by Liz Fichera
Ryan grumbled. He let his club thump to the ground like it was a heavy bowling ball. “Well?” He frowned in the distance at his shot.
I cleared my throat. “It was a good…” And you looked amazingly hot swinging your club.
“But?” He walked toward me and let his sunglasses drop to his chest. My heart raced faster as his glasses dangled at the end of the leather strap.
“Well…” Here goes. “You raised your head before you completely followed through. And you might be gripping your club too tightly.” I grimaced at him apologetically.
Ryan’s head began to bob slowly, as if I’d just shared the world’s greatest tip in, like, ever. “Yeah,” he said, pausing the head bob to let a smile slowly stretch across his face. “I think you’re right. Coach is always getting on me about that.” Another heavy sigh. A happy one? “Jeez, I really have to stop that.”
Everything was going well, but then I had to blurt out, “Next time, why don’t you try closing your eyes on your practice swings. Picture your swing. Picture where you want the ball to go.”
His chin pulled back. “Seriously?”
Why’d I say that? “Yeah.” I climbed into the cart, avoiding his gaze as I spoke. “Close your eyes and then let your body do the rest.” I braced myself to be chided.
But Ryan didn’t laugh. “Okay.” His tone turned serious as he climbed into the cart beside me. “I’ll try that.”
I couldn’t look at him. I’d sounded so cheesy. Close your eyes and then let your body do the rest. Really, Fred. What were you thinking?
“Thanks. You’re sure you’ve never had lessons?” The cart started humming beneath our feet as we drove to the next hole.
“Positive,” I said, turning. Looking at him, sitting so close, I squirmed as heat rushed up beneath the buttons of my shirt.
Ryan smiled.
I gripped the side handle on the cart so that I wouldn’t fall out.
It was going to be a long morning, certainly different from the one I’d planned.
Chapter 24
Ryan
I WAS FEELING LUCKY WHEN I found Fred alone at the driving range, although luck didn’t have much to do with it.
I’d remembered something Coach Lannon had said after the tournament last week during the bus ride back to the school: You guys should spend your Saturdays at the driving range like Fred, practicing. She must plow through six buckets of balls, at least. If it wasn’t for her, we would have lost this tournament. And it was ours to win this year. Most of the guys had bristled at Coach Lannon’s assessment, even me, but that was last week. Last week I was doing everything possible to ignore Fred Oday’s existence.
Now she had become impossible to ignore. She was everywhere, even when she wasn’t. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her for longer than five minutes, and I wasn’t exactly sure why. Suddenly I had become curious about everything—like how she got so good at golf, where she lived, who she hung with, what she thought about and why her hair always smelled soft and sweet like the desert. It was embarrassing, really, and I hadn’t told anyone. How could I? Who’d understand it if I said that Fred Oday was different in all the ways that were beginning to matter?
At the ninth hole, just as the course started to fill with golfers, the woman who drove the beverage cart finally stopped alongside us, her silver cooler loaded with cans covered in ice. My mouth watered just looking at it.
“Thirsty?” I asked Fred when the beverage cart stopped.
Fred shook her head. “I brought water.”
“Come on. Do you like Coke or root beer?”
Fred’s lips twisted. “Okay. Root beer, then.”
“Two root beers,” I told the lady, reaching for my wallet. She handed each of us an ice-cold can. Fred pressed hers against her forehead. I figured her head must get pretty hot with all that hair.
When she left, I said, “Wish I could have bought two beers.”
The brightness in Fred’s face faded, and I wanted to cram the words back into my big stupid mouth.
Lame, Berenger. Totally lame.
“So, you don’t drink?” I popped my can, anxious to prove that I wasn’t the tool that she obviously thought I was.
Fred shook her head and looked away, distant again.
“Why?”
She wouldn’t face me and fiddled with her can. “Cuz I don’t like it.”
“So, you’ve tried it?” I asked her carefully.
Her chin lifted. “A sip or two.” She turned, finally.
“Don’t like the taste?”
She nodded. “Or the smell.”
