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Julian
"I'm driving, old man."
"The hell you are," my father states, rounding the golf cart after forcefully shoving his sand wedge back in his bag.
It's been a hell of a day for both of us. I've missed damn near every easy putt, and he's landed in the sand more than he has on the green. With only one hole to go, I can't even begin to express how happy I am for this round to be over.
"I want to make it back in one piece, without any broken bones," I joke, halfheartedly. I don't honestly believe he's going to crash the cart, but he does like to take corners and hills faster than I'm comfortable with.
"I taught your ass how to drive. I can handle a cart that refuses to go more than twenty miles an hour." Taking a seat behind the wheel, he shoots a challenging glare in my direction.
Knowing he's not going to give in, I slide into the seat next to him and hold onto the roof with one hand and the dash with the other as he slams his foot on the gas. The cart jerks forward before gliding away from the seventeenth green, leaving behind our piss poor performance.
Thankfully, we make it back to the clubhouse alive. Egos slightly bruised, but alive.
"Wanna grab a beer?" I ask as we load our clubs into the back of my Rover. I may concede when he wants to drive the golf cart, but never when we're on the open road together.
"How about three or four?" Dad asks as he wraps his arm around my shoulder after I slam the hatch shut.
Six? Ten? One for every missed fairway. Every stroke over par. Every lost ball.
Golf is not my game. It never has been. I enjoy it most days. The smell of the grass. The challenge of striking the ball so perfectly it does exactly what you want it to. The thrill I feel when I sink it in the hole.
Then there are days like today when nothing goes right.
School started today. Which meant an earlier morning than I'm used to after a long day of drinking at the Palmers’ party. I didn't get in until after one o'clock, and I was up at seven. I'm running on fumes. The only good thing about today is I don't have to work.
"Your mom just texted me. She brought on an intern this semester," my dad says as I slide onto the stool next to him.
"What intern?" I ask, picking up the bottle of lite beer he ordered me while I was in the restroom.
"A girl from Lake State. She'll be doing her senior project or something."
I remember him mentioning something when we first got here about Mom interviewing someone this afternoon, but I was busy going over my schedule for tomorrow in my head.
"Oh. That'll be nice for you guys. What is she going to be doing exactly?"
"Nice for us?" The hint of humor in his voice draws my attention. Glancing over at my father, I don't focus on the white hairs peppering his beard or the small patches of gray around his ears. Nope. I focus on the lift of his brow and the devious grin he's sporting. "Why do I have a feeling I'm not going to like what you say next?"
"She'll be working with you, that's why. You write the recipes; you know the menu. She'll need your help, not mine. Not your mother’s. And we expect you to make sure she has all the information she needs to complete her project."
"I'm a little busy this semester to babysit someone else and make sure they pass their classes. No offense, Dad, but no one asked me if I had the time. No one asked if I wanted an intern. Mom hired her, and now you expect me to just take her on? Does she even know anything about the restaurant industry?"
My irritation at my parents is clear. They never ask me if I want to do something. Instead, they tell me what I'm going to do. Normally, it's not a big deal. When baseball season rolls around, they expect less of me and allow me to work my schedule around practice, games, and travel.
Non-baseball season is different, though. It's like they put a year’s worth of work on my shoulders for the six months I'm not busy with the team. They don't care that I still train three days a week. Or that I have classes and a life outside of the restaurant.
I get they want me to take over when I graduate. That they're preparing me for it, but I haven't decided if that's what I want to do yet. Baseball has always been my dream. Cooking has always felt like more of a hobby. Until recently. Until my parents let me take over writing the recipes. My creativity was sparked, and even when I'm not at the restaurant, I find myself thinking of new dishes to add to the menu. It feels more like a passion these days.
Brady's been a good sport about being my test dummy. Not everything has been a hit, but I have run a few features at the restaurant, and they've all been well received.
Which has me considering culinary school. So I can hone my craft. Learn new techniques.
"Make the time," is all he says as he lifts his bottle to his lips.
I want to argue with him, but I know I'm not going to get anywhere. The restaurant belongs to them. For now. They make all the decisions, not me. I've always loved that they treat me the same as the other employees.
Until this.
