Josephine hung up the phone with a shaking hand, a wounded sound escaping her mouth as she surveyed what used to be her familyโs pro shop. When law enforcement had officially declared it safe to drive on the roads, sheโd jumped into her ancient Camry immediately, steeling herself for the worst the entire way. Yet she still hadnโt been prepared.
Half of the inventory of clubs was gone. Floated away in the flood waters or possibly looted. The cash register was on its side in a bank of sludge. The display of rangefinder binoculars sheโd arranged only last week was sticking out through the broken back window.
All she could do was stare at the mess. She had no idea where to begin cleaning up. If there was a place to sit down, she would do it now. In her haste to get out of her apartment, sheโd forgotten to eat breakfast and the
beeping on her phone reminded her of that now. Her low-blood-sugar alert was going off.
Movements lethargic, Josephine rooted in her purse for her plastic roll of glucose tabs and popped a few into her mouth, chewing, willing the sugar to bring her back up quickly, though the movements of her jaw felt unnatural. At least the deafening buzzing in her head had one advantageโit was drowning out the conversation sheโd just had with the insurance company.
The one who was no longer providing coverage.
She centered herself with a deep breath and called her parents. โHow bad is it, kiddo?โ asked her father right away.
โItโs bad, Dad.โ
Her parents both let out breaths that brushed up against her eardrum. She could picture them standing right beside each other in the kitchen, sharing
the single phone they owned. Her mother would still have a pink towel on her head from the shower, her father sans pants. โThatโs okay, you two. We knew it was going to be a challenge, but the Doyles are up for it,โ said her mother, always the optimist. Forever finding the bright side. โWe have flood insurance on the shop. Itโll take a while to come through, but thatโll just give us time to plan our grand reopening.โ
Josephineโs legs turned so rubbery, she almost sat down in the foot-deep water.
She could see the late notice in her hand, remember reading the order to renew four months ago. Where had she stuffed it? Was it floating in the
debris somewhere? Oh God. Oh God.
Josephine looked around, swallowing hard at the sight of black-and- white pictures stuck in the sludge, their frames shattered, along with the frame holding the first dollar bill ever spent inside those walls. Her
grandfather had opened the Golden Tee Pro Shop in the mid-sixties. It was attached to Rolling Greens, a landmark golf course in West Palm Beach that was open to the public. The little shop, where customers could rent clubs, buy merchandise, and talk golf, had seen much better days, before the ritzy private clubs had started popping up all over southern Florida, but
Josephine had aspirations to change that in the coming years.
A putting green out front, more on-trend merchandise, a beverage bar.
Sheโd been giving extra lessons lately to save up the money to make
those dreams a reality, but in one fell swoop, those possibilities had been swept out to sea by Mother Nature.
The Golden Tee belonged to her family, though she largely ran it solo
these days. Sheโd been a late-in-life baby for her parents and theyโd retired a few years ago. But the shop was still their very heart and soul. How would they react if they knew business had dwindled so drastically that sheโd used the insurance money to buy insulin, instead?
She absolutely, 100 percent, could not tell her parents that. They were
hoverers by nature. Throw in the fact that sheโd been diagnosed with type 1 diabetes at age six and sheโd grown up with two full-time human
helicopters that watched her every move. In her late teens, sheโd managed to convince them that she could take care of herself. Theyโd stopped following her on the app that allowed them to see her blood glucose number. Theyโd trusted her to make good decisions.
Failing to renew flood insurance in Florida was soooo not a good decision.
Nor was forgoing her own private medical insurance at age twenty-six so she could afford the monthly rent on the Golden Tee. Buying insulin out of pocket did not fall under the category of smart moves. Sure, several drug
companies had capped insulin at thirty-five dollars recently, which was a tremendous help, but those vials were small and the costs added up. And insulin was only one component of living with diabetes in the age of smarter technology. Medical devices, such as her glucose monitor, had an
astronomical price tag out of pocket. Necessary trips to the endocrinologist werenโt cheap, either, without that little white card with numbers on it.
Sheโd hoped to skate by for a super brief period of time without a policy, borrowing supplies from the doctor when possible, but sheโd leaned on that goodwill too long . . . and now her chickens were coming home to roost.
โJoey?โ
She gulped at the sound of her motherโs voice. โYes, Iโm here.โ โDo you want us to come down?โ asked her father.
โNo.โ She molded her palm to her forehead. โYou donโt want to see it
like this. Iโll, um . . .โ She turned in a circle, ordering the prickle behind her eyes to cut it out. โLet me clean up a little before you come by. Maybe a
few days?โ
โJoey, you donโt have to take this on alone,โ her father said sternly. โI know.โ
Thatโs what she said out loud. However, the truth was that she took on everything alone. She didnโt know any other way to feel like a capable adult. Growing up as a diabetic meant a lot of people assuming she was incapable of certain things. Are you okay? Do you need a break? Should you eat that? That constant concern from others had led to Josephineโs being determined to prove she could do anything without issue or
assistance. And she could do mostly anythingโexcept for be in the military or fly a plane.
Unfortunately, staring at the mess that was her familyโs shop and having no clue if sheโd be able to salvage it, she didnโt feel capable of diddly-squat.
