Chapter 13 Brandon #2
“Brandon,” she chastises with a raise of her eyebrows and disappears from my hold, taking our cleared plates with her to the kitchen.
I cover my face with my hands and smile. She still manages to surprise me and I don’t think that will ever stop.
“B, where’s your bathroom?” she asks when she comes back to the dining room.
I turn and see Angie standing at the threshold with her bag in her hands, but I’m still focused on the nickname she gave me. Clearing my throat, I stand up from my chair and walk toward her.
“Yeah, I’ll show you.” My voice comes out thick and I hope she doesn’t notice. However, the confusion on her face proves I’m not masking my emotions as well as I thought I was.
“Hey,” she stops my forward motion with a light hand on my arm, “are you okay?”
I nod, attempting to brush it off, but the look she gives me wants to confess. So I do. “That nickname, B, is what James would call me.”
Realization dawns on her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even—I won’t call you that again.”
“Please don’t stop,” I urge and back her up against the wall that’s adjacent to the living room. “You just caught me off guard.”
“Clearly,” Angie deadpans and pushes my hair back off my forehead. She does that a lot and I find I like it—and now need less convincing to put less pomade in my hair for that reason alone. I like her touch and it’s not even something that could lead to more. It’s comfort. She is comfort.
“We should talk about last night,” I break the happy bubble.
The hand that was in my hair travels down my neck, to my chest, and lands on my waist. “Do we have to?”
“Yes. Last night was a one-way ticket to ensure that I get addicted to you.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” she asks, looking up at me.
“No,” I say, leaning forward and kissing her on the tip of her nose. Her cheeks get rosy every time I do that and I vow to keep doing it for as long as she’ll let me. “But if we see this as more than a short-term thing, then we’ll need to do more than have sex.”
“You’re sexy when you’re responsible.”
I drop my head to her shoulder and laugh.
When I pull back, her eyes are full of laughter.
They’re light. I don’t see any of the burdens weighing her down at this moment like I did months ago.
As we stand in the hallway, the early afternoon sunlight pours in through the living room and the light reflects off the hardwood floors making the blue in Angie’s eyes turn almost iridescent.
I can’t look away. Again, I want to take a snapshot of her eyes and frame them—preferably in my bedroom, but my office will do as well.
Maybe even my phone's wallpaper. The air in the hallway changes and we both sense it.
The mood is thick with the kind of tension that makes your teeth hurt and I start to lean in to close the distance, but a car honking on the street infiltrates our moment.
I place another kiss on the tip of her nose, stepping back to show her where one of the bathrooms is, which happens to be in my bedroom.
“Here you go,” I tell her and turn on the light. “Our tee time is at four and it’s about a forty-five minute drive.”
“Okay. I won’t be long.”
When the door shuts, I head into my closet to find my golf shorts and shirt.
I haven’t been golfing in longer than I care to admit and knowing I get to share this with her, has me just barely containing my excitement.
Luckily, I prepared ahead and already put my golf clubs in my car.
When I’m dressed, I shut the light off in the closet and step back into my room at the same time Angie comes out of the bathroom and her light giggle is like music to my ears.
“We match,” she says and sets her bag at the foot of my bed. “Cute.”
I scoff and bite on the inside of my cheek to stop my smile. “Golf attire is not cute, Angie.”
She covers the distance between us, placing her hands on my black polyester-clad chest and moving them up to the collar of my shirt. “Boys wouldn’t know cute if it hit them in the face.”
I snort and snake my arm around her waist and pull her flush to me. “We do.”
“Whatever you say. Should we go?” she asks, and I’m grateful she’s doing something to get us out of the house before I cancel our golf date.
I turn my car into the parking lot of the Apricot Drive Golf Club. It was one of my favorite places to practice when I was in high school and a place my dad, James, and I would come to when Mom needed us out of the house. A handful of cars decorate the lot and I find us a spot toward the back.
“Ready?” I ask, and turn toward Angie.
The golf club is a bit away from the city and usually any car ride is uncomfortable with someone you’re still getting to know, or they try to backseat drive.
