I finally ask, “Do you always carry that much around with you?”
He pauses from hitting the bright purple ball to stand to full height. “Not all the time. And $100 is yours.” Patting his back pocket where the leather wallet is, he says, “If you’d just accept it.”
I cross my arms. “I don’t need—”
“My money,” he finishes for me, eyes flashing with mischief before raking over the way I clench my jacket around me for warmth. Shaking his head, he walks over, grabs the ends, and begins zipping it. Halfway up, he discovers the teeth are broken which is why it doesn’t close properly. He eyes me. “It seems you do need a new jacket though.”
“This one is fine.”
He rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t function the way it’s meant to, Rylee. That isn’t ‘fine’. I don’t have one to give you either.”
All I do is shrug, even if the cold air is nipping at me uncomfortably. I have no idea how he’s comfortable in the long sleeve shirt he has on considering he’s been a west coaster practically his whole life.
I fidget with a loose string and look around the open area. “At least there isn’t any snow on the ground. You can never be sure what winters will be like here. Sometimes it starts in October, sometimes it doesn’t until January. Dad said the Farmer’s Almanac is predicting a light season. We haven’t had one like that in years.”
The confusion on his face makes me crack a small smile before taking a step back and tucking my hair behind my ear. “Some people swear by the predictions in the Farmer’s Almanac. They’re usually spot on with their winter guesses. It doesn’t really matter to me here because I don’t have to deal with the snow or ice unless I’m traveling.”
One of his brows quirks. “Is that why you don’t have a working jacket?”
I choose to ignore him. “Are you going to hit the ball anytime soon? I’d like to go before my fingers need to be amputated.”
It’s not that cold, but cold temperatures have always bothered my body. My joints stiffen and take longer to warm up, and I can’t stop shaking even hours after I’m inside again. If I were smart, I would have brought gloves with me on this trip knowing where Mom keeps a stash of hand knitted ones at home, but I hadn’t planned on playing mini golf with a Grammy winner in the middle of nowhere.
Garrick is kind enough not to point out how bad I am at this game and tries his hardest not to laugh when I tell him of my many fails playing. Like the time I broke one of the props when I swung my club a little too hard for dramatic effect, or when I smacked the ball right into an old man’s back who was at the hole ahead of me and Dad.
I think the reason Dad loves doing this with me is because he’s guaranteed to win every time. He stopped letting me win when I was ten and won’t let me forget all the times he’s made himself look like a fool trying to throw the games he’s played with me over the years.
Garrick isn’t half bad, and I wonder if he’s done this before. Every move he makes is strategic, calculated. “Have you ever played?”
He hits the ball and we both watch it go right to the hole, dropping in flawlessly. Turning, he winks at me. “A time or two. It’s much more fun drunk, but I stay away from that these days. I hope you didn’t mind me telling the guys that you don’t drink, you don’t seem like much of a drinker anyway.”
I shake my head and place my ball down before studying the layout of the course. “I’ve never liked drinking that much. Moffie and I used to steal wine from my Mom when we were teenagers and got wasted at our joint graduation party on rum and coke.” I don’t think too much about the night of vomiting and next morning’s horrible hangover before hitting the ball, watching it bounce off the brick siding and land in the sand pit. Shoulders dropping, I ignore the soft snicker from Garrick and walk over to the neon yellow ball I chose. “Now, I can’t really drink because of my medicine anyway. It’s not good to mix it with my prescriptions.”
I don’t look up to see the seriousness probably carved into his face before trying to get the ball in the hole so we can move on. He says, “I didn’t think of that.”
“Why would you?”
He’s silent.
After a few more holes, he comes up and nudges my arm. “What about ice cream?”
I give him a funny look. “What about it?”
“Can you eat it?”
“It’s practically winter.”
“It’s November and warm.”
I eye him doubtfully. “You live in California. How can you say it’s ‘warm’ right now? I’m from here and I’m freezing.”
It’s the wrong thing to say because he points toward my jacket and says, “That’s because your coat is broken, love.”
Back to this. I don’t encourage him. “Yes, I like ice cream. Occasionally. I’ve never really had it during the winter though with the exception of ice cream cake because it’s Moffie’s favorite. She’s a January baby.”
“And what about you?”
I don’t answer right away while we walk alongside each other to the next hole. We both examine it, figuring out the best vantage point for a hole-in-one. Eventually, I place my ball on the tee which he gestures to and tell him, “April.”
“Ah. An Aries. Makes sense.”
I look over my shoulder. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He holds up his hand. “Nothing personal. My mother was into astrology. She’s an Aries too. May. I suppose that’s why she likes you. You’re compatible.”
Not sure what to say, I turn my back on him and focus on the ball. To my surprise, it goes
