At the same two-seater table where I’d fallen in love with him three years ago, Brad pleaded with me over his turkey-tomato wrap. “Julia, I know you broke up with me because I never put your feelings first. That was wrong, and I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
Though relishing his burst of humility, I hesitated.
“How old are you, boy?” the elderly gardener asked, leaning on his pitchfork. Heat rushed to my cheeks, making me feel redder than the orchard’s ripe apples surrounding us. “S-seven and ten.” He grunted, eyeing me up and down before extending the implement. “So, nobody else wanted you at the orphanage?” Pain jabbed my chest as I accepted the handle.
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Have I ever mentioned how much I hate goats? I mean, really hate goats?
No? Well, that’s not surprising. I don’t like to reflect on the day those little monsters almost ruined my future. First dates are bad enough without floating goats.
Floating goats? Yes, they float. Don’t ask me how.
I stand on the Goldberry Bridge, glaring at last week’s newspaper. “Good Boy, Ace!” the headline declares. Everyone in Tuttlesburgh thinks Ace is a heroic golden retriever responsible for dramatic river rescues. But there’s more to the story. I think it’s a ruse, and Ace himself is at the center of it.
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His father’s demeaning taunts proclaiming Jordan would never accomplish anything rang in his ears as he approached Hole 18. It’d taken everything to get this far, but he remained in last place. He shook his head and feigned a confidence he didn’t feel.
“Almost there, Mouse,” Jordan slapped his caddy on the back and flashed a carefree smile, “
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