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I freeze.

The name sits in the message box, not sent.

I delete it quickly.

Bentley84: I should go.

Clint looks back at the screen.

For a second, the hurt on his face becomes anger. Good. Anger would be easier for both of us.

It doesn’t stay.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

Bentley84: I’m sorry.

He laughs.

“Stop saying that.”

Bentley84: I don’t want to hurt you.

“Too late.”

It’s simple. Tired. True enough that my hand moves to close the laptop before it can get any worse.

Bentley84: Goodnight.

Clint doesn’t answer right away. He sits there, looking at the private window, face half-lit and unreadable. Then he gives one small nod, not quite to me. To himself, maybe.

“Night, Bentley.”

Chapter fourteen

Cam-Crushed

Clint

We quit the discs on hole eight, because August in Louisville is not weather so much as punishment. The park grass has gone tired and yellow in patches, and the air feels like sitting in a dryer with a wet sock.

We end up in the amphitheater, sitting a few rows up where the concrete is warm through my shorts but at least we are out of the sun. Zane pulls two beers from the little cooler he keeps in the back of his truck and hands me one.

Lukewarm already. I drink it anyway.

Below us, the empty stage sits in the heat, all concrete and shadow. Somebody has left a crushed water bottle near the steps.

The park is quiet. Kids back in school or at home dreading it.

Zane takes a long drink, sighs, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Here’s something weird,” he says, as if I’ve asked. “Some dude last night tipped me to rub coconut oil on my lips for, like, ten minutes.”

I turn my head. “No shit?”

“My mouth still tastes like sunscreen.”

Despite the heat and the mood I’ve been dragging around for three days, I laugh. It comes out rusty.