That’s what made this whole golf situation so annoying. Thirty-five hundred dollars was nothing to Scott, really. At present, he had millions in the bank. But he’d planned poorly—it hadn’t crossed his mind to bring a bunch of cash with him because he knew Poppy and John wouldn’t be down to gamble, and he hadn’t anticipated making friends on the island who were. When they set the stakes before golf yesterday, it never occurred to him that he might lose as badly as he did.

Of course, as bad luck would have it, he’d played the worst round of his life. He had a few excuses—lame, but still. First of all, in his enthusiasm to gamble, he had forgotten his golf glove in his room that morning. He’d forgotten his club pass too, for crying out loud—fortunately, one of the other guys had an extra to lend him. But no one had an extra glove, so Scott had a blister to contend with by the fifth hole. Also, it was a relatively unfamiliar course, he was nervous, could have been something in the air . . . Regardless, he was in a pile of shit by the tenth hole, and when he didn’t have the cash on him at the end of the round, those guys were drunk, pissed, and just about pounded him then and there. New Jersey trash, all of them. Scott knew the score, though: it was terrible form to enter a game with strangers if you weren’t prepared to pony up on the spot. Jesus, he had been stupid. Sloppy.

Scott had tried to deescalate. They weren’t humored. He explained that he’d just have to hit a few ATMs to get the cash. “Just give me until tomorrow,” Scott had pled with them. “Noon tomorrow, I’ll be at your place with the money.” They had demanded the address of his beach house, and they almost took his wedding ring as collateral, but Scott was able to talk them out of that, thank goodness—things were bad enough with Lisa as it was.

He thought he’d be able to produce the cash, no problem, but had neglected to consider the fact that here on this godforsaken island, he was a five-hour drive from the closest branch of his bank, and of course there would be withdrawal limits at any other institution . . . No checkbook, and he obviously couldn’t ask John for a loan without it getting back to Lisa . . . Christ, what a mess. What a stupid, stupid mess. What the hell is wrong with you? Scott slammed his palms on the steering wheel. What’s it gonna take to quit? A divorce? A bullet through your skull? He was consumed by shame.

It was 10:48 now, the clock was ticking, bridge traffic backed up, and he had to get to the beach house to pick up his watch before he went to those guys’ condo, due there at twelve o’clock sharp. He could only hope they would accept three grand and an eight-hundred-dollar watch in lieu of thirty-five hundred all in cash. They’d be fools not to take the watch and call it even, but Jesus Christ, New Jersey, who knew what to expect from New Jersey?