“No.”
“We could do something else,” I offer, but Carter shakes his head and steps around me with a mumbled it’s fine. I follow him to the parking lot and stow my backpack in the backseat before climbing into the front.
It turns out that the mini golf course isn’t far from campus, and is also remarkably busy on a Friday night. Small children run amok, screaming and bumping into stranger’s legs as we wait in line to pick up our clubs and balls. Carter is silent beside me, eyes scanning the crowd and mouth tight in its usual severe line. Slowly, we make our way to the front of the line and I have a momentary surge of panic as I look at the high-school kid behind the desk. How expensive is mini golf?
Frantically, I look at the board where prices are listed by number of holes completed and participants. Stomach sinking, I realize I should have suggested we do something at home instead of going out. Something free. Carter’s watching a handful of teenagers on a group date, and is supremely unconcerned. We’re called forward and the young girl behind the counter eyes Carter with a mix of interest and intimidation. She’s probably wondering if he’s here to rob the place.
“How many holes?” She asks, eyes flicking between us.
Carter pulls his wallet from his back pocket, slides a credit card out and hands it to the girl. He looks at me. “How many holes?”
“All of them?” I suggest, weakly, eyes on the credit card. He didn’t even ask if we should split the cost. “Whatever you want.”
“All of them,” he tells the girl, and waits while she hands us our scorecard, clubs, and a bucket to grab a ball from. I pluck out a green one while Carter shoves his hand in and chooses one at random. It’s a lurid, magenta pink. “Thank you.”
Feeling a little embarrassed, I trail after him as he takes long-legged strides toward the first hole. We have to wait for the couple in front of us to finish. I sidle closer to him and clear my throat.
“Thanks.”
“What?” He looks down at me.
“For paying.”
He looks surprised; a slight widening of the eyes and parting of the lips. “Sure. No problem.”
Looking away, Carter idly tosses his pink ball in the air, occasionally letting it bounce on the ground before snatching it back out of the air. My embarrassment takes a slight detour to sympathy as I watch the motion of his hand. I wonder if Carter, who’s family is obviously loaded, just assumes that he’ll be footing the bill whenever people invite him somewhere. A small, mean, part of me wonders if that’s the only reason some people invite him places.
When it’s our turn to go, I wave him forward. He settles into what is unmistakably a golfer’s stance, checks his positioning, and gets a hole-in-one. Oh boy, this is going to be quick.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask, while he plucks his pink ball out of the hole and steps back to watch me go. “Must be beginner’s luck.”
He twirls his stick and says, in what can only be described as a jaunty tone: “I’m an athlete.”
I laugh. That is the closest I’ve ever heard Carter Morgan come to making a joke and it feels better than a hole-in-one ever could.
Carter
Zeke sucks at mini golf. We are seven holes in and he is losing spectacularly; he doesn’t seem too put out by it though, which is refreshing. I’m so used to being surrounded by competitive athletes, it’s a relief to meet someone whose mood won’t plummet if they lose. I’m watching him as he takes his third shot and the ball rims around the hole but doesn’t drop in; he bites the tip of his tongue in concentration as he leans over to tap it in. Triumphantly, he looks up at me.
“Four! I’m getting better.” Grabbing his ball, he grins and steps so close to me his arm brushes mine.
“You are,” I tell him, writing a four under his last score which was a seven.
“This is fun,” he says and I take a moment to look at him while he surveys the next hole.
He’s pretty pale, but the heat of the evening has given him a nice flush and his eyes are bright. He’s got a nice smile, and hands it out freely—smiling at the kids we pass and greeting the people working at the course. I actually am enjoying myself, but I don’t think this would be half as fun if I were with someone else. There is something charming about Zeke’s enthusiasm and complete unconcern with the score.
“Yeah, it is,” I agree. His head whips around and his wide eyes meet mine.
“You’re having fun?” He asks, excitedly.
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad. Next time you have to pick the activity.”
Stepping around him, I tee up my next shot. There is a dramatic groan from behind me when I get another hole-in-one, and I have to fight a smile. Turning, I see Zeke with hands on hips and a scowl on his face. It’s cute. Like a puppy learning how to growl.
“You’re freakishly good at this,” he grumbles, and sets about trying to get a better score than four.