Turning my attention back to my desk, I search one of the longer courses in the area. Almond Drive Golf Club has a bunch of openings for Saturday and I luck out by choosing one of the last times. I don’t want to rush our golf outing if I can’t help it and I know Angie would hate to be put in the spotlight.
With our upcoming game still in production mode, that leaves me with nothing to do but to brainstorm the next video game. And what better timing than to try to create a video game based on golf?
I’min the middle of a Zoom meeting when a petite figure leans against the doorframe. My eyes flicker to her and I do my best to hold in the smile that’s threatening to break free. Angie Taylor, in a black mini-dress with bouquets printed all over and her blonde hair in loose waves that fall over her shoulder, looks at me like I’m a creature she’s just now discovering.Well, join the club. I move my eyes to the chair in front of my desk, signaling her to take a seat, and move my attention back to my meeting. Luckily, my part in the meeting is done, so now I’m forced to pay attention, fully aware that the girl I’m crushing on is mere feet away.
A slight movement catches my attention as I see Angie holding her phone up and snapping a picture of me. She smiles at my narrowed brow and goes back to tapping on the screen.
The meeting begins to wrap and I say my goodbyes before turning to the blonde occupying more than just space in the chair.
“I needed a contact photo for you,” she says.
“That wasn’t my good side.”
She looks up and her smile knocks the floor out from under me. It’s been a subtle change in her. From the first time I saw her in the restaurant, to now—Angie is almost a completely different person.
“This one’s just a placeholder.”
“Noted. So what brings you here?”
“You have a game that needs to start being marketed,” she says, like it’s not obvious.
“Right.”
“You forgot, didn’t you?” Angie regards me carefully.
Yes. “No. I was just in meetings all day,” I partially lie.
“I’ll let that slide,” she says, standing up from her chair,and moves to the table in the corner of my office, carrying what looks like a small three-ring binder.
I shake my head to clear it of any thoughts and move toward her, taking the seat to her left. Angie opens up the binder and starts running me through a plan that’ll help our game launch be as successful as possible. To me, she’s speaking gibberish, but I guess that’s par for the course when I talk about video game development to people who aren’t in the coding business.
I let out a whistle as she finishes discussing the marketing plan, which is set to begin next week.
“Is it too much?” she asks timidly and turns to face me. “It’s just when Hannah was planning to reopen, this is similar to what she had me help her do. Although we had a much shorter timeframe than you do. Or maybe not if I’m just bringing you mockups.”
I place my hand on top of hers. “No. It’s good. Was the other stuff I sent you helpful?”
“Yes. Has this place ever thought of hiring an actual marketing director? Your social media is kind of a mess. Like, it doesn’t tell me what you all do here.”
“You want the job?” I tease.
She surprises me by flipping her hand so we’re palm-to-palm. “No. I’m comfortable doing the job I’m doing. Plus, marketing full-time would be enough to drive me crazy.”
I stare at where we’re touching, like this is the first time I’ve ever held hands with someone. And, as I try to wrack my brain for the last time I held someone’s hand in a way that’s not helping them through a crowded party, I’m coming up blank. I’m not averse to physical touch, but I’ve never been in a position where it was a priority. That could also be my lack of relationships in the last decade. And then when James died, I never made dating a priority.
But touching Angie, even though it’s innocence in the form of our hands touching, breaks through the barrier that any sort of touch is a one-way road to heartbreak.
“So where do you see yourself?” I ask after minutes of silence.
“I haven’t told anyone this. So you’re the first one to hear my dream,” she tells me like she’s letting me in on a big secret. And maybe, with the way she keeps her cards close to the vest, it is. Maybe she’s been made to feel like her dreams are insignificant and telling someone opens the door to being laughed at or ignored. So she chooses to move in secrecy—in silence.
“Okay, I’m ready.” I nod.
The smile she gives me hits me in the chest. “I’d love to open a piano bar.”
My head rears back in surprise.
“What?” she asks quietly.