But Angie and I talked, laughed, and sang almost the entire ride here.
It’s not that I’ve ever been around someone who was depressed, but my version of depression has been everything the media has fed me: perpetually sad and always crying are the two tales I’ve constantly heard.
And it’s like the more time we spend together, the easier it is for her to finally open up and jump out of the cage she’s been in.
I won’t minimize her or what she’s been through, but it makes me wonder how deep her depression goes and how soon she’ll let me in.
“To make a fool out of myself? Absolutely,” she jokes.
“Oh come on,” I begin, taking the key out of the ignition and unbuckling my seatbelt with Angie following suit.
I pop the trunk before getting out and grab the bag with my gloves and clubs.
I’ve already planned for us to rent a golf cart to make this more enjoyable.
I meet Angie around the front of the car and hold my hand out for hers.
She looks at me with an almost shy look before placing her slender hand in mine.
“You’ll be great. I’ll be your teacher,” I finally tell her as we walk up to the club house.
“Well, you’re much cuter than any of my other teachers.”
“There’s that word again,” I mumble under my breath and a smile takes over at the sound of Angie’s laugh. I lead us to the check-in for our tee time and get a set of keys for the golf cart.
“You don’t like being called ‘cute’?”
“I prefer handsome, dashing, suave—those work better for me,” I respond as I place my golf bag in the holder and smile at her snort.
“We’re not walking?” Angie asks.
“Nah. Although, walking eighteen holes is one way to throw you in the deep end.” I round to the driver’s side and wait for Angie to get in.
“Did you say eighteen holes?”
“I guess I should have mentioned that. It’s a good thing you like me,” I say with a smile and step on the gas, leading us swiftly to the first hole and laughing as Angie has to hold onto the railing to keep from sliding out.
I picked the last tee time for a reason as we pull up to the first hole right as one of the last groups in front of us is headed to the next. When I stop the cart, I hop out and head to the back to find a Driver for me, and luckily I still have my mom’s set in here and grab that for Angie.
“This should be a good fit for you. Try this out.”
Angie takes the club and holds it, looking adorable and utterly confused. “Feels good.”
“Smartypants.” I grab a tee and a couple of balls and head to the green. “I’ll go first and then help you. Does that sound good?”
“Yep,” she says, popping the ‘p’ at the end.
I take a few practice swings, before lining up and hitting the ball. My finish feels good, given that I haven’t done this in a few years. But still good.
Light clapping sounds from behind me and I see Angie looking appreciatively at me and where I hit the ball.
“Thank you. Now get over here, Angel.” I place the tee back in the ground and place a ball on top. “Okay. First things first, is your grip. Let’s see how you’d hold it.”
Angie shows me how she would hold a golf club and the smile that surfaces on my face is one of awe.
“That’s good. I’m just gonna adjust your fingers so you’ll have more control.” I drop my golf club on the ground and move toward her to help fix the positioning and line her knuckles up. “Perfect. Now let me see your stance.”
Once again, Angie shows me how she would stand–which is too wide for golf, but perfect for baseball or softball.
“A smidge too wide. Close your stance so your feet are a little wider than shoulder-width apart.” She moves her foot about an inch.
“Here, like this.” I squat down by her foot and tap my fingers against her ankle.
Bad idea, I say to myself as I find myself kneeling in front of her, but I’ve already committed and I want her to be able to hit the ball as far as she can.
“Golf has a much shorter stance than baseball. Sometimes your stance will be shoulder width apart and sometimes a smidge wider. It just depends on the situation you’re in.
Does that feel comfortable?” I ask and look up.
Angie is looking down at me and where my hand is before her eyes drag up to me. “Yeah. Feels good.”
“Perfect. It might feel weird for a bit, but by the end of our playing you’ll be a natural.”
Angie snorts. “Not as natural as you. Okay, what next?”
I stand back up and step a few feet back. “Let’s see your swing.”
She swings, albeit a little clunky, but definitely better than beginners. “Was that good?”