by Liz Fichera
“Where’ve you been?” Sam asked.
“Nowhere.” I let my hair spill forward on my shoulders. It was hard to sit still.
“Dad said you went to a party,” Trevor said. “I’m surprised he let you drive by yourself.”
My teeth clenched. I wasn’t in the mood to be smothered. “Well, he did.”
“Lots of crazies on the road, Freddy,” Trevor said, switching to the Overprotective Big Brother Voice that drove me nuts. “Two psycho white boys in a monster truck almost ran me off the road the other night.”
My jaw dropped. My brother was overprotective, but he was the only brother I had, the only one I wanted.
“Did you get a plate number?” Sam said.
“Couldn’t,” Trevor said, taking a sip from his can. “I was too busy trying to avoid being roadkill.”
“What’d they look like?” Sam said.
Trevor’s lips sputtered, remembering. “High school kids, driving daddy’s brand-new wheels. Blond Ken dolls. Think they’re The Shit. You know the type.”
Sam nodded, and my entire body stiffened. If Trevor had said they’d been driving a Jeep, I might have vomited the dinner I was too nervous to eat.
“You probably know ’em,” Trevor said, his gaze sweeping between Sam and me. “I’d bet my motorcycle they go to your school.”
I started to stand, anxious to bolt for the trailer. I didn’t know how much more I could take before my head would explode. From Trevor’s inquisition and boys running my brother off the road like it was a game to the sad fact that I’d been foolish enough to think that Ryan’s party would be special, my insides raged like a dust storm.
“Wait, Freddy,” Trevor said, reaching out to stop me. “Tell us about this party. Seriously. What kind of party?”
Trapped, I sank back into my chair. I really didn’t want to explain. I barely wanted to think about it. “Yeah, it was just a thing. A golf-party thing.”
“Where?”
I sighed. “Ryan Berenger’s house.”
Sam bristled beside me. “What’s he drive?”
“A Jeep,” I said quickly. Relieved.
Trevor’s lips sputtered. “Spoiled white kids. What do you want with them?”
“We’re on the same team,” I said.
“That doesn’t mean you have to party with them. Or does it?”
I shrugged my shoulders. After tonight, that didn’t seem possible.
Trevor took a swig from his beer and crushed the can between his fingers, his eyes bouncing between Sam and me. “You guys hungry? I’m thinking about heating up a pizza.”
Sam nodded, but I said, “I’m not hungry.”
“More for us, right, Sam?” Trevor winked. “I’ll be right back.”
After Trevor trotted off to the kitchen, Sam said, “So how was it?” filling the silence. “The party, I mean.” I could tell that it bugged him as much as Trevor, maybe even more, that I’d gone to the stupid party.
My temples began to throb. I really didn’t want to talk about it. “It was fine.” I got up and walked to my putting green.
Sam followed behind me. “If it was so fine, why have you been crying?”
I froze just for a second before I kept walking. “Have not.”
“Have, too. Your cheeks are all wet.” Then he paused long enough for a long inhale. “I’m only going to ask you once, Fred. Did any of those dudes do anything to you?”
“No,” I blurted. “And you’ve got to stop this, Sam. Stop babysitting me. Between you and my brother, you’re both driving me crazy.” I reached for my putter, which was leaning against the house, but Sam’s hand was over mine before I could grab it. His palm was hot.
Slowly, I slipped my hand away from his and began to walk toward the road. Away from the glow from the front-porch light. Away from everybody. I didn’t want Sam to see my face. I didn’t want to admit what he already knew.
“Hold up.” Sam followed behind me.
But I kept walking, the desert crunching below my shoes.
“You can tell me, you know. You can tell me anything.”
“I know,” I said, and that was true. I’d known Sam Tracy my whole life. We were the same age, had gone to grade school together. Our parents had gone to high school together. Sam had always been so nice to me, so protective. Like family. Like a brother.
He pulled back on my shoulder, stopping me before I reached the dark road. “Then why won’t you tell me what really happened?”
