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Ivy and Dave want ice cream after the show, but as that feels a bit too date-like, we have them drop us back at my apartment before they go. Ethan sees me to my door with his best Bert impression, singing “It’s a jolly holiday with Gracie” on a hitherto unknown melody.
“I think you should consider a career in musical theater,” I tease through my laughter.
“Really?” He gives up the song and leans against the side of my building. “Just when I was starting to get comfortable with golf.”
“This could be your true calling. You don’t want to miss the boat.”
“Maybe I could just do it as a hobby.”
“Whatever you decide, I’m sure the stage is your destiny.”
He laughs a deep belly laugh, and the outside lights sparkle in his blue eyes. The comfort I’ve taken in the no-dating rule dissolves in an instant, and I’m suddenly anxious to be inside before I do or say something that crosses the line.
“Hey, so,” I say, “I really appreciate you doing this.”
“My pleasure.” He brushes off my thanks and looks into my eyes, his smile settling into a smolder worthy of Flynn Rider.
For half a second, I wonder...
Then he walks away.
I choose to keep smiling, refusing to allow one half-second’s lapse in mental discipline to ruin the most enjoyable evening of musical theater I’ve ever experienced—the most enjoyable evening I’ve had in a long time, period.
Inside the apartment, I trade my jeans and sweater for leggings and a hoodie and retrieve my reward from the freezer.
I’m sitting at the table, numbing my mouth and mind with Häagen-Dazs cookies and cream when I hear voices at the door. I’m considering whether I should remove myself to my bedroom when Ivy slips inside with a happy sounding “Good night” and promptly slides to the floor, beaming.
The ice cream has recovered me enough from my non-date that she doesn’t notice I might be crushing on my golf instructor. Or maybe she’s too preoccupied with her own sunshine.
“Did he kiss you?” I am nothing if not subtle.
Ivy scoffs but keeps the smile. “No, thank heaven. That would have ruined everything.”
I’d wondered if her interest in Dave would loosen her no-kissing-on-the-first-date policy. Apparently not. A contented sigh floats her up the stairs to her room, leaving me alone at the table with my ice cream and my thoughts.
Chapter 6
Slide
I’m a little keyed-up whenmy next golf class approaches, trying to crush the crush that’s strategically assaulting the no-dating-teachers barrier. While my more reasonable half knows Ethan fits squarely in the No zone, the lonely/silly/hopeful half keeps lobbing thoughts like,Class only lasts half a semesterandBut you’re the same ageandWhat are they going to do, kick you out? It’s your last semester!
That last one makes me laugh—until I remember the math quiz I failed yesterday. The sobering fact that I might actuallyrequireanother semester reinforces the seawall I’m constructing against the threat of Ethan’s charm. Risking my graduation on a silly crush would be beyond stupid. I can appreciate his attention without getting attached.
Right?
I mentally smack myself in the forehead—I don’t want to make a spectacle as I arrive at the driving range—and hope the effect is sufficient to keep my barrier intact.
It’s not unusual that Ethan isn’t here before class starts, so I grab my driver and start swinging, enjoying the heat on my back and the intermittent pings and thwacks of irons and woods around me. At five after the hour, he still hasn’t arrived. Surveying the area while I’m teeing up another ball, I notice a middle-aged woman coming our way. It’s like she’s walked straight out of the framed picture in the clubhouse—the one right next to the plaque bearing the name Patti Johnson and the list of top finishes she had on the LPGA tour.
“I’m Patti,” she says as if we didn’t know. “Sorry I’m late—got stuck on a phone call.”
“Where’s Ethan?” the girl to my left—the same girl who needed Ethan’s extensive help last week with her grip and swing—asks, looking and sounding like someone stole her puppy. Maybe if she hadn’t been batting her eyelashes so forcefully, she would have hit the ball more than half the time. I should think of her as a woman, but honestly, she looks a little young for my brother Kaden—and he’s not quite done with high school. Anyway, I’m thankful she asks before I can make a similar fool of myself.
“Tournament this week in Phoenix. He’ll be back Monday.” Patti says this with a compassionate smirk at Eyelashes—who, I remind myself, I need to make an effort to get to know. Her name would be a good start. Patti clearly understands and doesn’t seem to mind that she is the second-choice instructor, which makes me instantly like her. “Get out your 7-iron and let’s see where we are.”
We spend the whole hour with that club, Patti moving efficiently from student to student, making suggestions and small corrections and offering encouragement. She really is a golf genius. I should be thrilled at the prospect of semiprivate lessons with her for the rest of the week, and a part of me is. A very small part. Which forces me to admit that the sturdy barrier I’ve been building against Ethan’s charm is more like one of those bead curtains from the 1970s—and that my enjoyment of this class thus far has more to do with Ethan than the course itself.
Is it shallow of me to miss his attention? Whether or not it is, I do miss it. Him?
