Page 26 of Bleeding Hearts

“That’s what she said.” Asher laughs, walking over with my golf club to join me.

“You perv.” I laugh loudly, slapping him on the arm, still full of excitement.

A throat clearing grabs my attention, interrupting my victory party and I look over to see the mom and her kids waiting for us to be done at the hole. She stares at Asher and me like we’re the scum of the earth for cursing in her presence.

“Oh, please.” I meet her stare. “Your kids are like teenagers. I’m sure they’ve heard the word fuck before.” I look over to the kids, who are looking at their mom, annoyed.

“And probably even said it,” Asher adds, backing me up, and I look up to him, smiling.

“Let’s go. It’s time for me to kick your ass now.” I grab Asher’s arm, dragging him along with me to the next hole and leaving the mom standing there with a shell-shocked look on her face.

I definitely don’t kick his ass, but I do start doing a lot better than I was, making the shots in three or four tries instead of missing entirely.

We play all eighteen holes, stop at the mini restaurant slash bar that sits at the front of the course to drink some soda and eat some nachos, and then play all eighteen holes again because why the fuck not?

He beats me again, although the score is a lot closer the second time than it was the first. I’m pretty sure he’s going easy on me and purposely missing some of the shots, but I don’t call him out on it.

His being kind enough to not want to leave me completely in the dust when it comes to our scores isn’t something I’m going to complain about.

By the time we get through the course the second time, it’s nearly nine p.m. and I’m exhausted but also not ready to go home. So instead, I convince Asher to drive to the ice cream shop that’s only a few blocks away.

It’s one of those ice cream shops that has homemade flavors, meaning there are new flavors every day.

They always have their originals too, the classics, you know? But they also have flavors you wouldn’t see in most places, like chocolate cookie cheesecake, coffee and donuts, and muddy pie.

Asher thinks most of the out-of-the-box flavors are gross, but frankly, I think they’re amazing.

I like to think that between spending so many years cooking and baking, I have a pretty versatile palate. There are very few things I don’t like and even then, I’m able to recognize when they may make a dish better.

Plus, when it comes to food, I’ll try anything at least five times. You have to give your taste buds a chance to really adjust and let the flavors develop, you know?

Asher doesn’t agree and just says you like what you like, but whatever.

Asher ends up getting a peanut butter cup sundae while I get a classic sundae with three types of ice cream. I get one scoop of fluffy road, which is chocolate ice cream packed with marshmallow fluff, marshmallows, salted almonds, and chocolate truffles, a second scoop of peanut butter cup ice cream, and a third scoop of muddy pie.

“That’s disgusting, you know that, right?” Asher asks as I set my sundae down on the table in front of me, sitting across from him.

“They’re actually each individually delicious in their own right, thank you very much,” I say, bringing a spoonful of the muddy pie to my mouth before taking a second spoonful of the fluffy road. “Don’t insult my food. You know I’m very protective of it.”

“This is ice cream. It’s not even food that you cooked,” he says.

“Doesn’t matter. Food is food. Now leave me and my ice cream alone and eat your boring ice cream.”

“One of the flavors you got is the same as mine. How is it boring?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Because why would you get one flavor when you could get three?” I ask, exasperated.

“Okay, I’m backing down. A fight about any sort of food isn’t one I’m going to win with you.” He laughs, shaking his head as he digs into his own ice cream.

“Aw, how cute. You think you have a shot at winning an argument with me that’s not about food.” I tease him, and he throws his head back, laughing, conceding.

“We can just head back to your place and I’ll grab an Uber home from there,” Asher says as we finish our sundaes, throwing them in the trash.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can just drive you home. It’s no big deal.” I start walking toward my small black Mercedes that’s parked right up front.

It was my sixteenth birthday present from my father and I’ve considered selling it more times than I can count.

I could use the money to get a cheaper car and put the rest in savings, but the truth is even if it is from the one person in the world that I hate, I love the car. Its glossy black exterior and pristine black interior is as beautiful as a car can get.

---