38. Epilogue

It's so quiet on the eighteenth hole, you could hear a pin drop in the grass.

Locke finished nearly twenty minutes ago, five under par, before he retreated to the clubhouse to watch the rest play out on television.

Russell has been battling to five under, one hole behind Locke all day. And right now, he's positioned to win if he makes this putt for birdie.

It will be an incredible shot if he does; about ten yards out, just a straight line. One swing of a club away from his lifelong dream.

I've got my monopod ready, another camera strapped against my left shoulder in case.

Russ crouches to examine his ball and the path it has to travel. He rises before stepping back to have another word with his caddie.

I still don't understand how many different ways there are to discuss hit the tiny ball in the tiny hole . But of course, they confer with each other for another three minutes—checking their book, examining the club, clearing nonexistent obstacles in front of the hole.

He nods, chuckles, then his face forms into a look of mean concentration.

I went through this tournament twice with him, but he'd never been in a close enough position to win either of those. I can only imagine how nervous he is, how close he feels to being able to grasp something so significant with his fingertips.

And I'm going to capture the moment when he putts. If it goes in, he wins. If it doesn't, and instead he makes par, then he and Locke will go into a sudden-death playoff.

Russ finally steps up, and I hold my breath along with everyone else as his club connects with the ball.

It hurtles along, and I snap a thousand pictures, capturing his putt like stop-motion as it curves along the edge of the hole and drops—Russ' amazing winning putt is perfection.

"Smile!" I exclaim. "You just won the Masters!"

Despite everything, I'm still excited for him.

Russell lifts his lips and shows me his teeth, but nothing reaches his eyes.

Everything he's ever wanted—the silver Clubhouse trophy he holds up next to his face and the gold buttons of his green jacket glimmering in the sun—right in his hands.

And he doesn't even look happy.

But it's not my job to worry about his feelings. It's my job to take his picture.

And it will be my job to take his picture tomorrow—but hopefully not for forever. I have a spring family portrait session this week and a newborn shoot the next. While it's only a couple hundred dollars, and I won't be quitting my day job any time soon, maybe one day I will. I have a real website with galleries that aren't just my family and regular bookings. It's steady enough right now, especially since Elise tells everyone she knows (and everyone she doesn't know, like the barista at the coffee shop yesterday). And I have a lot of social media followers, but I have to limit the comments because they mostly talk about how hot Locke is and debate why he's not in any of my pictures .

The most important thing is though—I'm happy, which only seems to piss Russell off more. Locke was right. This is the best revenge, and I don't even want revenge anymore.

I turn my head over my shoulder and smile. "Lydia! Come get in the photo."

She practically squeals in excitement, while managing to ignore me somehow. Every time I see either her or Russ, it amazes me how they faded to black in my mind. Nothing about them bothers me.

Russ looks bothered though. His mouth pinches like he wants to say something, some explanation that maybe I deserve but don't care enough to hear. I've heard enough of his voice to last me a lifetime.

He stares at my hand, then his blue eyes glint in the sunlight when he scowls back at me, over and over. Maybe the ring on my finger is catching the light at just the right angle and blinding him. Maybe that's what really pisses him off more. That he has no control over me or my thoughts—because he doesn't even cross them. Unless he's standing right in front of me.

Lydia hangs on him, beaming in the same bright sun, in her cute floral sundress. She keeps smiling, so I keep taking pictures. She looks like she could do this forever.

I'm happy for Russ. I wish he could feel the same.

When I'm done with their pictures, I finally turn to Locke.

He's standing on the edge of the crowd with his mom, Elise, Conrad, Blake, Emmie, Camille, Parker, and my nephew, Parker Jr., as they have a conversation around him.

All of his attention is on me.

I raise my camera to my eye and snap one picture.

Locke playfully frowns as I inspect every inch of him though my viewfinder—his blond hair that I get to run my fingers through, his broad shoulders I lay my head on, his abs that I've memorized every curve of. But my favorite is his layers underneath, the ones he reserves for me .

Come here, pretty girl , he mouths, before flicking his eyes down with a knowing smirk to my now pulsing pussy and continuing down my legs.

I snap my camera back on its tripod, but when I turn, a woman with a media badge is speaking into Locke's ear and he's being whisked away to the post-tournament press conference.

Instead, I make my way over to our families and start with my sleeping nephew, kissing him on his forehead.

