“I still do, half the time.” She shows me her hands, and sure enough, there’s a small streak of blue on her thumb. “Some things never change.”
But everything has changed, I want to say. We’ve changed. This thing between us has changed from innocent friendship to complicated performance, and I’m not sure we can ever find our way back to those simple afternoons in my parents’ basement.
“Shot!” Freya calls, and I realize I’ve been staring at her hands for too long.
I take my turn at the windmill, managing to time it perfectly. The ball rolls through the opening and stops near the hole.
“Nice!” she says, and the genuine enthusiasm in her voice makes me ridiculously happy.
We finish the course with Freya winning by eight strokes, a victory she celebrates by taking a selfie with both of us and the plastic trophy they give to winners. For Carson’s social media purposes, of course, but her smile in the photo is real.
“Ice cream?” I suggest, noting the small stand near the parking lot.
“You’re really committing to this whole ‘normal couple’ thing.”
“Carson said we should milk the location for content.”
But that’s not why I suggest it. I suggest it because I don’t want this evening to end. For two hours, I’ve felt like a normal person doing normal things with someone I care about. The weightof work and deals and responsibilities has lifted, replaced by something lighter and more immediate.
We get ice cream and sit on a bench overlooking the course, watching other couples and families make their way through the holes we just completed. The sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold.
“This was fun,” I say, and I mean it.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am surprised. I don’t usually enjoy activities that don’t have a clear professional purpose.”
“Maybe you should try it more often.”
“Maybe.” I take a bite of my ice cream, vanilla with hot fudge, because apparently I’m basic when it comes to dessert. “Hey, are you okay? You’ve seemed… distant this week.”
She doesn’t answer immediately, focusing intently on her strawberry cone.
“I’m fine,” she says finally. “Just adjusting to everything. The attention, the planning, all of it. It’s a lot.”
“If it’s too much…”
“It’s not too much. I said I’d do this, and I’m going to do it.”
But there’s something in her voice that doesn’t match her words. A resignation that makes me think she’s doing this out of obligation rather than choice.
“Yeah, but… If you…” Why can’t I find my words?
“We should probably head back,” she interrupts, standing up and throwing away her napkin. “I have an early client meeting tomorrow.”
The drive back to her apartment is quieter than the drive to mini golf. Freya stares out the window, lost in thoughts she apparently doesn’t want to share. I try to recapture the easy mood from the course, but something has shifted, and I can’t figure out what.
“Thank you for tonight,” I say as I pull up in front of her building.
“Thank you for the ice cream and mini golf victory.” She unbuckles her seatbelt but doesn’t immediately get out. “Ben?”
“Yeah?”
“This is what you want, right? All of this? The publicity, the wedding, the whole production?”
The question catches me off guard. “It’s what I need. For the business.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
