The Hunt Club, located in bum-fuck nowhere, is the last place August wants to be at eight in the morning. But August's daddy expects him to be at his beck and call. So here he is, wearing too-tight golf pants and cursing at the $2,000 putter he bought that was supposed to make him a golfer extraordinaire.
"The green is always the hardest part of the game," his father says.
"No kidding," August says.
August feels a little un-comfy about his father's decision to take him to an old-money ass country club to discuss his company's financial books. Instead of just calling him into his office or even over the phone, he decided to make a mundane meeting an event. But since the man is also writing his checks, there is little complaining he can do about a free trip to the country club.
"I've always wanted to take you golfing," he says.
August eyes the golf ball before he takes another swing. This time the ball lands in the hole. "Then why didn't you?"
"Your mother wouldn't allow it."
August can't tell if his father is messing with him. It's not in his character to so openly go against his mother. His father's audacity makes his body feel even tighter in his clothes. He abandoned his mother, leading them to play house with a predator for over a decade to survive. "What are you trying to get at?"
His father takes off his orange-tinted aviators. "I think it's time we talk honestly about our relationship."
Shit, did he bring me out here because he's had a come-to-Jesus-moment, August thinks.
Instead of trying to figure out what the hell is going on with his father, August begins to walk toward their golf cart. Whatever his father is dealing with, he can deal with it himself. August already has a boatload of issues and guilt he will live with for the rest of his life; he doesn't care to help his estranged father figure out his own.
As they settle into the golf cart, his father's hands grab the steering wheel, immobilizing them. "You wanted to talk about the books, so let's just talk about the books," August says.
He can't hold his father's gaze. The odd oval shapes of the coarse emerald grass and the fine lime green grass, irregular shapes that go as far as his eyes can see, truly fascinates him – for just a minute. They must spend thousands on this grass.
His father's hands are still over his own. His hands are pale and soft. August's hands are tan and rough. It shouldn't be this way. It's not supposed to be like this. And August doesn't know if he can ever forgive his father for just leaving and never thinking twice about it.
"She wouldn't let me see you, August," he says.
"I doubt that," August spits back.
"Have you ever asked her why I left?"
What a ridiculous question. "No, of course not."
"Then ask her. And when you're ready to talk about us, I'll be here," he says. "But right now, I just want to be with you."
More talks definitely aren't what August needs right now. As if he doesn't already have nightly talks with Devon about surrogates and the possibility of adopting. As if his mind isn't cursing him every day for what he did to Iverem.
Rather than screaming until his voice box explodes, he gives his father a slight nod.