Page 25 of Never Date A Player
“What exactly did he say to you?”
I drop my head and stare at my hands. “He said he’d always been attracted to me.” Why does the truth sound so horrible? “That things were fizzling between you two and that you had basically become friends.”
I glance up, and the expression on Cali’s face is dejected, betrayed. She grips her forehead with her fingers. I stand and walk to the bedroom door. I squeeze my hands together when what I really want is to wrap my arms around my best friend. But I don’t think she’d welcome it right now.
My chest feels achy. I was right to keep this from her. No one wants the truth, not even me. Every word out of my mouth makes things worse.
Cali looks up pointedly. “What did you tell him?”
“No! I said no! I never wanted that. He made me feel dirty. I would never?—”
She turns away, her rejection so sharp I suck in my breath. After a moment, I grab my bag. “Cali, we need to talk, but I have to go or I’ll be late for work.” I don’t mention my plans with my mother. Cali and I both know I never leave this early, but I need to step away from this—to figure out how to make things right again. “I’m so sorry, okay?”
Hugging my bag, stuffed with golf shoes and extra clothes, I wait at the curb for my mom and wonder if Cali will ever forgive me. Maybe what happened wasn’t my fault, but I was weak and afraid, and I didn’t tell her.
Am I worth forgiving?
I betrayed my best friend by keeping this from her—it wasn’t intentional, but it happened—and I’m attracted to Lewis and it’s wrong, with his complicated side relationship.
I want him, knowing it’s wrong, and that’s worse.
Chapter Seven
“Jesus, Mom. You shanked it into the next county.”
I knock my iron on the heel of my shoe and squint against the sun, searching for my mom’s hot-pink breast-cancer ball. My hand aches from gripping the club too hard, tense after my argument with Cali. I spot the ball up against a tree surrounded by thick rough. I thought the balls my mom brought were obnoxious, but I’ve changed my mind. We’d never find them if they weren’t neon.
She turns prettily to the side, inching up her black mom-visor. She’s in a tight, hot-pink golf shirt (to match her balls) and blinding white shorts that hit an inch or two below her crotch. My mom is a terrible golfer, so of course she spends a small fortune on expensive clothes and subjects the world to her play at least once a week. I’m wearing cutoff baby-blue skinny jeans that fall mid-thigh and golf shoes I purchased from a discount store for $19.99.
“I don’t see it,” she says, her attention on the fairway. “Are you sure it’s not up ahead?”
Fred glances at me conspiratorially. He’s in khaki golf pants and a striped blue polo, but Fred shoots in the seventies, so his expensive wardrobe is justified. “Come on, honey,” he tells my mom. “Go ahead and take a mulligan.”
My mom twists her mouth like she doesn’t believe us, but she drops another ball and props the head of her five-iron on the grass, getting into position and swaying her hips. She looks down the fairway, wiggles her rear, looks up, readjusts her position, wiggles some more?—
“In this lifetime, Mom.”
“Patience, Genevieve. You’re ruining my concentration.”
Fred waves a foursome past us. At this rate, my mom will still be preparing for her shot after the group putts out.
A few hours later, after the longest nine holes of my life, we make it to the clubhouse for sustenance.
“My treat, Gen,” Fred says as he scans the menu, sandy blond hair parted on the side and feathering over his forehead, his tanned skin smooth from monthly facials.
Fred pays for everything. At first, I thought it was a part of their arrangement, whatever that is—I don’t want to know. But the more time I spend with him, the more my perspective changes. There’s no hidden agenda with Fred. He holds doors for old ladies and assists men struggling with heavy boxes; the guy is just nice, and he’s from the Midwest. He pays because he was raised that way. He’s a gentleman.
I hardly understand the notion.
People rarely dated in college, and if they did, it wasn’t in the typical fashion. We were all poor, so we paid our share. One date went so far as to shortchange me, and believe me, I was not impressed.
The couple of times I’ve tried to pay in front of Fred, he’s found ways to slip me back the cash.
Fred sets down the menu and silently hands my mom the alcohol list she’s determinedly reaching for. “So what time is the show tonight?” he says.
Mom and Fred call my gig at the casino “the show” because my mom’s been looking forward to celebrating the day I walk around in revealing clothes since I was but a youth.
“My shift starts at nine. You guys should get there early. Fewer people; I won’t be as busy.”
