12. CHAPTER 12
Zuri
With this afternoon’s temperature a surprising midsixties, not cloudy and not sunny, I stand on the first tee box near a red ball stuck in the ground. I’m told that’s where ladies tee off. Driver in hand, I’m ready to launch my first-ever game of golf. Jeremy and his friends, Nico and Wes, watch me. The tight knot in my stomach is about to cut off my breath. I punch a tee into the soft ground and set my ball on top.
Jeremy and I arrived well before the others so he could show me how to play. With thirty minutes of instruction, he hopes I can swing into their friendly competition. What was he thinking?
“You’ve got this, Zee.”
Jeremy came up with that nickname on a whim, and he uses it so naturally. His encouragement boosts my confidence. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and recapture each step of the drive as Jeremy instructed me. Opening my eyes, I set my stance and swing. The ball arcs through the air, a decent drive that earns me claps and Nico’s chuckle.
“Not bad for a beginner.”
“I guess I have a good teacher.” I grin at Jeremy, and his affectionate smile makes my knees weak.
“Good teacher or not, we all know who’s buying dinner.” His Italian accent light with his jesting, Nico takes his place with the driver.
I like how he says everything like it is. While Jeremy and Wes have done nothing but praise me, Nico has been clear I can’t win as a newbie. I’m not hoping to win. I’m just enjoying being here, seeing Jeremy relax with his friends. They’re casual today, all dressed in polos and chinos. Wes’s sun visor shades his eyes while Jeremy’s tucked his own sunglasses atop his head. Their banter and teasing eggs the game on.
Four holes later, I’m again taking my stance when Nico calls out, “Keep your eyes on the ball!”
“Here.” Wes walks up, his dark hair shiny around his visor, his soft tone a stark contrast to Nico’s vibrant energy. He stops just close enough to demonstrate without invading my space. “Try shifting your weight through your swing. It might help with your control.”
“She’s doing great.” Jeremy’s protective tone warms me. “You’re all taking this too seriously.”
Mindful of Wes’s advice, I attempt to adjust my stance. I swing. The ball takes flight and, predictably, veers off its intended path. A collective groan rises, followed by laughter.
“Looks like we’re going on a treasure hunt again.” Jeremy shakes a finger at me.
I don’t mind treasure hunts, but I am delaying the game. Later, as Wes leads the charge into the rough in search of the rogue ball, I can imagine forming a connection with Jeremy’s friends. Already, there’s a bond over our shared laughs and frustration whenever I veer the ball off course.
As we drive our cart to the next hole, Jeremy’s shoulder nudges mine. “How are you liking golf so far?”
“It’s fun, actually. Easier than I thought.” No one ever accused me of being athletic, and I’d gladly exchange these clubs for a beater and a set of serving spoons. So this isn’t an activity I’d choose. But the fact that he invited me when he came to church with me earlier makes me feel special. He must enjoy my company as much as I enjoy his, and I’m happy to tap into his world. The afternoon sun warms my skin, and the breeze ruffles my hair. “So this is how you spend your Sunday afternoons?”
“Wes and Nico can’t seem to play without me. I’m left with no choice.”
Nico cranes his neck and shouts from ahead. “Remember, Zuri, the loser buys dinner!” While his competitive streak is evident, his sense of fun underpins the game.
I’ll definitely be footing the dinner bill, my fleeting streak of beginner’s luck having deserted me on too many holes. When we wrap up our game, they ask me to choose a restaurant, but today isn’t about me. It’s about tapping into Jeremy’s world, including his favorite hangouts. So I hold up both hands. “Please take me wherever you guys prefer to dine.”
“It’s time to introduce you to Romano’s.” Nico winks. “I never win, so I rarely qualify to choose where we eat.”
Romano’s turns out to be an Italian restaurant, and fresh vegetables heap an entire table on the side. The man behind the glass-covered pastries greets us, his accent thick. He smiles when he calls Nico and addresses him in what I assume to be Italian.
A dark-haired middle-aged woman greets us and leads us to our seats. From the music, the workers, and the enticing scents of garlic, pesto, pizza, and freshly baked bread, I feel like I’ve stepped into a theater of Italy in San Francisco.
As we settle into the eatery’s rustic charm, a server not in uniform brings us water and allows us time to peruse the menu.
This restaurant must be family-owned if no one is wearing a uniform. But oh, snap! My eyes all but go wide as I study the menu. For a simple restaurant, the prices are steep.
As if Jeremy can read me, he leans in, and his warm breath whispers against my ear. “I’ve got this covered.”
“But I lost,” I protest, caught between gratitude and keeping the rules of the game.
“And you played well.” His hand touches my arm.
“For the love of dinner, just accept,” Nico says, scanning the flat menu. Apparently, he’s not one to miss anything. “What kind of man do you think Jeremy would be to let his girl buy dinner for all of us?”
