Page 33 of In the Middle of No(ah)where
Noah snuggles in tighter, squeezing my waist. As I start reading the story about an alien who took on the form of a human girl, Noah's breaths even out as he slips into dreamland. I close my eyes briefly, relishing in the comfort of him next to me. Relishing in how this just feels…right.
???
It's been a couple weeks since our dinner, and things have been a lot more open with Noah. We talk daily, and he sends me the most ridiculous memes and GIFs. I won't tell him that I secretly love them–each one reminding me of him.
Me:Date night. U excited?
Puppy:Duh!
Me: Don't be a brat.
Puppy:
Puppy:U know I'm the mini-golf champion, right?
Me:Is there such a thing? Because if so, I will strip you of that title.
Puppy:LOL. U said strip.
Puppy:
Me:Why do I have a feeling you have this costume?
Puppy:I can neither confirm nor deny this accusation.
Me:Accusation - that's a big word for you. Surprised you knew how to spell it.
Puppy:Autocorrect helped.
Me:Brat. Need to get back to work. CU tonight.
It's Saturday evening, and the early autumn air is cool and sweet. Noah and I are both snuggled in hoodies as we check in to get our equipment. Twinkle lights have been hung overhead, adding to the ambiance of the whimsical mini-golf course, casting playful shadows across the meticulously manicured greens.
"Ready for an ass beating?" I ask Noah. His eyes widen, and pink blushes his cheeks before I realize what I just said. "No, I mean…crap."
Noah stops fiddling with his putter. "Oh, I know what you mean. And yes. But for now, I'll just win at mini-golf." He responds with a wink before placing his bright green ball on the indented space to tee off.
Noah leans over to putt the ball, glances over his shoulder at me, smirks, and shakes his rounded tight ass. With him nowhere near middle space, this is going to be a long, heated eighteen holes.
Noah's swing is smooth and effortless—a fluid motion.I look on as Noah's eyes follow the trajectory of his ball, a concentration that he spoke of not having when his brain gets chaotic. That subtle vulnerability he sometimes displays is missing in this moment. A surge of something resonates deep within. More than just the nostalgia of being here and the memories of doing this when I was a kid. It's the connectionI feel with Noah. A renewed awareness of what we could be together.
As we play, our competitive spirits emerge. Each putt a tiny battle. Each successful shot is a small victory.Yet, even in our playful rivalry, a more profound connection develops. Our hands or shoulders brush accidentally as we walk the course; our laughter intertwines to create a melody of shared joy.
Noah's flirting, I have discovered, is a tactic he's using to distract me from beating him in this game. Jokes on him. Our scores are tied after the ninth hole.
As we navigate the course of vibrant colors, tricky obstacles, and playful rivalry, the conversation stays light. It flows like a miniature stream cutting through the eleventh hole. Noah is in the lead by one point, thanks to the windmill on the fourteenth hole. It's absurd they would install it that late in the game. The banter and gloating from Noah is next level.
"What's wrong, Daddy?" he says the word in a mocking tone, "having a hard time getting it in the hole? You know they make a pill for that, right?" He giggles while lining up his ball on the fifteenth hole. There is no real bite in his words or tone.
I step up behind him, lower my voice, and turn on my Daddy-Dom persona. I look around to ensure we're alone. Growling just behind his ear as he lines up his shot. "Trust me, Puppy. I know how to sink into tight holes just fine." I see a shiver overtake his body. He turns to face me with a slack jaw. He's been doing most of the sexual innuendo flirting, but it's time to play fire with fire. "Keep shaking that ass at me, and you won't be finishing this game." I slap his ass hard before stepping back to the sideline. "Well," I ask him in a lighter tone. "Are you going to putt, or are you just going to stand there?"
He just stands there, breathing heavily. I have him right where I want him.So I thought.
Unfortunately, my distraction didn't work as Noah focused harder and landed a hole-in-one. I get it in two putts and am now trailing behind him by two points. The next couple of holes are challenging, but I'm able to gain an extra point.
The final hole––eighteen––is next, and as we wait in line behind a family of four, our eyes and brains are trying to take it all in.
Hole eighteen is an explosion of color. A flock of bright pink flamingos guards a precarious-looking bridge. At the same time, a miniature pirate ship lurks menacingly in a shallow water hazard.A giant inflatable monkey holding a banana bunch sways on a tiny putting surface that threatens to send your ball tumbling into a brightly colored, oversized clown's mouth. The air is filled with the sounds of laughter, the clinking of golf balls, and the excited squeals of children.
