Page 31 of Perfect Mess

I filled him in on all the details of my ambulance ride, my hospital visit, and most importantly, that I tested negative for rabies.

“So you play golf?” asked Jack.

I splayed my hands, highlighting the new golf outfit I bought from the pro shop. “Of course I play golf. I love golf. I play golf all the time.”

Jack was clearly impressed. “Let’s see what you got, then.”

“Huh?”

Jack pointed to the rubber tee at my feet. “Show me your swing.”

It was at that moment that I realized the flaw in my strategy. You see, my relationship with the game of golf could best be described as love-hate, with a current emphasis on the hate. The problem was, golf is a game you play outside, in nature, with the heat and the humidity and mosquitoes the size of woodpeckers.

I was more of an inside hobby person. Inside hobbies, like watching television. And snacking. And fish simulator games on my phone.

It wasn’t always like that, though. I used to love golf. I started playing when I was only six. My dad taught me all the important stuff, how to putt, how to drive. How to pop the top off a Budweiser on the side of a golf cart. Playing golf was kind of our thing. One year, we even came in third place at the Daddy Daughter Tournament, down at the public course. But then, after he was gone, well, I hadn’t picked up a club since.

Jack stood there waiting and smiling and showing off his perfect white teeth.

“You want to see my swing?” I poked the artificial turf with my six iron. Jack nodded. “Okay. Sure. Why not?” There are certain life skills that, once you master them, they remain in your repertoire of life skills for the rest of time. Polka dancing, for example. Whistling. Riding a bike. Golf is not one of those skills.

With Jack watching my every move, I placed a ball on the tee. My heart was pounding, my head was racing, and my palms were so sweaty I could barely hold on to my club. The way Jack scrutinized everything I did, you would think I was about to tee off at the Masters.

I took a deep breath.I can do this.

I laser eyed the ball, replaying all the lessons my dad gave me when I was a kid.I can do this.

I blocked out the distraction of Jack’s golf pants.I can do this.

One more deep breath.I can do this.

I started the swing of my club. Glancing over out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack smiling as the head of my six iron raced down to meet the ball.

The smile seemed to falter a bit as the head of the six iron breezed right over the ball, failing to connect.

The smile turned to concern as the six iron rocketed away from my sweat slicked grip and sailed high into the air.

The smile turned to a frown as the six iron splashed down into the pond on the near side of the closest green. A flock of ducks took flight.

When I looked back over at him, Jack was staring. “I always hated six irons.” Avoiding eye contact, I selected a five iron and got back into position, as if I had meant to do that all along. Wiping my sweaty hands on my new skirt, I readjusted my grip. I set my feet and squared my hips. I prepared to try again.

“Wait.” I felt a hand on my shoulder. The touch of breath on my neck. Jack stood next to me. “You’re too rigid,” he said. “Here, let me help.”

Jack stepped around behind me. His hand tracing down from my shoulder to the middle of my back. “Bend forward a little.” Gently, he tilted me forward. At the points where his fingers pressed against my body, it was like lightning bolts, tingling up and down my spine.

“You also need to loosen your hips.” His hands moved down my body, cupping me around the waist. Long-lost sensations bubbled up like a hot spring.

Jack planted his foot between my legs. “Move your feet out a bit.” I could smell his cologne. Oak barrels. Vanilla beans. Earthy musk. “Spread your legs a little wider. Stick out your butt.”

It wasn’t just my palms that were now slick with moisture.

“You’re still too tense. Here.” Jack’s firm hands found my shoulders. He squeezed, and he rubbed, fingers probing my flesh. Every muscle melted. Nerves exploded like fireworks.

My throat made a noise that made the guy in the bay beside us blush. “Oh my God,” I said. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

“I spent a summer in Bangladesh studying massage,” Jack explained. “Among other things.”Of course you did.

Summers in Florida felt like the inside of a pizza oven, wrapped in a hobo’s blanket, stuck in the middle of a python infested, hurricane flooded swamp. I didn’t think my body temperature could get any hotter, but with Jack that close to me, I was worried I would ignite him.

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