3. Maren

Camille waddles across the living room, balancing a plate of nachos on her stomach as we get ready to watch the episode of Triple Bogey we recorded.

"Don't use my nephew as a shelf," I say.

She rolls her eyes and places the heaping pile of cheese on the coffee table in front of me. "It's the least he could do. My sciatic nerve will never recover from the damage he's doing in there."

"I want some tortilla chips with that cheese," I tease, eyeing the overflowing plate.

"They're under there," she says and plops down next to me on the couch. "If you're not going to be nice to me, be nice to baby boy. He's the one who wants all this food. And yeah, be nice to me. I'm almost seven months pregnant."

I tsk. "You have to love me anyway."

The cardinal sibling rule. And Camille and I are about as close as you can get without being actual twins. Eleven months apart, we have been together every step of the way—you know, except for those eleven months I lived without her. Maybe you could even say it was only the two months before she was conceived.

We also coincidentally look almost identical—except for that year she had purple hair. Somehow, our mother was never able to talk her out of it. It was Camille's choice alone when she decided to pivot to the balayage craze. If it was our mom's choice, Camille would have caramel-highlighted brown waves—like me.

Even though we were close growing up, I constantly lived in my little sister's shadow. Camille was scoring the soccer goals and back handspringing over me in gymnastics. She was kissing boys first and sneaking out, all while making better grades.

But you'd think she was living in mine the way my mom showered her with attention like she was compensating for something. Maybe that's why Camille's the confident one—she had some deep-seeded childhood experience that allowed her to spread her self-assured wings. The one I didn't get, the one that left me aiming to please everyone.

"How's Mom?" I sing. "In grandmother shopping heaven?"

"She hates the crib I picked out."

"Shocking," I deadpan, munching on a nacho that I had to dig out from the shredded three-cheese mound.

"I don't care. The one I want is gorgeous. Besides, that's all we bought today because she insisted that I keep looking at ugly cribs, so I humored her, then rejected every one that she liked more."

I snort. "Living vicariously through you since the early 2000s."

"Maren, I swear. When you have a baby, you better not buy the crib she wants—"

"I need a boyfriend first," I stop her. "When's it getting delivered?"

"He's backordered," she quips. "But I got you the extra-large. I hope it fits."

A groan slips out of my mouth. "Jesus, Camille. That is not a visual I want in your head."

She waves her hand in my face and smirks. "Russell wasn't cutting it—obviously."

Since she's indifferent to all sports in general, I doubt she saw the press conference today, but that doesn't stop my mind from drifting to Locke .

"What do you mean obviously ?" I shoot back before I quickly follow with, "No, don't answer that. When is your crib getting delivered?"

"While you're in San Diego. It's going to look perfect in front of the window in your room."

I sigh. "It's not my room. It's the nursery, and I promise I will help you set it up as soon as I get back. Then the very next thing I'll do is look for a new place. It's time, and you and Parker need alone time before the baby comes anyway. I've already been here too long invading your space."

"Please," she says. "Parker and I don't care. Between the hospital and his personal patients, I'm surprised he even found the time to knock me up."

She gets a heavy eye roll from me because my room isn't that freaking far down the hallway, and I have above-average hearing.

"Where is he anyway?" I ask, looking at my watch.

"He couldn't take this show anymore," she laughs, "so he's braving the gym."

"After tonight, when we watch Russell humiliate me in front of half of America, maybe let's not do this anymore?"

Camille's eyebrows fly up in surprise. "Seriously?" Her face softens before she smiles wide. "I like it. But also, it isn't half of America."

Here comes Locke again through my thoughts, eyeing my legs like he'd eat them and telling me all of America doesn't watch my little show.

It's not my show.

She leans over as much as she can to pick up the remote off the coffee table, scrunching my nephew in the process, and hands it to me.

"Ready?" Camille asks.

I nod and press play. A half second of the theme song blares through the room before I quickly hit pause.

"Did you know Locke Hughes has dimples?"

I think cheese comes up through Camille's nose when she laughs. "What? "

And he asked me what I want to be called, I don't add.

Strangely, I think I'd like it if he called me something. Despite thinking about it all day, I'm just not sure what. Though I am fairly sure that he's calling lots of women lots of things. But that smile. I can't erase it from my mind.

