6 #2
‘You’re late,’ she said.
‘I know. I’m sorry. The day got away,’ Blake replied.
Morgan shrugged. ‘It’s okay. You’re trending.’
Blake blinked. ‘You saw it?’
Morgan nodded. ‘It’s everywhere. It made Pedestrian.TV.’
Blake winced, rolling her eyes. ‘Great.’
‘It was good,’ Morgan added. ‘Your arc structure was tight. Set-up, hook, emotional twist. Executed well.’
Blake stared. ‘You’re giving me feedback?’
‘I made notes.’
Blake sat down. ‘Thanks?’
Morgan tilted her head. ‘You’re really doing it?’
Blake nodded. ‘Yeah. I am.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘I do. But I thought maybe we could do it while whacking plaster reproductions?’
Morgan perked up. ‘Holey Moley?’
‘Chelsea gave me a bunch of unused vouchers from sales from our failed second-chance-dates arc. Axe throwing, alpaca yoga…’
‘What’s alpaca yoga?’
‘Unclear. Possibly illegal. But minigolf won’t put us on the wrong side of the law.’
‘I’m in, but you know my protractor may actually be helpful for a minigolf environment.’
Two hours and three overpriced soft drinks later, Blake wasn’t sure what was more disorienting: the strobe lights, the Miley Cyrus remixes, or the sight of her twelve-year-old daughter selecting a glittery purple putter like it was a surgical instrument.
Morgan scrutinised the scorecard as if analysing genetic code. ‘Let’s do “Tee-nage Mutant Ninja Turtles” next; the angle’s cleaner and the lighting is more even.’
Blake raised an eyebrow. ‘We’re picking our course based on shadows?’
Morgan didn’t even look up. ‘Depth perception drops in inconsistent lighting. I want the advantage while I calibrate.’
Blake shook her head, amused. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but her kid building a minigolf battle plan based on physics and geometry shouldn’t have surprised her.
She swung and missed. Badly. The ball came backwards and hit her ankle.
‘Okay,’ Blake muttered. ‘Uneven lighting. That’s clearly the issue.’
Morgan sunk her ball in one clean stroke. She stepped back, satisfied. ‘It’s just physics, Mum. A basic trajectory calculation.’
‘Of course it is,’ Blake muttered, already regretting this choice of outing.
They moved through the course, Morgan’s precision contrasting beautifully with Blake’s enthusiastic disasters. At ‘Ferris Wheeler’s Day Off’, Blake’s ball sailed over the barrier, narrowly avoiding seagulls at the cafe.
‘I’m beginning to understand why these men aren’t lining up for a second date,’ Morgan deadpanned.
‘What makes you think it’s the men who don’t want the second date?’
Morgan made a show of gesturing to the stray ball near the seagulls.
Blake laughed in spite of herself. ‘Hey, I have skills in other ball sports.’ She winced. ‘Wow. That sounded better in my head.’
‘Deeply inappropriate,’ Morgan replied. ‘But expected.’
‘But really, Morgs, I have high expectations of my dates. You are my priority, and honestly, most of them just don’t measure up to, well, you know who.’
Somewhere between ‘The Shank Redemption’ and ‘Nine-Iron Throne’, as Blake was fishing her ball out of a water hazard shaped like a crown, she caught sight of Morgan in profile. The determined set of her jaw, the way she tapped her putter against her leg in threes.
Morgan paused mid-putt and asked, ‘Do you really think he remembers you?’
Blake turned. The question was quiet. Barely more than a whisper over the hum of pop music and laughter.
‘Honestly, I do. The connection we had, you don’t forget that,’ she said.
Morgan looked at her. ‘Do you think he has ever tried to find you?’
Blake let the putter rest against her hip. Her first instinct was to make a joke. Deflect. But she didn’t. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t think I would be hard to find. I have always been right here. I do think if he knew about you, he would be here.’
‘Maybe you’re harder to find than you think.’
‘Maybe.’
She thought of that first night. Leo’s laugh.
The way he’d steadied her as she limped through the entrance to that little wine bar.
Their week together, they’d shared so much about their lives with each other, their childhood memories, but there were no phone numbers, no last names.
But the conversation before he left—she knows why he didn’t look for her.
But how was she to know what they had made that night?
He would want to know he had a daughter.
Blake swallowed. ‘I want him to know you. I want to find him, if that’s what you want too.’
They were quiet for a moment.
Then Morgan turned, lining up her next shot, and said without looking at Blake, ‘I want to set a couple of ground rules.’
Blake blinked. ‘Okay. Hit me.’
‘Don’t say my name on air. Not even once.’
Blake nodded. ‘Of course. You know I don’t share your name on radio.’
‘It’s more than that, I’m at a new school now, I just want people to like me for real, not because of you.’
‘Oh Morgs, I’m sure they will.’
‘Mum, just no names on air, not my school or year level or anything that could out me.’
‘I understand, and respect that.’
‘And if we find him…and he doesn’t want to know me,’ she added, her voice quieter now, ‘I don’t want to hear it on air before I hear it from you. I don’t want to be rejected in front of millions of people.’
Blake’s chest tightened. ‘Of course. I promise.’
Morgan looked up at her. ‘Also, if he turns out to be someone who claps when the plane lands or eats spaghetti with a spoon, we reserve the right to pretend the whole thing never happened.’
Blake snorted, grateful for the lightness. ‘Deal.’
Morgan sank her putt. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘We’re off to a strong start. Four holes in and you’ve just lost one ball and only a little dignity.’
‘Two balls,’ Blake corrected. ‘But I’m about to make a comeback. I can feel it.’
She lined up her next shot and, with unnecessary flourish, sent the ball soaring up a ramp, over the spinning pizza, and straight into the open mouth of a cardboard Elvis.
Morgan stared. ‘That was…improbable.’
Blake bowed dramatically. ‘Sometimes, genius just arrives fashionably late.’
Morgan rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
And Blake knew they were really doing it now.