โIโll call you guys back in a while, okay?โ she said brightly. โLove you.โ โWe love you, too, Joey-Roo.โ
That prickle behind her eyes got stronger and she hung up, blowing out a pent-up breath. Sheโd give herself five minutes to gather some courage,
then sheโd come up with a plan. Surely the government was allocating
funds for disaster victims, right? Although she knew from past experience with hurricanes that it could take years to see that moneyโ
โHello?โ
Josephine froze at the sound of that voice, calling from outside the shop. She would know that raspy baritone in the middle of a monsoon.
It sounded like Wells Whitaker, but she had to be mistaken. Low blood sugar tended to make her slightly dizzy, her thoughts fuzzing together like cotton. The man who had fallen off the face of the planet three weeks ago was not knocking on the last remaining intact window of the Golden Tee Pro Shop.
โBelle, you in there?โ Belle.
No one called her that but Wells. No. No way.
No.
She turned around and nudged the door open with her toe, which wasnโt very difficult, since it hung by a single hinge. โUh . . . hi? Whoever you
are?โ
A rush of breath. โJosephine.โ
None other than Wells Whitakerโs face appeared in the doorway. Also, his body. It was there. All of him was there. He wasnโt dressed for golf, as she was used to seeing him. Instead, he wore a black hoodie, jeans, his
signature backward ballcap, dark hair sticking out from every side. His sideburns were overgrown, on course to collide with his unshaven facial
hair where it scaled the sides of his sculpted face. His eyes were bloodshot and the smell of alcohol was basically the third occupant in the room.
Yet, despite the fact that he currently looked like human roadkill, he somehow retained his mystique. His Wells-ness. This was the guy who
would lead the ragtag group of strangers in a dystopian universe. Everyone would just follow him without question. No one would be able to help it,
because he had this way of moving and observing that said, Yeah, okay, civilization is dead, so what?
And he was here. โWhat . . . is going on?โ
His eyes moved sharply over her body, as if assessing for injury. โYouโre okay.โ A beat passed, his gaze meeting hers and holding. โRight?โ
Physically, she was fine.
Just a little worried about the obvious hallucination taking place.
โYes. Iโm . . .โ She blinked several times, trying to get her eyes to stop playing tricks on her. โWhat are you doing here?โ
He rolled a single shoulder. โI just happened to be staying with a friend, not too far away. I remembered you saying something about your family owning . . . a pro shop? While I was out walking around, looking at the damage, I kind of just stumbled on this place by accident.โ
Josephine gave all of that a moment to sink in and none of it made the remotest lick of sense. โBut . . . really? You came to stay with a friend in the direct path of a hurricane? And . . . this course is two miles from any residential area. Youโd have to walkโโ
โJosephine, you know a lot about me, right? Probably way too much.โ
โA Sagittarius raised in southern Georgia, you were discovered by one of golfโs most legendary masters, Buck Lee, whileโโ
โThen you also know I hate answering questions.โ
That was the understatement of the century. Wells had once spent a full thirty minutes scrolling on his phone during a post-tournament press conference, completely ignoring the rapid-fire questions about a shouting match that had ensued with his caddie on the sixteenth hole. When his time was up, heโd calmly gotten up and swaggered out of the media tent, earning himself the nickname the Media unDarling.
โYes, I do know that about you.โ โGood.โ
Leaving that single word hanging in the air, Wells waded into the water left standing in the shop, charting the damage from beneath a furrowed
brow. Josephine was grateful for the break in conversation, because now that her initial shock over Wells Whitaker appearing out of the blue had worn off, she was remembering all the reasons sheโd made the painful decision to relinquish her fangirl status.
True, fangirls didnโt quit. They were loyal to the end. But that day on the golf course, when heโd torn her sign in half, heโd ripped apart something
inside her, too.
Apparently there came a point when a fangirl needed to be more loyal to herself.
And she didnโt deserve to be treated like yesterdayโs garbage.
Her faith in that decision was stronger than ever that morning, faced with the potential loss of something that truly matteredโher familyโs legacy and livelihood.
โHave you called the insurance company yet?โ Wells asked, hands propped on his hips, slowly bringing his attention back to her. โWere they able to give you a timeline?โ
โUm.โ Oh no, her voice was shaking. She swallowed the thick feeling in her throat and looked down at her hands. โUm . . .โ
โHey.โ He stabbed the air with a finger. โUh-uh. Are you crying?โ โIโd give it a sixty percent chance,โ she said on a sucked-in breath,
blinking rapidly at the ceiling. โCan you please go?โ
โGo?โ She heard him shifting in the water. โI see what youโre doing here.
Youโre telling me to leave this time. Youโve gotten it out of your system, okay? Weโre even.โ
โIโm not keeping score. I just have a lot of important things on my mind and you are not one of them.โ
He caught that statement on the chin, his jaw giving a sharp flex. โTell me the important things on your mind,โ he said in a lower tone.
โWhy would I do that?โ โIโm asking you to.โ
โDo you even remember what happened last time I saw you?โ Her curiosity was genuine. Did he think he could just walk into her shop and demand that she detail the way her life had taken a catastrophic left turn? She couldnโt even tell her own parents. โDo you?โ
Briefly, his gaze flickered down to the water. โYes, I remember.โ โThen I donโt think it should come as a surprise that Iโm kicking you
out.โ How symbolic that her attention should be drawn to a framed poster of Wells on the other side of the shop. His image was water damaged to the point of distortion. โIโm not your fan anymore.โ