“Hey, Liz. What’s wrong with your life that made you sign up for improv?” Béa says, just as I wind up.
“What?” I whirl around, legs twining together like rope.
“Watch your feet! Golf is about your feet!” Sharon shouts.
My calves untangle. For a moment, I think I’m safe, until my right foot meets air, air, more air.
I pitch off the side of the fourth tee in a cartoon cloud of flying limbs and gear.
When I come to a stop, two concerned faces are peering over the cliff.
“Are you all right?” Béa’s gorgeous features pull down with chagrin.
“Good lesson, good lesson,” Sharon lectures. “Don’t talk when someone else is taking their shot. Any injuries, Liz?”
I brush off grass and dirt, flushing with remembrance. Everything I do reminds me of Tobin. Tobin dirty, Tobin naked, but also him being tender. Caring for me. Talking to me.
The last thing I need at golf is another distraction. Sharon could’ve told us this was an extreme sport, damn.
“Nothing hurt but my dignity,” I mutter, picking my way up the slope.
“And your ass crack.” Béa angles her chin at the gigantic stain on the seat of my pants.
“Wrong.” Sharon’s eyes narrow like a coach whose boneheaded rookie just made a move that’ll play on every sportball lowlight reel for a week. “You’re either hemorrhaging or you’re feeling fantastic and ready for another fourteen holes. Do or do not.”
Thanks to Stellar, I can identify a Yoda quote at a hundred yards. “There is no try. Got it. Do I count falling off the tee as a shot?”
“Never seen it before,” Sharon says, which doesn’t make me feel better. “Probably not. Hold up, Liz. They want to play through.”
The Senior Hitizens march onto the fourth tee, murder in their eyes. Silence reigns as, one by one, they whack astounding shots from the pro tee, then leap in their cart and drive straight off the precipice like Vin Diesel. I don’t bother checking whether they’ve crashed; an accident knows better than to happen to those four.
“So?” Béa prompts me. “You never told the class why you signed up for improv. But now we’re golf buddies, so you have to tell.”
“Network later! Tee off now,” Sharon barks from the ridge,where she’s watching to make sure the Hitizens are out of striking range.
I regret giving this tee another shot at humiliating me, but here goes. I wiggle my ass and wind up. Eyes on the ball, elbows locked, fun fun fun.
The ball sails down the middle of the fairway in a beautiful arc. It’s kind of cheating, because the tee is so high, but I’m not above feeling a thrill of undeserved victory.
“I did it! Did you see that?” I hop around, brandishing my stick. Béa jumps into my arms, squealing.
I stiffen in surprise before realizing I have to keep jumping or Béa’s bouncy hug is going to dislocate my shoulder.
A sharp whistle from Coach Sharon stops us. “Break it up. Béa, you’re up. And good shot, Liz. What? I’m not a monster,” she adds defensively.
By the eighteenth hole, I have golf figured out. Not the sport; I’m still murdering the lawn with every swing. But the networking part is like a romance novel: you force people into close contact for a good amount of time and by the end, they love each other. I started with an honest answer to Béa’s question about my messed-up life; we discovered we both read the same article on improv comedy for people with social anxiety; three hours later she’s as invested in my pitch competition as I am. Sharon’s offered to find us some decent secondhand clubs at White Oaks’s annual gear swap, which I take to mean she would accept being seen with us on the course at some future time, and we’ve all texted our families to tell them we’re going for lunch at the nineteenth hole.
I’ve just shanked another ball into the rough when Béa says, “I would love it if the two of you could come to my wedding.”
“Really?” I say, delighted. “When?”
“Next weekend,” she says, lining up her shot.
I bobble my stick. “Nextweekend?”
“I know it’s late, but seven guests backed out this week and Stéphane and I can’t get a refund from the caterer, so… why not?”
“I’m in!” Sharon crows. “Do I get a plus-one? And where are you registered?”