His girl.Excitement thrills me. Is this what he calls me when he’s with his friends? For the last two weeks, we’ve hung out at least ten times, including the day I invited him to watch the Superbowl with us. So, yes, we’ve seen each other almost daily, mostly to discuss different financial strategies and business planning for my café. Still, there’s always such casual banter, and it ends with a quick bite together. We’ve tried to steer away from romance, but every so often, we get caught in heated glances. And many times, we’ve almost kissed when he drops me off at home. He already paid for the fridge and furniture. The fridge was delivered on Friday, and the furniture will be delivered in two weeks. Time has flown, and we’re already at the end of February.
The server returns to take our orders.
I settle for pizza, and Jeremy does too. Wes orders soup and salad, and Nico orders spaghetti. Before they bring the food, Wes reads the pamphlet and facts about Italy, then quizzes us.
“I’ll be cheating if I answer.” Nico rocks back in his chair, and clasps his hands behind his head, leaving Jeremy and me to respond.
We then talk about the day’s game, and they share stories of their golfing adventures. I listen, laughing along, feeling more and more a part of this circle of friends. The delicious food brings a perfect end to an enjoyable day.
But one of the moments I cherish most is the simmering anticipation that builds as Jeremy drives me home. Unspoken words always zap between us in those final minutes in the driveway. Our gazes meet, flitting between each other’s eyes and lips, ensnared in a mutual struggle of what-ifs and maybes.
Tonight, the routine’s even more charged. As I clutch my purse in my lap, my resolve wanes under his steady gaze. His scent, a comforting blend of sandalwood and a hint of rosemary, dominates the car. The porch and garage lights filter through the windows, casting us in a delicate dance of shadow and light. My gaze, almost of its own accord, drifts to his lips, sparking a flurry of thoughts about a kiss yet shared.
His chest rises and falls, his polo clinging to his broad shoulders. Then he breaks the silence with a sigh. “Well, I’m glad you hung out with me today.”
So the evening has come to an end.
“Yeah.” I swallow my disappointment as my fingers brush against the door handle, ready to exit the world we’ve created. In a burst of urgency, Jeremy leaves the car and rounds to my side. I’ve already stepped out, and we nearly crash into one another.
His hand finds its way to my waist, and he pulls me into an unexpected embrace. My heart races—or is that the echo of his? I grip my purse as if it’s the only anchor in a storm and fold my other arm across myself, creating a barrier. After the dance in January where passion flared only to be doused by his withdrawal, I dare not let my guard down again.
“Hey.” He breathes out, his voice a rumble that vibrates through the space between us. His chin dips to meet my gaze, his breath feathers against my lips, and shivers slither down my spine. I brace for more. My eyes close in anticipation, and my body tenses, then relaxes as his lips graze my cheek instead. The gentle, almost-kiss isn’t what I’d hoped for, yet it leaves a trail of warmth in its wake.
“Good night, Zee.” He steps back, the distance between us widening once more. His gaze lingers on me, a silent conversation in its depths.
“Good night, Jer.” My voice barely rises above a whisper as our momentary closeness leaves bittersweetness on my tongue. What would it take for him to break the barriers he’s set, to turn our pretense into something real?
The fleeting contact on my cheek only intensifies my longing. Now, with every step I take away from him, the tantalizing possibility of a real kiss teases me. What would it feel like? Reaching the door, I steal a glance backward, half-expecting him to be waiting as he usually does until I’m safely inside. But today, he drives off.
Maybe he’ll be ghosting me again.
My hands tremble as I fumble with the key, struggling to fit it into the lock. I could knock, but I need to regain my composure before encountering my house companions. Nothing about today felt like pretense. It had nothing to do with getting our stories straight for Jeremy’s mom. His presence at church today, alongside Damien and my friends, and then his spontaneous invitation to join him and his friends for golf—all this was remarkably real. It shouldn’t be a challenge to convince his mom or anyone else that we’re a couple in love. If this isn’t a sign of us opening up to each other’s worlds, then what is it?
***
As February blends into March, my interactions with Jeremy unfold into an exhilarating whirlwind that defies our pretended romance. It’s as if we’re navigating the brink of something real. Each shared experience draws me deeper into his world. I’m thrilled when he expresses interest in joining me for my next weekly volunteer commitment at Crina Medical. Aware of the necessity for a background check, I ensure he completes the forms two days in advance, securing his approval by the time we’re scheduled to volunteer.
On Thursday afternoon, Jeremy and I find ourselves in the rehabilitation center’s cafeteria area, standing with two patients. The air is fragrant with simmering foods, and the sound of clattering pots emanates from the kitchen through the open doorway.
