The rest of the afternoon drags. Registrations peter out once the green opens, and new arrivals head straight for the fairway without even stopping to grab their nametags first. Greg keeps an eye on the lobby, but Trey doesn’t make another appearance. It seems so surreal, running into him again after all this time. He hopes Carla was right when she said Trey had been into him, because Greg would like nothing more than the chance to see where the night might end.
Greg’s memories of Trey are ancient. Mr. Johns’ only son, affectionately called “Junior” as a kid, Trey had been like a little brother to Greg—always underfoot, always annoying, and never really registering on his radar. Trey had never shown any real interest in golf, much to his father’s disappointment. When he would tag along wi
