Which meant that I’d gotten eighteen uninterrupted answers to my most pressing questions, all while he ogled me from behind as I bent over to line up my shots.
He grew up in rural Kentucky. His parents divorced when he was five. Without reliable childcare, they both took him on their dates with potential new partners. He didn’t resent that fact, but he did wonder what effect it had on him growing up.
After the fallout over his and his girlfriend’s tech security company, he took his buyout, freelancing and working on contract so he’d never be tied to a desk again.
(Briefly, on that point, I wondered if this was part of hisI don’t want people looking too closely at mething. Did hereallynotwant a desk job? Or did he just say that so he could be surface-level agreeable, survive a brief stint at a company, and leave before anyone could meet the man beneath the friendly persona?)
He wanted a dog but couldn’t get one with his consulting schedule. His home base was a tiny apartment in rural Colorado, but usually, if he had time between jobs, he traveled instead of going back there.
He loved driving, the mountains, hole-in-the-wall restaurants with questionable health ratings but amazing dishes, and cookies with potato chips in them.
Every month, since he moved too often to properly volunteer anywhere, he spent one Saturday going through GoFundMe and anonymously donating to random projects or fundraisers. He’d sent sixteen different high school marching bands to Disney World that way.
When I asked him what he thought his greatest failure was, or his greatest weakness, I waited for him to feed me bullshit like “I care too much” or “I give other people everything and they barely give me anything in return.” You know, one of those weaknesses that’s really a humblebrag. Instead, he finally copped to my accusation.
“I never really thought of this as a weakness, but maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m too afraid to let people get close. I like to be liked. But I don’t want to be examined. Whether or not they mean to, people always judge. I’m afraid of coming up short.”
His body language told me that follow-up questions would not be permitted on a mini golf course. However, it still baffled me that a friendship whisperer who could melt the hardest-hearted engineer was afraid of people not liking him.
Out of respect for his boundaries, I didn’t push further on that particular point. It didn’t feel fair to keep digging at a wound that had clearly not yet become an eschar. Lighter topics followed.I learned favorite foods (pineapple, bacon, and hot honey pizza), dream job (being a vineyard dog or a bookstore cat), love language (“That’s ridiculous pseudo-science peddled by religious weirdos…but that being said, words of affirmation”), greatest accomplishment (restarting after leaving his company), the last playlist he listened to (a collection of upbeat one-hit wonders, because he doesn’t want anyone to ever be forgotten, not even cheesy 1980s bands), and his most embarrassing moment (“I shit myself on a bus once after being discharged from the hospital. There was this medicine they gave me that wrecked my stomach and I was too poor to get a cab at the time, so I took the bus but it took too long—hey, stop laughing! You asked!”)
I’d also learned something I long suspected.
I loved making him laugh.
Just like he was laughing when, at the final hole, he pointed at me and exclaimed, “You’re a total mini golf sharp!”
The final hole was a rocket ship, impressive in size, scale, and theme, pulled straight from a 1950s B-movie. Its central door was carved out on one side, so you could see the hole you were shooting for. The inside was painted black with thousands of stick-on glow stars.
“I’m a mathematician,” I retorted.
As it turned out, mini golf, a game that literal children played for fun,wasincredibly easy. It was even easier when one had three advanced degrees in the sciences and math. Mini golf was nothing more than angles, force, momentum, and watching your date bend over in tight pants. Four things at which I excelled.
“Next time, I’m taking you to an arcade and I’m going to absolutely destroy you inDragon’s Lair.”
“All right, computer nerd. I’ll make sure to lose as graciously then as you are right now.”
The two of us wandered around the grand decor of this finalgreen, taking our time before shooting our last shots. Maybe because it looked so cool, this space-age scene tucked away in a random suburb. Or maybe because neither of us wanted the date to end.
“It’s not so bad, right?” I asked. “Telling me about yourself. Look, I haven’t run away screaming yet. I still like you. Maybe even more now that I heard about that bus story.”
The tips of his ears went pink.
“All I’m saying is,” I continued, “I think you can trust me. And I think you should. At least enough to let me in and know you better.”
“Yeah, well…Same.”
Called out. I tipped my head in atouchégesture.
“All right, then. I’ll give you a freebie. What do you want to know about me?”
“What would your dream date be? Assume that you can have anything you want—sky’s the limit.”
I’d never get over the weirdness of it—that I could handle sex no problem, but the minute he was nice to me, I instantly went lightheaded and dizzy.
“I’ve never thought about that. I guess it’s sort of like my virginity. I never thought about how I would lose it because I never felt like I, you know, would get anything special,” I said honestly. Then, as we looked up at the sunset, I felt my head tip sideways onto his shoulder. “But this…this is pretty close to what I’d imagine.”
“Mini golf?” he asked. I could almost hear the raised eyebrow at that one.