I turned to face him, his hand still heavy on my shoulder. “Because it’s stupid.”
His hand squeezed my shoulder. “You’re the smartest girl I know, Fred. You’re not stupid.”
I choked back a sob, searching for his eyes in the dark. Everything blended into the night around him except the whites from his eyes. “My stupidity might surprise you.”
Sam inhaled loudly.
And the next thing I knew, he reached for my other shoulder. He pulled me closer. Then he bent lower and kissed both of my cheeks. They were still damp. It was like he wanted to kiss the tears away.
I swallowed, hard. “Sam…”
But he said nothing.
“Sam,” I said again, but the third time he leaned in, he covered my mouth with his.
My eyes popped open.
His lips pressed against mine, waiting. He pulled me tighter.
I couldn’t stop myself. His lips were soft. I reached my arms around his neck and felt his muscles respond underneath my fingers. His whole body warmed against mine, and he pulled us closer.
Every inch of me knew what we were doing was wrong, but I couldn’t pull away. The sky was dark, his body hugged mine like a blanket, and he wanted me. Somebody wanted me. And in that moment I needed somebody, too.
*
As soon as the sun came up the next morning, I drove with Dad to the Ahwatukee Golf Club. I’d barely slept, didn’t want to sleep, especially after my kiss with Sam. We’d crossed a line, and I wondered if we could ever find our way back. When I’d driven him home, neither one of us had said anything to fill the awkward silence.
Practicing golf would be good. I needed something that I could control.
After Dad parked the van, we climbed into his work cart parked alongside the maintenance office. He gave me a ride to the driving range. I sat in the back of his cart next to his rakes, brooms and shovels.
“See you right back here around five o’clock.” Dad forced a smile, but his eyelids were red and puffy from lack of sleep. When Mom had returned home from work last night, she’d proceeded to keep everyone awake as she’d finished an entire bottle of red wine. I’d tried to block out her voice beneath the pillow on my bed, but Dad didn’t have it as easy. Between glasses, Mom had rattled off the usual list of regrets and complaints, that she hated her job and why shouldn’t she pack the van and drive to San Diego and live on a beach and collect seashells. By the time she had reached the end of the bottle, she had pretty much declared that she hated everyone, herself especially.
“Sure you’ll be okay?”
I smiled at Dad. He always said that. And I always replied with the same answer. “Yeah, Dad. I’ll be fine.” I was used to being fine because there was no point in being anything else. “I need to practice for the tournament next week. Remember?”
“Stop by the pro shop. John should be able to get you a walk-on, but not till later.” John Dieter was one of the club’s pro golfers. He always let me play for free near the end of the day if it wasn’t too busy.
“Okay, Dad.” I flashed him another reassuring smile. “What about you? You okay?”
“Me?” Dad brushed off the question. His lips sputtered. “Don’t worry about your old man.”
My throat tightened when Dad smiled back. The corners of his eyes crinkled more deeply than yesterday. He looked markedly older, somehow. Sadder. My own heart ached, looking back at him.
“Okay, then.” He turned toward the course and the day that wouldn’t end without him. “If you need
anything, Murray can always reach me on the two-way.”
“I know. I’ll be fine. Don’t work so hard. You look…tired.”
Dad lifted his hand, brushing off my concern. His lips sputtered before his rough palm cupped my cheek. Then he hopped into his work cart and drove down the path to the maintenance office. The next time I’d see him, he’d be covered in grass clippings and smelling of wet mulch. Someday I wanted to do something so big that Dad wouldn’t have to toil all day on a golf course. Someday…
I sighed before turning my attention to the driving range. The range stretched as long as a football field and was equally as lush. And it was completely empty, except for the usual birds, jackrabbits and hungry coyotes.
I was the first person there. I usually was on Saturday mornings. With my golf bag threaded over my right shoulder and the handle of a metal bucket of practice balls hanging from my left hand, I trudged to the farthest slot on the ridge overlooking the course, my favorite spot. It was closest to the mesquite trees and provided shade in the afternoon.
