“Honestly, I have no idea.” I focus on taking my turn and pretend not to feel her confused stare. “I haven’t spoken to him in a while.”
“Is everything okay?”
“With him, or with us?”
“Both.”
I shrug and completely miss my shot. “Last time I saw him was when I helped him move back to Boston.”
“Didn’t he live on the west coast in undergrad?”
“California.” My golf ball ricochets off Liliana’s foot, and I mumble an apology. This is the worst I’ve ever played at thishole. “He decided not to go into pro-baseball and moved back to Boston to live with his girlfriend. Last time I spoke to him they had just argued over the color of the stove he bought.”
Simultaneously, we wince.
“You haven’t heard from him since?”
“Nope.”
I don’t like how curt I’m being with her, but I hate the lonely feeling of missed calls and unread texts even more. That’s all Derek has given me lately.
If I can’t forgive myself for one mistake, I’m not sure how I’ll forgive Derek for months of being ignored.
The three of us work through more of the course. Clem is kicking our asses with these special “hole-in-one”s she’s managing.
When we approach hole ten, any negative thoughts are lifted from my mind. No more criticizing my past or feeling betrayed by my best friend. I lock in on the reason I wanted to come here, my face splitting into a smile.
The tenth hole was mom’s favorite. A replica of a Boston neighborhood, with miniature brick houses and apartment buildings varying in height, separate the beginning of the green from the final hole. The buildings on the ends are small and stout while the middle is a skyscraper copy taller than Clementine. There are two rocks near the middle, not big enough to completely stop someone in their path, but enough to hinder and send a ball rolling halfway down the green.
Every structure’s front doors open to tubes, each of which lead somewhere. Six of the seven routes to the beginning of the green. The last tube takes golf balls to the second half and straight to the end. A guaranteed hole-in-one.
By any standard, not just Clem’s.
My niece immediately sets her golf ball down and starts swinging. She always goes for the orange building because it’sher favorite color. It’s not how the hole is meant to be played, but it’s how the game works in her head. It’s the perfect example of what I want Liliana to see.
“I have an idea.”
She turns to me. Fairy lights are twisting throughout the trees, their glow making the brown of her freckles even more defined. I trace them with my eyes.
Interest fills her expression, eyebrows raising.
“Hear me out. You’re a writer.”
“Technically.”
“Still a writer.”
She huffs but doesn’t make a move to deny it. Progress is possible.
“You’re a writer, meaning you’re a creative, even if you can’t admit it to yourself.” She thinks I can’t tell, but I notice the indent of her cheek where she’s biting down. “You need to let yourself be inspired. You think there’s only one or two ways to get to your goal, but there’s more. There's always another option.”
“I’ve read the curriculum enough. I know my options.” I pinch the side of arm lightly, and she yelps. “Ow! Don’t be a jerk!”
I keep my gaze set and voice stern. “Stop pretending like you don’t know what I’m saying. And stop acting like you’re not capable of understanding it.”
Her arms cross over her chest, and her blushing shoulders remind me that she doesn’t have anything to ward off the cold April air.
I start taking off my cardigan before I can think. Words tumbling out of my mouth before I can register them.
