I finish dressing up and scouring a little bit of our last night’s c*m. The impulse to see who that joykiller was who dared to ruin our morning like this does not permit me to take a shower. I am in heat with ire and letdown. I stride outside with words of profanity pouring from my mouth like rain. How can someone ruin such a beautiful morning for us? I curse them, whoever it is.
No! Whoever these are,
I halt my hasty strides and take a tortoise pace, my face almost dropping to the floor as the faces of our guests stare at me. Mr. Adams and his wife and Mitch’s parents. This smells like war. And it is all etched there on their faces. They are not here for a good course. Between the baffles of why they are here this early morning and why they are gawking at me with unconcealable detest, I
