Page 32 of Perfect Mess

“Other things … meaning … golf?”

“No, that was Paris. I gave lessons to housewives to put myself through culinary school. I tried the chef thing before I went into medicine.”

My brain tried to calculate the probability of my mouth putting together a coherent sentence. It came back under two percent. My mouth went for it, anyway. “You were a chef?”

“I still am, technically. Soufflé is my specialty. Chocolate, of course.”

“Of course.” My knees were now jelly. All my girl parts too.

“Now try again.” Jack put a fresh ball on the tee and stepped out of the way.

“You’re sure?”

“I believe in you.”

Just because people believed in things didn’t mean they were true. I used to believe in a lot of things. Decency. Fairness. Love. And look at where that got me. If Jack wanted to believe in something, he would have had better luck with Bigfoot. Or U.F.O.’S. Or Justin Bieber releasing a new single that didn’t make you want to poke out your eardrums with a Q-tip.

“Sometimes you just have to go for it.”

Nervous, well, more like petrified, I wiggled back into position, taking another deep breath before positioning my hips over the ball. Focused and vigilant, I set my stance. I made sure my grip was firm but relaxed. I leaned my chest forward, and, as Jack had commanded, stuck out my butt.

Jack gave me a thumbs up.

One more deep breath, then I swung my club.

This time, with the help of Jack’s up close and personal instruction, my club contacted the ball. I should clarify the word “contact,” because my version of contact in relation to, say, Tiger Woods, were two very different experiences.

At the front of the driving range bay, there was a small border along the lip leading out into the open air where golf balls soared out to the greens. I must have grazed the top of the golf ball with my club because instead of traveling up and out toward the target flags, my ball shot straight ahead.

The ball beamed the bay border.

Blasted back toward the bench.

Banging the beverage bucket.

Then bee-lined into the basket, bouncing balls all over the bay.

My original ball, the one that had started on the tee, rolled to a stop at my feet.

I heard slow clapping behind me. When I turned, I saw Jack smiling. “That was either the best shot, or the worst shot, I’ve ever seen.”

ChapterNine

Mercifully, Jack suggested we put away the golf clubs and grab a coffee in the clubhouse. “Before anyone gets hurt,” he said.

Returning from the counter, he set my pistachio latte down on the table in front of me then sat down. “Look, Mary.” Jack cleared his throat. “Back in high school …”

“No,” I held up my hand. I didn’t want to hear it. Things were going relatively well at the moment and I didn’t want any talk about the past to ruin it.

“I need to say this.” Jack leaned forward. “I’m really sorry for what I did that night at prom. It was stupid. It was mean. My girlfriend …”

“Ashley Griffin.” Her name lingered in my mouth like cyanide.

“Yeah. Ashley. She was jealous.”

I thought he was joking. “Ashley Griffin? Jealous?” Ashley Griffin had everything. Looks. Friends. A pearl colored Nissan Maxima for her seventeenth birthday. There was no way Ashley Griffin was jealous of anybody. Especially me. My mind flailed like a six iron sailing into a golf pond. “Why would Ashley Griffin be jealous of me?”

Jack’s face flushed, his top lip and bottom lip pressed together. “She caught me looking at you. Well, staring really.”

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