"He has dimples," I repeat.

Her grin starts slowly and widens so far she might split her face. "And…? How do you know that?"

"He smiled at me for the first time today."

"Huh," Camille remarks. "I've never seen him smile. Or look happy. Or register an emotion." She wiggles her eyebrows. "Did you give him something to be happy about?"

"No," I insist. "I wasn't even that nice to him."

She laughs. "So, you were absolutely delightful? Got it."

Then I humiliatingly remember that I implied he wanted to use me as a fake girlfriend. I still can't keep the blush from returning, so I cover my face with my hands. "I accused him of trying to sleep with me to mess with Russ."

Camille gasps into a fit of giggles and kicks me in the side. "What! You did not. Why?"

"Just this stupid press conference thing. It doesn't matter. I don't even know what I was thinking," I admit. "He was looking at me with those eyes. They're way too dark, by the way. And they were up and down my legs, my body. I swear he was looking at my freckles, and I just went blank."

What do you want to be called? makes a husky reappearance in my brain for the thousandth time.

I shake it out of my head. "Let's just get this over with. Please."

She nods, but I can tell she wants to push me, wants to tell me to have some fun. Even though Locke is not anything close to the word fun.

The theme song of Triple Bogey stops her before she can open her mouth .

I curl up under a blanket and prepare my heart to watch my already unfolded life through the eyes of everyone else. I can't stop myself from seeing how the show portrays me. Because the way I remember it and the way they edit it usually come out as two different versions, and I want to see what everyone else sees.

I've psyched myself up all day to relive it—not that I don't find myself reliving it often.

Russ had just moved up to number two in the World Rankings. He'd been ecstatic all week, wanting to celebrate when we got back to Palm Beach after a tournament. We were hosting a dinner party when I excused myself, with Craig at my heels, to grab my camera from our room to document the moment, and there was Russ against the wall with some woman I barely knew.

It was a quiet fight, because Craig was filming it, and I moved out the next day.

I think about it daily, wonder what I could have done differently to make him happy, keep him faithful. But this time I don't have to relive it through reality television because after every commercial, I think it will be next, and it just isn't. They never air it, and when the credits start rolling, my mind is in complete disarray.

If Russell had anything to do with it, maybe he has a sliver of a heart left. Maybe he still cares.

It's depressing thinking that this little closet is the only thing I have in my life that is mine. And even other people borrow it sometimes.

No house—I moved out of Russell's and into Parker and Camille's the day after he cheated.

No furniture—I sold it all when I broke my lease to move in with Russell.

No boyfriend. No pets .

Now that I think about it, not even this closet is really mine. I have the key, but it belongs to the golf club.

I suppose I have my car—which is on its last leg and makes a weird sound that I ignore when I accelerate.

As I've been packing up my camera equipment for the tournament in San Diego this week, all I've been able to think about is Russ.

I thought I had been exactly what he wanted—always by his side, smiling and supportive. I gave him space when he asked for space. I held his hand through every loss.

So now, I'm wandering out into the sun with a smile on my face and my camera slung over my shoulder in search of him—to what, I'm not sure. Make up? At the very least, I need to know if he had anything to do with last night's television omission.

I find him on the practice green, deep in concentration.

When he feels my presence, he looks up and slightly startles at the sight of me. "I didn't know you were here today," he says, a little wisp of softness in his voice that reminds me of the man I thought he was.

Back then, Russ caught my eye because he seemed larger than life, but I also wasn't sure I wanted to date a professional golfer. It seemed daunting, almost exhausting. He persisted though, made me feel wanted, special. He was always the first one to text or call. Always asking me on another date, even when I hadn't kissed him. I was blinded by the over-the-top dedication and the excitement of being in a new city every week. I'd always end up caving to him, anything he wanted I'd eventually give him. Maybe that was what he saw in me—a weakness, a person who was easy to manipulate. And once he had me, it was like a knife cutting into soft butter. Zero resistance.

And even when it came down to infidelity, I'd still considered taking him back. He promised he'd only let the fame go to his head, how all these girls threw themselves at him. The evening that it happened, when I spent the first night at Camille's, she'd begged me to be done with him forever. She didn't think he would ever change. But can't everyone change, or at least have the ability to ?

