Seth Baumgartner's Love Manifesto Read Online Free PDF Page A

Dimitri calls over to her.
    â€œBite me, you fat bastard,” the girl fires back.
    I nudge Dimitri’s shoulder. “You’re always wondering why girls don’t consider you good boyfriend material. Maybe you should start by changing your opening line.”
    â€œDude, that’s Audrey.”
    It’s been a while since I’ve seen her. I take a closer look at the girl behind the wheel, the girl behind the giant sunglasses and baseball cap. “Jeez, I didn’t even recognize her—”
    â€œDon’t even think about it.”
    â€œHey there, Seth,” Audrey calls to me.
    â€œHey,” I call back.
    â€œI’m guessing you two cheap bastards aren’t buying anything.”
    â€œTwo bucks for a can of soda is a total rip-off,” Dimitri says. “Why don’t you take your gougemobile somewhere else?”
    â€œSee you losers later.” Audrey shifts the concession cart into reverse and loops around the green. She drives down the fairway toward the golfers waiting at the tee box behind us. When she’s gone, I check out the situation with my next shot.
    â€œYou’re up,” I say.
    â€œKing of the freakin’ obvious.” Dimitri brushes the grass with his wedge a few times and then gives a crisp stroke. His ball pops into the air. It lands on the short stuff and rolls in an arc toward the hole. It misses by a few inches and curls around to within three feet. Pretty good considering where he was sitting.
    I mark my ball, polish it on the bottom of my shirt, and replace it on the grass. I kneel and dangle my putter out in front of me to try to figure out my line.
    â€œOkay,” Dimitri says. “This isn’t the U.S. freakin’ Open. Take your shot.”
    I stand over my ball, putter in hand. I rock my shoulders until my club face finds an easy swing that lightly brushes the ground. I draw the putter back and tell my brain to let my stroke happen.
    Three short beeps chirp from my pocket—a photo message on my cell phone. I jerk up midswing, and the ball hops off the face of my putter blade. It takes a wider arc to the left than I planned and rolls past the hole. A foot and a half away.
    â€œGimme?” I say.
    â€œHell no,” Dimitri says. “This is high-stakes golf wagering here. We’ve got a buck riding on this hole.”
    I pull my cell from my pocket and switch it to vibrate.
    â€œIf your phone starts buzzing during my swing,” he says, “I reserve the right to a do-over.”
    â€œCan I take a do-over on that last one?”
    â€œFat chance.”
    Dimitri sets down his ball so the Nike swoosh points straight at the hole, and he gives a gentle stroke. His ball rolls to the edge and drops in. “That’s a bogey. Sink yours and it’s a push.”
    I make my way around the hole to my ball. As I do, I glance at the message. It’s from Veronica. The photo is tough to see in the sunlight, but I can make out most of a face and the plunging neckline of a woman’s sequined shirt. It’s the woman from Applebee’s—at least, it’s part of her. Her eyes are looking upward as though she’s talking to someone above the level of the camera. The text beneath the photo says: This is her. I’ll call you later.
    â€œWhat is it?” Dimitri asks.
    â€œNothing important.”
    I power off my cell and line up what should be a tap-in, but that woman’s face keeps flashing through my mind. My hands are shaking, but I swing anyway. The ball makes its way to the hole and lips out, rolling farther away than when I started.
    â€œTough break,” Dimitri says. “Concede?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œAt the tournament, a putt like that could cost you ten grand.” Dimitri fishes his ball from the cup with the head of his putter and kicks mine toward me. “Want to go double or nothing on the next hole?”
    â€œNo way.” I scoop up my ball and