silence that happens when a name lands wrong, and I feel it in my chest the same as always.

“This isn’t that,” I say, quieter now.

“Then what is it?” Netra’s voice softens, dropping the teasing edge. “Exactly. Tell us.”

I look around the table, at people who’ve watched me build walls for years and never once tried to tear them down. Until now. And something in me just… gives up holding it together for a moment.

It comes pouring out of my mouth in a stream. “His name’s TJ. He’s twenty-one. Rookie on Tour. A huge future ahead of him. And I am completely, stupidly gone for him. And I have no idea what to do about it because every time I get close, I think about fucking Marius Webb and I just…” I shrug, helpless, the stream running dry. “Run.”

Nobody says anything mean. Nobody laughs. Bill reaches over and squeezes my forearm, grounding, familiar.

“Twenty-one’s young,” he says carefully. “That’s a real thing to think about, not just an excuse.”

“I know.”

“But Marius was never brave enough to be seen with you. That’s not the same problem as being twenty years younger and figuring your life out.” Netra leans in. “Is the kid scared of being seen? Or scared of you specifically? Because it sounds like you’re pushing away a twenty-one-year-old for something a coward did to you a decade ago.”

“He’s out. Loud about it, from what I am told. Not scared of that part at all. Not scared of me, either.” I turn my glass slowly on the table. “I think I’m the only scared one in this scenario.”

“Well.” Bill sits back, satisfied, like a verdict’s been reached. “At least you’re finally admitting it out loud instead of just brooding about it into a bourbon somewhere alone. Which,” he says, tipping a cocktail napkin at me, “be honest, is what you’ve been doing.”

“He’s twenty years younger than me, Bill. He’s got a career that’s about to explode. The last thing he needs is to get tangled up with an older guy and then decide that he needs to conform the moment things get complicated.” I press the heel of my hand against my eyes. “The last thing I need is to fall for someone who might do exactly what Marius did.”

Do I want someone so young as TJ? I am out, but not out and proud, waving it around with flags and glitter like Caleb. I just exist, not worrying about who knows. I’ve never had a reason to be more. I’ve never wanted to take care of a guy. I mock myself. What was giving him Stephen, staying away, running away, if not taking care of him?

Would I be enough for TJ? I can’t go through having my heart ripped out of my chest again.

“You two doing any of the same tournaments soon?” Netra asks.

I shake my head.

“But there is a tournament coming up, right?” Netra asks.

“In four weeks. Yeah. Cedarfield Championship in North Carolina.”

“You could help him get sponsored into it. I saw something about it online. Then you’d have four weeks to figure out if you’re gonna keep running, or actually be something real to this kid.” She shrugs, simple, direct, with no judgment in it. “Your call. But from where I’m sitting, you’ve spent six years punishing yourself for somebody else’s cowardice. Might be time to stop.”

I don’t have an answer for that, not a good one anyway, but I let the words sit there, turning them over while the table’s conversation moves on around me. Back to lighter things, back to noise and string lights and the comfortable chaos of people who love me enough to push when it matters and let it go when it’s said its piece.

Four weeks.