How to Honeymoon Alone

I’d hit a ball into a tree-twice-and accidentally thrown my club-once. But no bunkers.

“It’s a fun one,” Phillip says beside me.

“You sound sarcastic. Are you being sarcastic?”

“I would never.”

“Okay, so you are. What club should I use?”

“If you want, you could just lift it out.”

I narrow my eyes at him. He gazes serenely back at me, face calm and eyes hidden behind the dark sunglasses.

“Those aren’t the proper rules,” I say.

He lifts a single shoulder in a shrug. “We haven’t really adhered to them so far.”

“You have.”

“Well, I’ve done this before.”

“I’ll hit it and get it out,” I say, rolling my neck. “It’s not a problem.”

“We have more balls.”

“I know, but mine is there. I’ve grown attached to it. Leave no man behind and all that.”

“You know, it will never reciprocate those feelings.” He pulls out one of my clubs, examines it, and hands it to me. “Here. This one should work for the sand trap, if you insist.”

“I do. I’m learning, you know, so this is a great opportunity.”

“Mm-hmm.” He stands beside the pit and watches me clamber into the sand trap. For a second, I get the absurd thought that it might be quicksand, like in a children’s book. It’s not.

But it is very hot from the baking sun and burns where it hits the tops of my feet.

Sandals were indeed not the right choice.

“You look great,” Phillip calls down.

“Thanks!”

My ball lies innocently in the center of the pit, like it didn’t do most of the rolling to end up there.

I square my shoulders and my hips, and swing.

My first five attempts fail.

Three times, I miss the ball and a plume of sand flies up instead. Twice, I hit the ball, but it doesn’t fly high enough to clear the wall of the bunker and rolls back, the devil.

Phillip’s shoulders are shaking with restrained laughter.

“It’s all good!” I call, giving him a nod. “This one will do it!”

He crosses his arms, a smile across his face. “I bet.”

Maybe it’s the smirk he’s wearing or my own amusement, but I do get it over. The ball soars and lands a few feet away from where Phillip’s own ball rests, on the green.

“Yes! Nailed it!”

Phillip crosses the distance to the sand pit. He stands on the edge, reaching down an arm to me. “Very good.”

“I think I’m the next Tiger Woods.”

“I hope for your sake that you’re not.”

That makes me chuckle. I tuck my club under my arm and find purchase on the sandy slope, reaching up to grasp his hand.

It’s not particularly graceful. I scramble for a foothold while he’s pulling, and then I make it up, colliding with his chest, and lose a sandal.

It falls along the sandy slope and lands on the spot my ball had previously occupied.

“Oh no,” I say.

Phillip is still holding my hand. It’s trapped between our chests. His chin brushes my forehead as he turns his head. “Your shoe.”

“It didn’t survive the pit.”

“No,” he says, “it didn’t. I’ll get it.”

“I can do-”Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

He hands me his club and steps into the pit, doing it more gracefully than I did. He scoops up the sandal and turns it upside down, getting the sand out.

“This is like Cinderella,” I say. The words just come out. Maybe it’s the sun, maybe it’s the scent of his sunscreen still lingering from our close contact.

He looks up at me for a long moment, and then he chuckles. “Yes, strikingly similar. Do you want me to put it on you, too? See if it fits?”

Something tightens in my stomach, and all I can do is shake my head.

He climbs to the edge of the sand pit. I reach out my hand, and he looks at it with obvious suspicion.

“I can do it. I’m strong,” I say.

“Right,” he says. “Here, take your shoe.”

I grab it and toss it aside on the grass before extending my hand to him again. “Come on. Trust me, I’ve been working out. I lift a ton of weights.”

“You’re less convincing the more you talk.”