“Oh. Well, that’s cool.”
A nervous giggle rumbled in the back of Fred’s throat, surprising me. “That’s cool?” Her eyes widened. “I’ve seen what it does to people.”
I watched my reflection flicker in her eyes. I wondered if she was referring to me, but Fred had never seen me drunk, and for that I was supremely grateful. “You mean like some of the guys at my party.” It wasn’t a question.
“Your party.” She paused, a crisp edge to her voice that I hadn’t heard before. “And other places.”
Real pain clouded Fred’s eyes when she said other places. On the reservation, I assumed. It bothered me to see the hurt in her face, her eyes, and at the same time I wanted to understand. I found myself anxious to know everything about her. Just when I had almost worked up the nerve to ask, she sighed impatiently and glanced at the foursome gaining behind us. They had almost reached the green. “Come on, we better get going.” Fred started to climb out of the cart, but I held her back. Her eyes dipped to where my fingers clutched her forearm.
“Sorry, Fred,” I said quietly.
“For what?” Her eyes met mine.
“For making you mad. Again. I didn’t mean to.”
Fred sighed again. “I’m not mad. I’m just not much for small talk, remember?”
I paused and then made a teasing face. I released her arm, reluctantly. Her skin brushed like satin against my fingertips. “So you’ve told me.”
“It’s your shot.” The lightness returned to her voice.
We walked side by side to where our golf balls had landed in the middle of the fairway, only a few yards apart this time.
Chapter 25
Fred
WHEN RYAN REACHED for my forearm, I thought my breathing would stop.
I really hoped he hadn’t noticed that my skin was on fire, and not because it still felt like August in late September. My body temperature had absolutely nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with Ryan Berenger. Just one look from him gave me goose bumps. Could another person truly cause that?
I was having such a good time playing golf with him that it surprised me.
But why’d he have to bring up drinking? Drinking was something that I did my best to forget, especially when I could avoid it. I doubted his mother sat around their perfect backyard wearing her sparkly birthday necklace and tossing empty beer cans into their manicured flower beds, reminding Ryan that the best he could hope for was a trailer and a waitressing job.
“Your turn.” I nodded at his ball. Since he’d tried my little trick and started closing his eyes on his practice swings, he’d been hitting straighter drives. A small part of me wondered whether at first he’d sliced the ball on purpose to get my attention, to get me to look at him. If only I could tell him that it wasn’t necessary to ask for a golf tip. I’d have done it anyway.
Ryan hit his second shot so that it landed squarely on the green.
“Great shot,” I said with my hand over my eyes to block the glare.
“Thanks.” He smiled at me. “Your turn.”
I walked over to my ball and took my two usual practice swings. “You mind watching my swing?” I said casually without really looking at him. “I’m having trouble with this nine-iron. Tell me what I’m doing wrong?” Not completely untrue but not completely true either. For the first time in my life, I felt a little bold. Totally unlik
e me.
Ryan took a step closer. “Sure,” he said. He looked eager.
I lowered my forehead and bit back a guilty smile.
I gripped the club, lowered my chin and bent my knees. Then I swung the club and lifted my head, a moment sooner than necessary. The ball sailed into the air and bounced next to the green instead of on it. I made a frowny face.
“What happened?” Ryan walked onto the tee box. “I’ve never seen you do that before.”
“What?” I said, careful to maintain an innocent tone. Jeez, I was acting like such a girl!
Ryan chuckled. “You missed a green!”
“Hey, I’m not perfect, you know.” My head tilted to one side.
But Ryan chuckled again, still watching me from behind his sunglasses. From the way his smile turned up on one side, I thought he might disagree. Did he seriously think I was bordering on perfect? At least special?
“Keep your head down on your swing,” he said, not bothering to hide his smirk.
I smiled sweetly. “I’ll try to remember that.”
Then Ryan laughed, and I couldn’t help laughing, too. It felt so good. It was like a dream. The day—life, the sun, the air—everything began to feel so unbelievably good. I wanted to stay wrapped inside it.