"He conked out on the eleventh hole," Camille says softly. "But he was clapping and cheering for you."

We just had his ‘One Happy Dude' one-year-old birthday party, which is incredibly fitting because he's the happiest baby I've ever met (only because I'm the world's best aunt) at Camille's house last month, where I captured every second of his cake smashing.

Both his and Emmie's photos hang in my and Locke's hallway (I lasted six months before I ‘officially' moved in, by the way, because that seemed more appropriate, and Locke bet himself he could make it happen in four). They're already the best of friends because Locke and I have group babysitting night.

Then I go around the circle. Camille gets an awkward hug because she has to hold little Parker. Big Parker picks me up off my feet in a hug the same way Phillip does next.

Each one praising me like I'm the one who just played a week of golf and almost won the biggest tournament in the world.

Elise, who's holding Emmie, kisses my cheek. "Congratulations," she says, beaming, and squeezes my arm. "Second is still amazing." I've gotten used to people acting like I have something to do with Locke's accomplishments, so I just let it roll off my back.

Blake hugs me tight after I smush Emmie's cheeks.

Conrad, dressed in his white caddie uniform, throws an arm over both of our shoulders and teases me and Blake for wearing almost matching golf dresses. Then he picks us up by our waists and shakes us .

"Conrad!" Blake cackles.

"You're a nuisance," I joke.

"We almost won," he laughs, putting us back on our feet.

Locke's mom, Joanna, holds me the tightest, the longest. A little over a year sober, she takes it a day at a time—working, repairing family relationships, going to therapy.

This has become my little family. My friends. We all live life, together, one day at a time—there for each other.

My heart clenches, and I smile at how remarkably similar this photography closet looks to the one at home. I feel at home. I rest the reflective umbrellas into the corner and lay the tripods on the second shelf.

All in one motion of events, the light flicks off, the door clicks shut, and my gasp gets sucked out into the pitch black.

Now temporarily blind, I turn slowly and nudge back into the wall.

"Locke," I whine softly under my breath.

"Maren," Locke whispers so close to my face it surprises me.

He presses my body against the wall with his.

"Saving me for last," I tsk.

His fingertips trace the curve of my cheek before he brushes his lips over mine in a slow tease. "So I can have you the longest."

"You already have me forever," I say, untucking his polo just so I can slide my hands up his warm plane of a torso.

The engagement ring he proposed with last month snags on the fabric.

In true Locke fashion, he'd whipped me around on our staircase and dropped to one knee out of nowhere. Because he'd been obsessing about it in his pocket for all of two hours since he'd picked it up from the jeweler and couldn't wait for his original plan to play out. I think that's how we'll get married too. Maybe one day I'll wake up and say that we should get married today, and he'll agree to a destination wedding with just the two of us, because neither one of us really wants to wait. Neither of us wants to be patient enough.

Maybe I'll suggest it tomorrow when we wake up and then go to sleep a wife.

He chuckles. "What're we going to do with all that time ?"

With the tip of my nose, I find his dimples in the dark and smile against them before I press my lips to his and let my tongue taste his bottom lip to satisfy my craving. "You played amazing. I'm so proud of you," I say, nuzzling into his neck. "Are you upset?"

"That I came in second?" His laugh rumbles softly in his chest. "This is better than when I won last year and when I won years ago."

"What? How?"

"Winning and having no one," he says, "doesn't come close to losing and having you, Maren. Everything is better with you in my life. And this year you're wearing this ring, and everyone knows you're mine forever. Reporters won't stop bugging the shit out of me. And then next year, you'll be by my side again. And the year after that. And then eventually whenever the year comes when I'm not playing golf anymore, you'll still be here. And that's better than a trophy. You don't come in second."

"Locke Hughes has a way with words," I say, dropping my hand over the zipper of his pants.

"That's definitely not my bicep," he murmurs when I rub him.

I hum back then smile, even though he can't see me.

"Are you going to rupture my eardrums again, Maren?" he says, voice deep.

"Maybe when I scream your name," I breathe.

"Be a good girl," he says with a smile in his voice, and I wish I could see his dimples. His body contracts, flattens me harder against the wall, and his voice turns to gravel. "Let everyone know who you belong to."

I melt. Over and over from his touch. From his words.

"I'm yours. Forever, Locke. "

I've given everything I have to him, and I'll let him whisper in my ear for the rest of my life. Perfect praise doesn't exist, but Locke gets pretty damn close.