26. Locke

Maren's camera falls to her waist, hanging from the strap around her neck. I wrap my hand around her throat and pull her into a kiss.

Her hands grasp my forearm, almost like she's telling me to squeeze harder.

"God, Locke. That was even hotter," she says into my mouth, standing on her tiptoes to kiss me harder.

I pull back and whisper, "What?"

"Nothing," she says, dazed.

"I missed you last night. Your texts aren't enough," I say, brushing my thumbs along her jaw. Her lips part a millimeter, a glow emanating from her face. My pulse skips. "You look happy. I should've stuck around to watch you take the pictures you love. I'd like to see what you look like when you're actually enjoying yourself as a photographer. Will you come have dinner with us?"

She blinks, eyes glassy like she's just woken up.

"I have… want to," she stutters, "edit these photographs for your aunt."

"Okay." My voice sounds more even and nonchalant than I feel. An uneasiness thrums along my veins. "Come over if you get bored or change your mind. "

Maren nods, promises me if she does, she will, and then leaves me standing here alone, wishing I could drag her out of her house and throw her over my shoulder.

The door clicks closed, and I'm left in the setting sun, unsure what to do with myself. So, I guess I'll just leave my golf cart where it is and walk home—try to exercise out the anxiety in my nerves.

This is what it's like to lose control of your emotions. I've let my addiction to her overshadow rational thought. I cannot have her whenever the fuck I feel like it, and she doesn't want me monopolizing her time. She isn't mine , no matter how many times I've said it. I'll obsess over her in silence, suffer through the withdrawal.

When I step back into my living room, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Maren

I freaked out. I don't know how to handle whatever your family thinks about me.

Me

What do you mean? They love you.

What I really want to say is:

Come back.

They love you more than they love me.

I'll protect you.

My phone goes back in my pocket where it belongs before I text something stupid.

"Where's Maren?" Conrad asks, walking in from the kitchen, beer in hand, and sitting down on the couch.

I snatch the beer and sit in the chair across from him. "Did you say something to her?"

"Okayyyy," he says, looking at his empty hands and shrugging. "And no, just that we're happy how much you like each other. "

My knuckles turn white against the brown bottle. "Are you trying to freak her out?"

Conrad clasps his hands together and lets out a breath. "Am I freaking you out?"

"No idea what you're talking about," I say, throwing back the beer and chugging.

He sighs. "You're going to ruin this, Locke, if you don't admit it to yourself."

I glare at him. If he thinks I haven't recognized the situation I've put myself in, then he's not paying attention. I swipe a thumb over the condensation on my bottle, watch a drop zigzag down and cling to the bottom edge before it falls to the ground.

"I'm fully aware of my predicament," I say. "Somehow, I've stayed away from alcohol and drugs. But if it's not those, then it's golf. And when I want to slow down, it becomes a person. I can't escape it, Conrad."

"I've watched you watching her for the last few weeks. This is different. Maren is different."

"Look," I say. "I'm trying to control my feelings and using every ounce of self-control I have. Every day I feel like I've lost it. I'm going out of my fucking mind."

"You're letting her in," he sighs. "You were jealous of another man hitting on her, and now you feel vulnerable. You don't usually let that happen."

With his elbows on his knees, Conrad hangs his head when Elise and Blake traipse through the living room on their way to the kitchen. They both beam at me. Elise winks.

"Do you have a point?" I ask, turning back to him.

Conrad's shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath before he looks back at me. His eyes hold steady, almost like he's daring me to look away. "I'm watching you fall in love with someone before my eyes, and you think it's because you're addicted to her."

I've ended up outside of Maren's door to prove to myself that Conrad's full of shit.

But after I knock, wait anxiously, panic for a minute that she's not home, before she finally opens her door, I know the real reason why I showed up on her doorstep as soon as I see her smile.

It's one of surprise, but also genuine happiness that I'm here.

"Hey," she says. "How was dinner?"

"Exhausting," I tell her. So exhausting I've been tossing and turning in bed for over an hour.

"It's late. You should get some sleep for the last day of the tournament tomorrow."

