CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
H enry is tall. I mean, not just tall because I’m short…but tall. Six foot five tall.
He persuaded me to meet him at the driving range on Sunday afternoon. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and I’m feeling cranky as hell. I’ve spent the last few days wallowing in my own self-pity.
I’m not feeling very dateable right now.
It’s 4:00 p.m., and the plan is to hit some balls and then go out for something to eat across the street at the Wing place.
I choose a basket full of bright pink balls, and Henry takes a basket full of green ones. He pays for the two baskets, and we head out to grab our clubs.
“Are you left-handed or right? He asks, pulling out various sizes and handing them to me to see which would be best.
“Um, right-handed, but I think I hit both sides.”
“Both sides?” he asks, chuckling.
“I’m not very good, whatever way feels like I have a better chance at hitting the golf ball,” I say. He pulls out a club for himself.
“I’ll teach you.” He winks at me flirtatiously, and we walk towards the large pond that faces numerous people already there practicing their swing.
Henry finds two empty spots side by side, and we set down our baskets. He immediately starts stretching out his hamstrings and triceps, pulling his arm over his head, down the center of his back. I do the same as if this is normal practice for me. He smiles at me. I think he knows I’m a fake.
He makes his way around the divider between us. “Okay, let me show you the right grip.” He shows me how to place my hands by coming behind me and leaning into me. I feel like I’m in a rom-com in a classic guy-trying-to-hit-on-a-girl move. “Okay, part your legs a bit more,” he says kicking my left foot, separating my two feet a bit wider.
“Yes, sir.” I do as he says. I pull my sunglasses down from the top of my head, shielding the sun from my eyes.
I feel Henry’s hands come on top of mine, forcing me to swing my club upwards and back down a few times, practicing. “Ready to hit some balls?” he asks, backing away to his own space and basket.
“Yup.” I stand and watch him for a few minutes before I get started. He honestly looks like a pro. I don’t feel any initial spark with him, but I think part of it is my mood. I’m just not feeling this date, but I turn to my side and start hitting balls.
A half hour goes by, and we’re both hitting balls. We stop a few times to watch the other. I managed to hit a few past the 150-yard mark and feel happy with my progress.
When we’ve emptied our baskets, we head back to the little store to return them and our clubs. Henry takes my hand as we cross the street to the restaurant.
We’re sitting in a large booth meant for six people, but I put my purse on the seat beside me and enjoy the extra space between us. “What kind of wings do you like?” he asks as I peer at the menu in front of me. There seem to be over fifty flavors here.
“I’ve only ever had mild or hot,” I say.
“Let’s order a few different flavors, and we can just share.”
“Sounds good,” I say. I order a beer to go with the wings.
I look around the restaurant, and I see a group of people about my age doing shots and eating a giant pile of nachos not far away from us. One girl is wearing a crown, and I smile, seeing them all happy and laughing. It reminds me of Lucy, Briar, and I.
When my drink arrives, I find myself taking a giant gulp. I see Henry watching me.
“Thirsty?”
I answer by taking another long sip. We chat awkwardly while we wait for our food to arrive. He tells me about a trip he recently took to Mexico with some friends and about his job, the books he’s read, movies he likes, and I’m bored. I’m half-listening when the server comes with serving plates full of wings. I order a second beer, one they have on draft, and I’m excited when I see it arrive in a larger mug.
“I don’t really like these honey parm ones,” I say as I bite into my third one.
“I think I like pineapple honey the best.” He takes a sip of his own drink and wipes sauce off his lips with his napkin.
“Mm, these ones are good,” I say, licking my lips and taking another large sip. I feel my toes tingle and my body warm from the alcohol.
Our conversation dwindles as we eat. We have enough wings here for four people, but I know I’ll finish whatever he doesn’t eat. I finish my second drink and order a third from the server as he passes by. Henry takes a second one, and his eyebrows lift when I let out a small burp, “Oops,” I say, and let out a small giggle. I notice he doesn’t say anything when I excuse myself.
I turn to the crowd, the girl with the crown, and slightly wish I was drinking with them.
“Feeling good, are we?” he asks as I notice I start to slur a few of my words.
“Sure am,” I say. I don’t bother to meet his eyes as I continue to eat.
We exchange funny dating stories, but then I start to tell him about Cole. I haven’t revealed that I’m a writer, and I don’t intend on it. There are no feelings between us, and I can tell he feels the same way. It’s like we have a mutual agreement to finish this supper and go our separate ways. To be honest, I’m having more fun with this large glass of beer and licking the peppercorn ranch sauce off my fingers.
I’m starting to feel a bit riled up, the crankiness from earlier returning. I think of Cole and picture him and his wife on the street. I haven’t heard from him, obviously because I blocked his number, but he hasn’t come by my apartment either, thank God. I’d really rather just forget about him and never see him again.
“You never confronted him?” Henry asks when I finish the whole Cole story.
“No,” I say, wiping my face with a napkin. I try and focus on him, my eyes blurring a little. Kind of like that commercial for drunk driving. I feel like I’m looking through an empty glass. I’ll have to get a cab home.
“Don’t you think he deserves to know why you’re ghosting him?”
My jaw literally drops. “Are you freaking kidding me?”
“He deserves to know why he isn’t hearing from you.”
“Hell, no, I owe him nothing,” I’m kinda pissed now.
If I was cranky before, the monster within me is starting to rise. I finish my drink, and I pull out my phone. I don’t usually take out my phone on a date, but I don’t even care right now. I want my girls.
I send Lucy and Briar a text, asking them to meet me here for drinks. I look up and see Henry staring at me.
“Want to split the bill?” I ask.
He dishes out a $50.00 and stands. “This should cover more than half,” he says.
I eye him as he tucks his shirt back in. I feel my body sliding sideways and steady myself on the table by propping up my elbows, supporting me. I hear my phone ping and grab it to check my texts.
Henry narrows his gaze at me. “Alright, it’s been great. I’ll see you around.”
I’m glad he’s not the one writing the articles. I see him out of the corner of my eye and lift my arm to wave.
Lucy and Briar are on their way.
The server comes over, and I ask for another beer. I feel like this will probably be a mistake, but I take a sip when it arrives anyway. I hand the server the $50.00 before he hands me the cheque, and he tells me he will be right back with the bill.
I hear Lucy and Briar come in about twenty minutes later. I’ve joined the party table and have been having a blast making new friends. Cole, Henry, and online dating are now a thing of my past.