When I reached the spot, I balanced my bag against the stand, placed the bucket next to it and pulled out my driver. I palmed the club’s face, all chipped and pockmarked from years of use. And just like always, I closed my eyes and took a few practice swings, enjoying the brush of the cool morning air against my cheeks. I swung my club back and forth like a pendulum. It felt good. It always felt good. I waited till the movement loosened all of the muscles in my back and shoulders.
One swing, then another.
Back and forth.
Quickly, my body began to relax.
Because I was alone, I started to hum softly with my eyes closed.
More practice swings.
Back and forth. Back and forth…
“Pretty song.”
My arms froze midswing while my eyes popped open.
“Sounds kinda sad, though.”
“Ryan?” I turned as my arms dropped.
Ryan Berenger stood a club’s length in front of me with his bag strung casually across his back.
“Where’d you come from?”
A careful smile lifted his lips.
My own lips felt like rubber and worked about, as well. “What are you doing here?” I leaned against my club like it was a cane, trying to act casual but failing miserably.
His chin lifted. “Tell me where you learned that song and I’ll tell you.”
I choked back a nervous laugh. I had no intention of sharing anything, especially after last night.
But he smiled that smile again, the one that made my knees a little wobbly. “Come on, tell me.”
I caved too easily. “My mother used to sing it to me.” After I said it, I hated myself for sharing something so personal. And it sounded lame. Of all the songs I could have hummed, why that one?
“It’s pretty.”
My lips pursed, suspicious. “Yeah, you said that. Now tell me what you’re doing here.”
“Aren’t I allowed?”
I shrugged indifferently, but I was still beyond curious. I figured he and his friends had partied all night long. How could he manage golf at the crack of dawn? “Go for it. There are plenty of open spots.” I waved at the rows between us and then turned toward my bag to avoid his eyes. But then I heard his footsteps across the grass, his bag jingling. He didn’t walk away like I’d assumed he would; he walked closer.
My knees wobbled again.
“Mind if I practice next to you?”
I raised my eyes in more mock disinterest and then began to fumble for something in the front pocket of my golf bag. A brown sack with a cheese sandwich plopped out, along with a water bottle. I stuffed them back inside and then pulled out a tee.
“Plan on being here long?”
“As long as it takes.” I exhaled without looking at him. I teed up my first practice ball.
“Seth and I were supposed to tee off at 8:30, but he couldn’t make it. He’s kind of hungover from last night.”
I rolled my eyes. Seth. I was beginning to loathe even the sound of his name. “Color me surprised.”
“Anyway, there’s a spot in my foursome at 8:30. Wanna play? If you don’t, it’ll just go to waste.”
“I didn’t bring enough money—” I said before I could stop myself. Money wasn’t the issue.
“Don’t worry about the green fees. My dad’s already paid for them. Hey,” he added amiably. “It’s the least I can do, especially after last night, right? Sorry I was such a jerk.” He smiled, but his eyes flashed with a shade of sadness, even desperation. So unlike him. But it faded in the next heartbeat, like he wanted—needed—to hide that part of himself.
I inhaled, considering my options. Did I really want to spend four hours with Ryan Berenger and his friends on a perfectly good Saturday? “I don’t know…” I hedged. The more I thought about it, the worse the idea sounded.
“Oh, come on, Fred. Play with me. It’s just golf. I promise I don’t bite. Not usually.” He grinned.
I had to stop my own smile, and I’m pretty sure my traitor cheeks flushed.
Still, I made a show of pressing my lips together and considering the offer. I couldn’t believe that Ryan Berenger was standing before me dressed smartly in khaki shorts and a blindingly white golf shirt with a perfectly pressed collar at such an early hour on a Saturday morning. I figured him for the type who’d sleep till noon, at which time a maid probably delivered him waffles in bed.
“My dad even throws in lunch at the clubhouse.” His grin spread wider along with his arms. He sensed me weakening. “Can you find a better deal than that today?”
My vision blurred a little as I fought against my own grin. I rubbed my shoulder like I was cold, even though it was already eighty degrees in the shade.