And the real reason I came. "I don't want to sleep alone."

Her hesitancy washes over me like she poured a bucket of nails on top of me. The sting starts in my brain and cascades down to my feet.

"I'm sorry if I woke you up," I say abruptly, words stilted.

Her eyebrows quirk. "You didn't. I've been in major editing mode. I didn't even know what time it was until you knocked and scared me." Then she seems to realize at this moment that I'm in my boxers. "Where are your clothes?" she asks, eyes stuck to my torso. A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of her lips when she sees my tattoo again.

I shrug. "I put these on to walk over here, and I walked over here because I want to be next to you when I fall asleep."

It's that simple. Nothing more to it.

Now, have I ever had a thought like that about a woman before? No.

"You look tired," she says, reaching out and taking my hand to pull me into the doorway.

"Ouch," I tease, folding my body around her. Relief stretching across my chest.

Maren melds, tucking herself into me and making it easy for me to maneuver her. I pick her up around her thighs, wrap them around my waist, and carry her up the stairs .

She throws her arms around my neck, scrunches her nose, and whispers, "Hot but tired."

I click my tongue before I bite her earlobe.

"Locke," she giggles.

When I make it up to the loft bedroom, I crawl on my knees to the middle of the bed and scoot Maren's laptop over.

Her screen comes to life and illuminates brightly in the dark room with the picture she took of me putting earlier.

"You're editing my picture." I smile and allow my heart to warm as I place her down under the covers. Maren quickly rolls over, cheeks pink, and shuts the laptop before she sets it on the nightstand.

"I can't believe you can actually hear my shutter. I thought you were lying," she says.

"God," I chuckle. "It used to annoy the shit out of me."

She narrows her eyes at me. "I knew you hated me."

"I never hated you," I say. "I hate having my picture taken. Clear distinction."

"Sure," she jokes, rolling her eyes.

"I don't hate it anymore as long as you're the photographer. I like knowing you're close, watching me." I tangle my feet with hers and close my eyes. "Bore me to sleep and tell me about your cameras. Why're you always carrying two?"

"The exciting world of cameras and lenses," she laughs, locking her body into mine. "Sometimes I have to stand very far away according to picky professional athletes, so I need a telephoto lens. You don't really want to hear about it. I was trying so hard to not talk so much when I was showing you how to photograph me golfing. It's hard to shut up when you love something so much."

"But I do," I say seriously, holding her tighter. "I want to know everything about you."

She pauses, and I wait patiently with my eyes still closed. Her voice starts slow and then falls into a comfortable rhythm, excitement ticking through her tone .

"Telephoto lenses capture an object and bring it closer using a long focal length, so that's my camera with the huge lens. Other important factors: shutter speed is how fast a camera takes a picture. Motor speed is how fast a camera lens can focus. Even though golf is slow as shit, you swing your club like one hundred and twenty miles per hour. Golf ball speeds can average over one hundred and fifty. So, depending on the shot I'm taking, I need all those things to get the best photos."

"Yours are the best, you know," I tell her. "I've been looking for them now. In the newspaper. Online. I hunt for your little alliteration beneath every photo, but I think I've gotten good at picking yours out as soon as I see them. Something about your angles."

Maren doesn't reply, and I fight the urge to open my eyes to see if she's staring at me like I'm crazy. I feel crazy. I can see Maren in photographs she's not even in—photos of myself, and Russ, and Landon, and a hundred other golfers. She pours herself into them, takes each one with a little bit of love.

But at least she's still here, wrapped up in my arms. At least she still wants me near her.

At least I won't be crawling out of my skin tonight because she decided enough is enough. Right now, I just want to be existing with her on the verge of sleep.

"Locke?" she whispers eventually.

"Maren," I whisper back.

"Are we still fake friends?"

My eyelids flutter open, but Maren's are closed. Like maybe she's scared of the dark and doesn't want to see it. Whatever this is. I trail my thumb across her cheekbone before I lift my head to kiss her lightly on the lips.

"No, but I don't know when this stopped being fake."