I observe Donna as she pours a cup of flour into the mixing bowl, her hands trembling. Across from us, at the round card table, Jeremy assists Greg with the same task. Yet, Jeremy’s attention seems more focused on catching any stray flour, diligently cleaning up after Greg’s minor spills.
“What next?” Donna’s inquiry draws my attention back to her. She’s now playfully running gloved fingers through the flour. Each week, I meet different patients, as only a few are brought out at a time, and their participation varies based on their condition and interest in cooking.
A warmth spreads through my chest as Donna delights in the simple task. I reach for the baking soda and a measuring spoon and place them beside the plastic bowl of chocolate chips. “Now, we add baking soda.”
“Okay.” Excitement tinges Donna’s voice as she shakes the remaining flour from her hands into the bowl, her face glowing beneath the fluorescent lights.
“What’s your favorite thing to bake?” I pass her the spoon.
She shrugs, a slight smile on her lips. “Anything, really. It’s nice to do something… to not be cooped up.”
As she scoops the baking soda from the container, half of it spills from the spoon. I’ll need to sneak more into the recipe to ensure our cookies turn out well. Normally, a simple batch of chocolate chip cookies takes me five minutes to mix, but here, it could take double that time, depending on the patient’s condition. This is precisely why we stick to straightforward recipes.
Soft chatter and gentle movement surround me. Each volunteer, including Jeremy and me, has donned blue aprons embossed with the Crina Medical logo. Given the need for close supervision, volunteers are paired one-on-one with patients when possible, ensuring both safety and the therapeutic benefits of the cooking process. We keep it simple: no knives and uncomplicated tasks.
While some volunteers prepare dinner, others, like us, focus on desserts—mostly baking, which is deemed highly therapeutic. We concentrate on pouring, mixing, and sometimes decorating.
More workers and volunteers weave in and out of the kitchen, carrying trays of food or setting up tables beyond our room. Deep laughter from our table snaps me back to the present. Jeremy is laughing heartily, thrown back by whatever Greg, the middle-aged man across from us, is saying. Greg, caught up in the fun, tosses a handful of flour into the air, punctuating his joke.
“And then I told him, ‘You can’t trust atoms—they make up everything!’” Greg chuckles, the flour dusting down like snow.
While Donna meticulously measures her ingredients, I can’t help but smile at the sight of Jeremy, so engaged and lighthearted. When his gaze meets mine, my heart skips a beat, fluttering with a warm tingling sensation. The kitchen’s warmth, the laughter surrounding us—it all melds into the perfect backdrop for this moment.
Greg’s question about the next ingredient pulls Jeremy’s attention away, but not before our eyes share a silent conversation. Observing Jeremy, so out of his usual element of spreadsheets and reports and so genuinely relaxed, I realize he’s the missing ingredient that my life had been lacking.
In the end, Donna and I move to help Jeremy and Greg finish mixing their dry ingredients. While Donna and Greg add the eggs and melted butter, Jeremy and I get the cookie pans out. The four of us work together, scooping spoonfuls of cookie dough onto the baking trays. I move each tray back to the cart between our tables.
A chef comes by to collect the cookies and transfers them to his cart to wheel into the kitchen for baking. “Dinner is ready whenever you are,” he says.
“I’m starving.” Greg tosses his gloves into the trash can. Donna follows suit, and they both head over to the dining area.
Jeremy and I stay behind to clean up the workspace.
“Can you believe I pulled off the recipe without reading it?” Jeremy comes up beside me, his warm breath against my cheek sending tingles throughout my body.
“Without Donna and my help, you and Greg wouldn’t have managed it.” My cheeks ache from smiling. Standing next to him, I’m reminded of our height difference.
“That’s why I always need to be on your team in the kitchen.” He brushes a kiss on my cheek before lifting the white plastic bowl of flour. “Where do we put all this?”
Right. We have to clean.
I work with Jeremy to dispose of the leftover flour. It’s not much, but it’s always easier and more sanitary to have things poured from the bag, rather than having patients dig into the bags themselves.
As we clean, he asks about the process of dinner. “We sit with them during dinner and engage with them.” I wipe down the sticky flour on one end of the table while he takes the other end. “Patients who don’t want to interact usually don’t come to these events.”
“I never knew how much cooking could mean to someone,” Jeremy admits as he collapses and folds the table.
“And the interaction that comes with it.” I follow him as he carries the table to the back room where others are storing theirs.
“I’m not sure what interaction I’m going to offer,” he says. “But as long as you sit at the same table, I should be okay.”
He drops his gloves in the bin by the back room, and I do the same. “You did just fine with Greg,” I squish my face in mock-seriousness. He imitates me, chuckling as he takes my hand.
As we walk toward the hum and activity of the dining area, hand in hand, my heart is overflowing. Every step with Jeremy deepens my affection, my feelings fermenting and rising like bread dough warmed by the spring sun.