We finished playing the back nine less seriously than the front nine. We went from a formal round of golf to something resembling miniature putt-putt at the mall. The only things missing were the windmills, lazy rivers and rubber ducks. We used our golf clubs like pool cues when we weren’t using them like hockey sticks.
“Good thing Coach Lannon isn’t watching,” Ryan said. “He’d freak.”
For the rest of the morning, we didn’t keep score or stress about missing short putts or long drives. Ryan wasn’t loud or nosy; he wasn’t overly talkative either, although he did enough talking for the both of us. I liked that. I liked that he had less of an edge away from school and his friends. He could be sweet and funny. I could stay pretty comfortable around him, almost enough to be myself.
We switched clubs and experimented with using drivers as putters and putters as drivers. I even let Ryan make a crack about my golf bag. I had it coming. “This looks like my grandmother’s couch,” he said, examining it, and I tried to look mad but he made me laugh till my ribs ached.
Around the thirteenth hole, the ranger yelled at us for slowing the play, and we both had to bite down on the insides of our lips to keep from laughing. And getting kicked off the course.
By the eighteenth hole, I didn’t want the day to end. It had been one of the best days that I could remember in, well, forever. If Ryan had suggested playing another round, I would have happily agreed, no matter how badly my arms throbbed.
Instead, he said, “How about lunch?”
I said, “Yes,” before he finished asking. I’d never had lunch at the clubhouse before. It was reserved for members only. Never mind that it was the world’s biggest luxury to be waited on by someone else for a change, complete with linen napkins and crystal water glasses and everything. I couldn’t refuse.
We both ordered cheeseburgers as thick as hockey pucks. Ryan insisted that I try the vanilla milk shake. “If I get one, you’ve got to get one, too,” he told me. I ate every morsel, including all of the French fries and the enormous pickle that accompanied my plate.
“Finally,” Ryan said as I bit into the pickle. The juices exploded inside my mouth. “A girl with an appetite.”
“What?” I said. “A girl can’t eat?”
“Exactly,” Ryan said.
At last, Ryan signed a receipt left on our table. “Do you need a ride home?”
“No,” I said quickly. No way. “But thanks anyway.”
“How will you get home?”
“My dad. He gets off his shift at five.”
“But what will you do till then?”
My shoulders shrugged. “Practice some more. On the driving range.”
“So this is how you spend all your Saturdays?”
I nodded. “Mostly, although the day usually doesn’t include lunch at the clubhouse.”
“No wonder you’re so good.”
I felt my cheeks turn hot. “Practice never hurts.”
“Obviously.”
Ryan leaned back in his chair, studying me again. I guess you could say I was starting to get used to it. The window behind him overlooked the golf course, framing him like a photograph in perfect greens and oranges. “You really are serious about your golf. I thought I loved golf, but I am nothing like you. Not even close.”
I looked back at him, and my smile tightened, just a little bit. I wasn’t ready to tell him why I left home every chance I got. Golf just happened.
“But I don’t mind driving you home—”
My eyes widened. “No!” I paused and then swallowed, before he thought I was a lunatic. “I mean, that’s real nice of you, but thanks. My dad kind of prefers that I wait for him. It’s sort of become a ritual.”
Ryan’s chin pulled back.
“You know,” I said, “gives us a chance to talk and stuff.”
Ryan sighed heavily. “No, I wouldn’t know.” But then he leaned forward and crossed his arms on the table. In a softer voice, he said, “I really had fun today, Fred. Thanks for playing with me.”
Instinctively, I leaned forward, too, our elbows only inches apart. “Me, too. Thanks for asking.”
“Are we cool?”
“Totally.”
Then Ryan dipped his head, and his eyes flashed behind me, like he’d seen a werewolf or something. “Oh, no,” he moaned. He sank lower in his chair so that my head could hide him.
“What?” I turned.
“Don’t turn around.”
Too late.
“Dammit,” Ryan exhaled. “It’s Zack Fisher and his dad.”
