5. Maren

Locke wasn't lying—San Diego is sunny.

As soon as I check in to the hotel, I putz anxiously around doing nothing, waiting for nothing. So, I find myself wandering down to Torrey Pines State Beach with my personal Nikon, that I splurged on with part of my I-signed-my-life-away-to-a-reality-show check, in my tote bag. At least one good thing came from it.

Sure, I see the beach and the Atlantic Ocean almost daily in Florida, touch the sand almost weekly, but something about the entirety of the Pacific feels different.

The air smells fresher and less salty. The shore is jutted with rocky cliffs. And it's freaking bright.

I fluff out a blue striped towel I borrowed from the hotel pool (which I promise myself to remember to return or I'll think about it for a week) and sit down in the center.

A hang glider launches off a cliff to my left, the purple and white triangle soaring expertly in front of the clouds. I watch in amazement until a group of children's laughs brings my attention to their sandcastle.

A cloud moves to cover the sunlight, casting everything in a slightly dull shadow, and I suddenly remember what I came out here to do.

Lifestyle photography is my happy place, no matter how few people will pay me for it.

I take in the shadows: the kids stomping their sandcastle into nothing, a surfer wiping out, the clouds moving across the sky over the ocean. These are the perfect moments of people just being.

I don't even realize how long I've been immersed behind my camera until my phone rings.

My heart flutters stupidly before I remember Locke doesn't even have my phone number. I've been on edge all day, waiting for him to contact me. He didn't ask for it, and I also realize I have no idea what his schedule is—if he's here yet, what events he expects me to go to. Which isn't that surprising. The man expects you to be on the same page as him without communication. I'm sure there's something in San Diego he wants me to be the face and voice of for him. Russell always had functions or press events or obligations outside of golf.

I assume Locke will just show up randomly at my hotel room door whenever he's ready like I should've been on the same wavelength as him.

"Mom," I say cheerily when I answer, trying to curb her inevitably hurt feelings before she makes everything about her. "I'm so sorry I didn't call you when I landed. I've been going, going, going since my feet touched the ground."

"Aw, sweetie," she says, "I know you're busy. I just wanted to check that you made it safely. What did they have you doing as soon as you got there?"

Which is code for you didn't have five minutes to call when you landed? During your Uber to the hotel? After you checked in?

It's not that I don't want to talk to her—okay, it's a little that—it's just that every time I do, somehow I end up feeling bad about myself, even when I was happy with myself, and wanting to change to appease her. I recognize I've been on a guilt trip my entire life, but I don't know how to jump off .

She doesn't give me time to reply. "What are you doing now? It sounds windy."

"Just at the beach," I say with a smile before my hair whips into my mouth. "Got a moment away to myself, so I'm taking some photos."

"That's wonderful. At least you don't have to spend every second with Russell. Which reminds me, your dad and I were watching your show the other night, and your hair is getting so long."

Which is code for you need a haircut .

"I kind of like it long," I tell her, softening how much I actually like it. "But I'll make an appointment to get it cut in a couple weeks."

I run my fingers through it before twirling it at the end. Why isn't me liking it long good enough for her? Instead, I care more about what she thinks, even when she should be happy that I'm happy.

"Oh, that's good. You know how much I like your hair shoulder length," she says. "Camille's is too long too. Did she show you a picture of the perfect crib she picked out? I would have loved for you to join us."

Of course, now it's perfect since Camille didn't go with the one my mom wanted.

"She did, and I had work, Mom."

"Golf. So many hours and tournaments and traveling. Watching it is like watching a sloth move." My mother chuckles, and my teeth involuntarily grind. "Camille also mentioned you took some maternity photos of her. Please text them to me. I'd love to see them."

"Well, they are lifestyle," I say like I'm the only one in on the inside joke, "but they still came out great. I've got to get back now. I love you."

My stomach instantly untangles. Of course, there's guilt there for lying, but being out from underneath her criticism makes me feel lighter.

"I love you too!" she sings. "Oh—"

But I'm already in the motion of pressing ‘end,' and I'm not quick enough to stop .

After I hang up, I text her as many photos as my iPhone will allow in one text and watch the blue bar load.

A second later, I get her read receipt and wait.

I wait for her to finish flipping through. I wait for a response that I don't get. I wait until I give up. I wonder if she knows her read receipts are on.

Then I'm looking at the pictures I've already spent a crazy number of hours editing and muttering to myself like a lunatic, "So beautiful. You're such a talented photographer, sweetie. Camille looks so happy, and you captured the natural light perfectly, Maren. Wow, I think you could be a professional non -sports photographer."

I jolt when my phone buzzes in my hand, thinking I'm getting what I was hoping for, only to see a text message from someone else.

My stomach swirls then pinches tight, and tangled doesn't even begin to cover whatever is happening inside my body. I squint at my phone to make sure I read the name right.

Hottie Icicle? Why am I smiling?

Hottie Icicle

Dinner and drinks tonight with one of my sponsors. Pick you up at seven.

Me

Who is this?

Hottie Icicle

You know multiple oxymorons?

Me

I want to make a pun, but I clearly don't know you well enough to jokingly call you a moron. Who knew you had a sense of humor ?

Hottie Icicle

I already informed you that you don't know me.

Me

What if I have plans?

Hottie Icicle

Do you have plans?

Me

No.