"I'm just packing up equipment for tomorrow. Lots of lenses and boxes and equipment." I hesitate while I muster the courage. "Did you watch last night's episode?"

He shakes his head. "No, I didn't. I was at dinner."

The sting radiates outward from my chest. We used to watch it together—he always insisted. Now, I'm sitting here every week on my little sister's couch, spiraling into dark black holes, while he's out here living his best life, moving on.

He opens his mouth to speak again but decides against it, almost like he wants to wait to see what I have to say.

"Oh, okay," I say, trying to keep my voice level. "I thought—"

"I tried, Maren," he says quickly, glancing around. "But you know how these things go. Producers and editors and scheduling. I promise I tried so hard to convince them not to show it."

The cadence of my voice quickens, brightens. "So, you did have something to do with it?"

"What?" His brow knits together when his eyes spring back to my face. "They didn't air… it?"

It.

He doesn't know what else to call it.

This is what our relationship has been reduced to. Two little letters. The moment everything shattered.

But maybe he still cares? Maybe he still feels some protectiveness over my feelings. Enough to ask them not to put our deep personal issues on the show. And should I let one mistake define him? Especially if he's trying?

"Russ?"

It wasn't my normally sing-song voice saying his name.

I whip around to see her.

Her.

Three little letters that ruined everything .

She's standing there with a pink golf bag, her set of pink golf clubs poking out the top with tie-dye club head covers and her long blonde hair blowing in the wind.

"Hi," she says hesitantly, looking between us.

"Hi," I reply. She shifts from one leg to the other, and I wish I knew where she got her outfit. "Your golf dress is really cute."

Then I laugh. Sure, there are tears behind them. What do you expect? I'm not that strong, and I haven't seen her since that night. And I definitely had no inkling that they were still seeing each other.

Humiliation washes over me. Again. I've become accustomed to it at this point. Here I was thinking Russ cared just a little. When am I going to learn that everything out of his mouth is a lie?

Just another day in the life of—

"Maren."

Russ' lips aren't moving. I squint at him, convinced I'm hallucinating, but now he's looking at me like I'm the bad guy for some reason.

"You're an ass—" I start, my voice wavering.

"Maren," the voice says again, stronger this time, and I realize it's behind me.

I turn to see Locke sitting in a golf cart. Like he knew where I was and that I needed saving, but obviously he didn't. His eyes are steady on me, summoning me without another word, so I float like he's enveloped me with the darkness lurking in them.

As soon as my butt hits the seat, he takes off.

Don't look back , I tell myself, even though I know every single person on the practice green is staring. Me getting into a golf cart with Locke Hughes is an everyday occurrence. Don't let on that he makes you nervous.

Whatever he wants, he doesn't like it himself. In fact, I think he hates it. But right now, I just want to get away, no matter how much whatever lies at the end of this little ride terrifies me.

Away, away, away is my mantra.

I can finally breathe when the clubhouse comes into view .

"Thanks," I mutter when he slows. Before the cart can come to a full stop, I'm practically trying to sprint off of it.

"Wait." Locke reaches out and holds my wrist softly, tugging me back to the seat. The smirk radiating off his face without a trace of a smile unnerves me.

"He's teaching Lydia how to play golf. He never taught me how to play golf," I blurt.

His face wipes clean somehow. "What?"

"Lydia. That's her name. Such a refined name, I guess. Better than Maren. And I don't even like golf, but I wanted to learn for him."

Locke blinks. "You don't like golf?"

My laugh comes out forceful and abrupt before I compose myself to a semblance of a normal human and remember he stopped me from leaving. "What do you want?"

"I'll teach you," he says.

I stare in confusion. "Golf?"

"No," Locke sighs. "How to not give a shit."

It takes a minute for the hamster wheel in my brain to stop spinning.

"That would require you to actually talk to me," I laugh.

He stays silent.

"So, we'll hang out more? Spend time together?"

"Do you have a point?"

"Everyone will think we're together."

"I don't care," he says. "Let them."

Attempting to redeem myself from my earlier nonsensical accusation, I joke, "Ohhh, so exactly like fake dating?"