“Fred?” he begged when I didn’t answer. His brow even furrowed a little.
“Okay, okay. I’ll play. But I should probably warn you that I’m not much for small talk.”
Ryan smirked, and his chest caved forward like he was relieved. “That’s okay. I’m counting on it.”
*
Somebody pinch me.
I sat alongside Ryan in the golf cart, alone, as he drove us to the first tee to join up with the rest of the foursome.
Along the way, he stopped the cart outside the clubhouse, leaving me by myself. I watched him talking to the golf pro through the window. He leaned his forearms against the window, and I couldn’t help but casually admire the broadness of his shoulders. My eyes drifted lower. It was hard not to.
When he returned, I looked away, just for a moment. Until he shared the news. “Sorry, Fred. It’s going to be just you and me.”
“Just us?” My eyes narrowed. “What happened?”
“The other two in our foursome canceled. Weird, for a Saturday.”
“Yeah, weird,” I said. Very weird.
“We’ll just finish faster.” He smiled. “The pro said we could go ahead and play.”
I’d have been lying if I said I was disappointed. More than anything, I was supremely glad that we weren’t teaming up with any of the players from Lone Butte. It was bad enough that I had to endure them during the week, and I was pretty sure they felt the same way about me.
Ryan drove the golf cart to the first tee, and we both climbed out to retrieve our drivers. Already wearing my golf glove, I took my club and walked silently to the tee box with Ryan beside me. This early, the course was quiet. Too quiet. I could hear myself breathing through my nose.
“You first.” Ryan motioned to the tee box.
I bent over to tee up my first shot before stepping back for a few practice swings. And caught Ryan’s gaze in my periphery, the slightest smile lifting his lips. He was watching me—maybe even studying me—and I wanted him to, mostly because I craved to know why. What was so compelling about me? Was I simply a golf swing to him? Or was I something else? I pushed away jumbled thoughts by inhaling a deep breath with each practice swing. But I’d be fooling myself if I sai
d my curiosity about Ryan didn’t consume my almost every waking thought.
Deep breaths didn’t help. This was turning out to be harder than I’d expected.
I couldn’t help but wonder if I was measuring up to his expectations. Or if I even wanted to. I had to remind myself for the zillionth time that Ryan was the type who chased after the likes of Gwyneth Riordan and girls with 90210 names like Madison and Alexandra. He threw drunken parties and got naked with them in hot tubs. Today was all wrong. Why did he have to find me at the driving range anyway?
At least I could get in a round of golf. And stop overanalyzing everything.
Without so much as a glance in his direction, I stepped up to my ball, lowered my forehead and bent my knees. I swung my club, closed my eyes,and listened to the sharp, clear sound of the ball when it left my club. Normally I closed my eyes only on my practice swings, but with Ryan so close, this was the only way I could concentrate.
“Good shot!” Ryan said after the ball went sailing into the air.
I opened my eyes and watched the ball fly across the sky and land in the middle of the fairway.
“Do me a favor?” Ryan said.
“Okay.” I pulled the tee out of the ground.
“Watch my swing. Tell me what’s wrong with it.”
Wrong? Is the color of the sky wrong? What could be wrong?
“Uh…okay,” I stammered and then stepped away from the tee box to give him enough swinging room.
Ryan bent over to tee up his ball. His blond head gleamed in the morning sun. I liked how his hair was always slightly disheveled, never perfect. He stood, legs together, studying the fairway. His lips always pursed when he concentrated. Then he spread his legs apart and took three practice swings before adjusting his black sunglasses one final time. His little ritual. Kind of like mine before I struck a ball.
I had to remind myself to focus on his swing. My pulse started racing when I realized that Ryan would expect me to say something helpful, something coherent.
Come on, Fred. Pull it together!
Finally, Ryan swung his club, and I sucked back a breath. His ball sailed farther than mine but not as straight. It sliced slightly to the right before landing on the edge of the fairway. A decent shot, but not great.