Buck, too, the legend patting him on the back. A couple of the golfers in the room sent him drinks, which the bartender represented by lining up overturned shot glasses in front of his still full whiskey. It was more of a goodwill gesture, since he couldn’t consume that much liquor responsibly on the night before a tournament or . . . ever, really.
Since when was he so responsible? And since when did the other pros give him anything but side-eye and trash talk?
It was the Josephine effect.
She wasn’t even here and she was making things better. Brighter.
She’d changed him for the better in more ways than one. Not only on the golf course, but in the way he considered other people, not just himself. She’d changed the way he interacted with those around him. Calhoun and Buck had ordered seltzer water and were flanking him at the bar in some kind of . . . solidarity?
Holy shit, had he been the asshole all along?
Had he made an enemy, lost a mentor, and alienated a legion of pros . . . with the chip on his shoulder? One honest, vulnerable exchange and he had people at his back. Consoling him, even if they didn’t agree with what he’d done to Josephine. Even if he didn’t deserve it.
Fuck, that was humbling.
He wished so badly that Josephine were there so he could tell her about it.
He’d say, Have I been the asshole all along? And she would say something witty and Zen, like, Wells, you’ve spent enough time giving people someone to hate, now give them someone to love. Or maybe . . . he was saying that to himself. Right now. Josephine’s voice would live rent-free in his head forever, guiding him, reassuring him, giving him shit, but the fact that he could conjure her wisdom on his own now? That meant something.
That meant he’d paid attention. Not taken her for granted.
That meant . . . maybe he could win on his own?
No, he would. He would.
There was a very real chance she’d never come back—and that would gut him. The view from his monastery in the mountains would be a bunch of grayscale trees and a pitch-black sky. But there was no way Wells would let the time he’d spent with Josephine mean nothing. If he had a sliver of a chance at getting her back, he’d have to prove he could stand on his own, without her constant support, because their relationship couldn’t work like that.
Please let me still be in a fucking relationship.
Wells pushed the glass of whiskey away with his index finger.
“You’re either going to play like dog excrement tomorrow,” Calhoun mused, “or you’re going to go out there and win the whole damn thing.”
“Yup.”
Calhoun paused. “You know, I have to at least make her an offer to join my team.”
Wells had seen that coming, but the admission still drove into his eye socket like an ice pick. “Everyone in this room will probably make her an offer. The smart ones, anyway. She won’t take it. She might hate me right now, but she’s my . . . belle. Through and through.”
If he listened carefully, he could hear his heart playing a tiny violin.
“You going to cry, son?” Buck asked, warily.
“Later, maybe.” Wells exhaled. “In the bathtub with a nice pinot grigio.”
They laughed. Wells didn’t feel anywhere near better. But he wasn’t alone.
And that was something.
“I’m going to head to my room,” Wells said, standing up and laying some cash on the bar. “If you think giving me a little sympathy means I’m not going to gun for you tomorrow, Calhoun, you’ve wasted your time.”
Calhoun held his hand out for a shake and, though he narrowed his eyes skeptically, Wells gripped the man’s hand and shook. “I’ll hate your guts through every hole,” the blond man said. “But if I said it hasn’t been inspiring watching you rise from the grave, I’d be lying.” He shook his hand one final time. “Good luck tomorrow.”
“Same to you. You’ll need it.”
Calhoun chuckled. “Enjoy your bath.”
Wells decided to let Calhoun have the parting shot. His spirits were rapidly dimming and he couldn’t think of a good rejoinder, anyway. The simple act of standing up and operating his wallet was as complicated as performing open heart surgery on roller skates—and they were each missing a wheel. He just wanted to go somewhere dark, lie down, and think of Josephine like the heartsick bastard that he was.
Before he left the bar area completely, Wells nodded at his former mentor. “See you, Buck.”
“Night, Wells.” He started past the older man, drawing up short when the man caught his elbow. “Let’s have lunch sometime. All right?”