Hottie Icicle

See you at seven in the lobby.

I don't even bother asking how he knows what hotel I'm staying at.

This is not a date, but it feels a little bit like a date.

For some reason, my nerves are going kind of haywire, and my heart keeps expanding involuntarily. I think it's in response to the fact that I will be spending time with Locke Hughes of all people, the man who hates everyone.

"It's not a date," I repeat for the twentieth time while I'm currently obsessing about the way I look and trying to convince more than just my sister.

Camille leans in closer to her camera and giggles behind her palm. "Do you have a golf fetish?"

"No more golfers," I insist, backing up and twirling to show her my butt and back. I shimmer from shoulders to knees. "What about this one? "

"Too fancy," she says. "Next."

I groan and unzip.

"All golfers can't be the same," she continues. "You could also just have some fun. Locke is obviously not the relationship type."

"They might be all the same, and all of them are probably selfish. They don't even play a team sport," I point out. "I want someone who focuses on me, not their handicap or what number they're ranked. I want an all-consuming love, you know."

Camille scrunches her nose. "Handicap? Look who's using golf terms now."

I laugh and pull another dress over my head. This one is more complicated, and I can't find the armholes in the stretchy, tight fabric. "I don't even know what it is really, and I don't think professional golfers actually keep track of theirs… whatever the word means. Something about comparing them maybe. I don't know. My handicap is probably a thousand. Or wait? Is higher better? Golf is backwards, obviously. Why is it backwards?"

"Don't hold back. Talk birdie to me. Locke could give you a hole in one. It'd be so intense that after eighteen holes with him you wouldn't be able to walk the next day," Camille says before we both burst out laughing. "Yeah, not my best work."

Though I don't tell her, I imagine it would be extremely intense. The way his eyes latch onto me like hooks. I bet he'd have the stamina of a racehorse.

"What about this one?" I ask with my arms finally out to my side, eking out the image of what Locke must look like naked from my brain. While he doesn't smile, he's still very nice to look at, and I'd bet those hours in the gym don't hurt.

"Nope, you look like a middle-schooler who's trying too hard."

"Ouch," I tease her before I rummage around and find an ivory shift dress with brown buttons down the side .

She shakes her head after I put it on. "You look frumpy, Grandma. Like Nana when she wore that nightdress in public. You need something that hugs your hips. What do you have that's in between that?"

"God," I huff. "Good thing I packed half my closet."

I root around in my overflowing suitcase for yet another dress until I find the one I think Camille will like the best. I really did pack eight of them just in case.

"Where is he taking you?"

"I was too scared to ask him."

"That's practical," she teases. "What if you're going ax throwing or rock climbing and you show up in a dress?"

"‘Dinner and drinks' is enough to assume a dress."

"‘Dinner and drinks' is enough to assume a date."

"It's not a date."

She nods like I'm full of shit. "Riiiiight. The fake-girlfriend debacle of the twenty-first century. Explain this arrangement to me again. I'm not quite sure I get it."

"Locke says he's tired of talking. I think he thinks it will take some of the pressure off him if I'm there because I ‘talk too much.' And I know he hates me taking his picture because I've been subjected to his glares now for years. He swears he can hear me taking his picture."

Camille munches on a pickle from a jar that appeared from thin air. "No way."

"I don't believe him either. But now, he'll get his wish. Like I told you, selfish."

"Well, he's helping you too," Camille points out. "You haven't sent me a single bitchy social media comment in days."

I don't want to admit how much quieter my brain has been. It's nice not trying to change myself so I come across differently the next time I'm filmed. Camille has been telling me for months to stop reading them, but she never went as far as to stare me down with blackened eyes and demand I delete the apps .

"Yeah, I feel happier," I say lightly and prepare myself for the I told you so that doesn't come.

"He's good for you then," she says instead. "Those strangers were hurting you, and they made you compare yourself to every other woman on that show." Her eyes fly down to my dress. "Let me see."

I stand back for the full effect and twirl in place.

"Perfect," she gushes.

"Hair up or down?" I ask, gathering my long hair into my palms.

"Down. It looks so pretty long. Don't cut it. More to grab onto." She winks. "And maybe someone can pull it harder at that length tonight."

I drop my hair. "Worry about your own relationship," I joke. "This one is a non-relationship. I think he called it ‘fake friends, if anything.' So eloquent." Sliding on my heels, I glance at the clock. "I've got to go. It's 6:58."

"Okay, but Maren, let a teeny bit of his asshole rub off on you. You could use it." Her eyebrows shoot up at her unintentional words, and she cackles. "Ew. Let's never mention that I just said that ever again—unless you're into that kind of thing."

"You're disgusting," I laugh. "I'm hanging up."

"Wait!" she shrieks before her face turns deadly serious. "Enjoy your date."

"Goodbye," I huff before the screen goes black.

I give myself another four minutes to collect my scattered thoughts. For some reason, I know Locke would never be late and that he's sitting four stories below me at this exact moment, but I don't want to walk down there at exactly seven to find myself having to wait awkwardly alone… just in case.

At 7:03, I grab my clutch and head down to the lobby. As soon as the elevator doors open, I find Locke sitting on the couch directly in front of the desk, eyes trained on me like he knew this was the elevator that I was in .

He stands immediately, and I may not be able to walk just from his eye contact alone.