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Ivy:I’ll buy the tickets. And I’ll find your date, she adds, as if she’s reading my mind.
Me:I hate setups more than musicals.
Ivy:I know. And with good reason.But you gotta move on someday. Please, please, please, Grace. I need you! Maybe one of Dave’s roommates? I’ll make sure he knows it’s casual, friends, no pressure.
I’m trying to formulate a sufficiently caustic reply without resorting to profanity when another text comes through.
Ivy:And ice cream. I’ll get you your own pint to consume as post-date therapy.
Me:Häagen-Dazs?
Ivy:Does Grace eat any other?
Me:*Sigh*... Okay, I’m in.
She sends me an entire screen of happy faces, and though I’m happy to help her, I wish it could be in some other, less painful way. Like maybe I could donate a kidney. Or a leg. Anything but another setup.
I use every moment of the half hour I have to get to the community golf course adjacent to campus, strolling between the buildings and savoring the fresh air as I wait to cross the street. It’s a warm day for mid-September, puffy clouds in an azure sky setting off the mountains and the changing leaves. It’s therapeutic, as it always is when I’m outdoors, but it isn’t enough.
Meandering through the dark wood-paneled interior of the clubhouse to the storage room set aside for our use, I grab my clubs and lug them out to the driving range. I squeeze into one of two remaining spots and start hitting balls, but I’m so worried about Ivy finding me a date and my currently failing math grade that my swing is off for most of class. This triggers several odd looks from instructor Ethan. My swing, while not stellar, is usually consistent.
“Everything okay?” he asks, taking a minute to check on me. Normally, he spends all his time with the novices.
I straighten from my stance and lean on my driver, free hand on my hip. “Lots on my mind today.”
He smiles knowingly and settles onto his heels, wrapping his long arms around his clipboard. “It’s a mental game. Want to talk about it?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, not wanting him to go therapist on my game. Or my life. “Really.”
“Okay, but sometimes talking can loosen up your swing.”
I lift one eyebrow, trying not to be taken in by his attention and height and general attractiveness. This is about golf. Just golf.
“What’s bugging you?” he prods.
I sigh and figure I’ve got nothing to lose. Every ball I’ve hit today would have been two fairways over if we weren’t on the driving range. “My roommate needs me to double with her Friday, but I don’t have a date, so she’s going to find me one, and I absolutely hate setups. Plus we’re going to a musical, which I also hate, and my math class is stressing me out.” I tilt my head and dare him to fix my problems.
He chuckles and adjusts the crisp visor that’s shading his blue eyes. “I don’t think I can help you with the math.”
I mumble a few incomprehensible words conveying my love for the subject and ease back into my stance, drawing another laugh from him.
“But... as I have just been notified that my Friday plans are toast, and as I also hate musicals... I could accompany you tomorrow night.”
I look up and he’s fully smirking at me. Is he joking?
“It would be a purely professional arrangement.” He goes mock-serious. “I feel it my duty, as your golf instructor, to help you conquer the mental element of the game.”
“By sitting through a stupid musical?”
“We could have a competition to see who can pretend to enjoy the show most while simultaneously being the most miserable.”
Who is this guy? I’ve only talked to him a few times, and only in class, but he seems pretty laid back. I mean, he’s a golf instructor, so he must be fairly chill, right? I’m smiling in spite of myself.
He does a little bow with his head. “I pride myself on going the extra mile for my students. What do you say?”
Would I rather take this offer or have Ivy beg a date for me on the street? No contest. “I wouldn’t want my game to suffer.”
His smile broadens. “Then it’s a... not a date, because I can’t date students, you know... how about ‘appointment’?”