A sour taste rolled up my throat. Why did it feel like we were doing something wrong? Like I was wrong?
“Great. He sees us.” He exhaled through clenched teeth. Another soft moan. “And he’s coming over….”
“Probably time for me to go,” I said, but I had no idea how to leave. My body was frozen to the chair.
Ryan thrust out his hand, covering mine. “No!” The water glass next to my hand wobbled, and his voice softened. “I mean, no. Just wait. I’ll deal with Fisher.”
I looked down at Ryan’s hand, covering mine, confused. Waiting. Did he realize my fingers had begun to shake?
Then I glanced over my shoulder again, just slightly.
Zack waved, the curls bouncing about his head. When his gaze met mine, his eyes widened with that same look of horror in Ryan’s eyes. Zack stopped so abruptly that the toe of his dad’s golf shoe caught his ankle.
Ryan chuckled a little at their impromptu floor show, but I didn’t share in the amusement. Was Ryan embarrassed to be seen with me?
I looked back at Ryan, a dozen new questions filling my brain, then down at our hands, then back into his eyes. Confusion. Frustration. Pure agony.
Ryan’s gaze met mine. He didn’t release our hands.
My breathing stopped. I needed water but didn’t—couldn’t—slip my hand away from Ryan’s, even though I knew with every brain cell that I should. “Is it a problem seeing Zack?” The words stung inside my mouth.
The tightness in Ryan’s face began to fade. “It’s always a problem seeing Zack.”
“Why?”
Ryan chuckled again, but this time it was forced. “Because he’s got the biggest mouth in the galaxy.”
I was afraid to look behind me again. I wished Zack had never come to the clubhouse, but maybe it was better that he had. At least now I knew Ryan didn’t want anyone to know about us, if there was an us. My voice wavered. “Is he still here?”
Ryan sat higher. “No. His dad yanked him out the door. Probably late for their tee time. Lucky us.”
Lucky me.
“You doing anything tonight?” Ryan asked suddenly, and I’m pretty sure all the blood drained from
my face. My emotions jumbled and wound together like a ball of rubber bands. I didn’t know which one to pull at first.
When I looked down at our hands again, Ryan sat back, releasing mine as if finally realizing that he’d been holding it. My head went a little dizzy. “Tonight?”
Ryan smiled again, the crooked kind that made breathing difficult. “Yeah, it’s Saturday night. Do you…go out?”
Normally I try to work, I thought, but I didn’t dare say that. Then I would have to tell him where, and that would only dredge up a really ugly memory involving me, him and a gooey slice of mesquite-honey mousse cake.
“Um, sometimes,” I said in a casual voice. Make that never.
Ryan cleared his throat. He wasn’t letting it go. “Well, would you like to go out with me? Tonight? Maybe see a movie at the mall?”
I stared back at him numbly. Like a date?
I looked at him without really looking at him. Urgently I ran through a laundry list of logistics in my head: (1) I would have to make sure I wasn’t offered a shift at the restaurant. Turning it down would only piss off Mom; (2) I would have to borrow Dad’s van, which had less than a half tank of gas; (3) I would need to cajole Dad for permission—and Dad had barely slept last night; and (4) What about Gwyneth Riordan? Weren’t Saturday nights usually reserved for girlfriends? The Gwyneth Situation nagged at me most of all.
“Well?” Ryan winced, lowering his chin as if he was bracing himself for a no.
“Um, I don’t know…” I said finally.
“I could pick you up—”
“No!” I said again, interrupting him. “I mean, that’s not really necessary.”
“We could just go somewhere and talk if you don’t like movies.”
“Go somewhere?” I blinked away the dryness beginning to cloud my eyes.
“Yeah, it’s been fun talking to you today. I guess…” His head tilted as his shoulders lifted. “I guess I’m not ready for it to end.” Then his cheeks darkened, and I felt a relieved smile stretch across my face. That might have been the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me in the History of Ever. My skin turned warm and tingly again, all the way down my back.
I heard my own voice say, “I like talking to you, too.”
