Page 41 of Meet Me Back Here

“I’ve never once thought you were boring, Forrest,” I say, remembering that others weren’t so kind to him when we were younger.

The look Forrest gives me tells me he’s not sure I’m telling the truth.

“Hey.” I stop walking and grab his wrist to stop him too. “I mean it.”

He nods, and we start walking again.

“You and Melina were…” Forrest trails off as he drops his club in the bag strapped to the back of the golf cart, but his implication is clear.

“Yeah, we dated for a while. It was serious and ended on friendly terms,” I confirm when I climb behind the wheel of the cart.

I look at Forrest, wondering how he’ll react. He seems unbothered. Melina is part of my past, part of who I am, and I’m relieved that it seems like he understands that.

“She was a good friend before and after,” I continue. “Like you.”

Forrest’s head snaps to me, and I wonder if I said something wrong.

“I don’t know. Maybe not so much like me,” he says softly after a moment’s hesitation, looking through the little windshield again.

I frown, deflating a little. I guess not. Melina and I never went no contact. I feel badly for making the comparison.

Forrest is quiet as I drive us the rest of the way to his ball. He has another perfect swing, and I kid you not, his ball delicately plunks down maybe six inches from the hole.

“Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” I ask, just the tiniest bit skeptical, but trying to play it off as joking. It also gives me an excuse to say something and move on from our prior conversation.

“Promise,” Forrest says, throwing me a grin over his shoulder. I guess he wants to move on too.

Once we’re both on the green, Forrest lines up the easiest putt ever before smacking his ball and sending it into the rough.

My head snaps to him, wide-eyed, but he’s smiling brightly at me.

“Whoops,” he says, laughing.

And I realize he’s trying to get me out of my head.

“Alright, alright,” I say, cracking a smile too.

We keep going. I tell him stories about college. Good classes and bad ones. Quirky professors and late nights I regretted the next day. The heat of summer and searching for scorpions with blacklights. He’s interested in even the smallest detail, and I surprise myself by how much I like telling him about them.

We also make a game out of Forrest trying to make silly shots. Aim for that tiny sand trap and get yourself out of it in one try. Hit off the tee with a nine iron on a par 4. Putt with your eyes closed. Sometimes he gets it. Sometimes he’s wildly off. We always end up laughing.

I get no better, but I do start having fun.

When we get to the ninth hole, there’s a sizable lake between us and the green.

“Unless I become the Hulk in the next thirty seconds, there’s no way I’m going to make it over the lake. After your swing, we should just go to the drop spot,” I say, squinting to see what I’d even be aiming for.

“Why not just wail on it to see how far you can get? Call it practice, and maybe you’ll surprise yourself,” Forrest suggests, handing me a banged-up ball we picked up along the way so I don’t lose one of the new ones in a watery grave. I should have saved a few more spares from the buckets I got for the driving range.

I shrug and take the rescued ball from Forrest. What’s the harm? Smacking golf balls always helped with school frustration, after all.

I swing with all my might and make good contact, my little yellow ball sailing straight and fast. But as expected, it plunks with a little splash a bit over halfway across the lake. It does feel good to have such a nice shot, even if it went nowhere of use. Forrest swings next, and his ball ends up somewhere on the other side of the lake.

As we drive over the little bridge that’ll take us to the rest of the hole, I start hearing soft chatter behind us. The next party back is putting at the eighth hole, so we need to make sure we keep moving.

I hurry to the drop zone as soon as we park the golf cart and release my ball from shoulder height. It bounces a little before it begins rolling. And before I can stop it, that sucker drops right into the lake.

“What gives?” I say, still staring at the water that gobbled up my perfect ball. “I thought drop spots were made specifically to avoid that?”