“It’s when a pitcher in baseball suddenly can’t throw accurately. In other sports, when you lose your play. It’s an anxiety thing. I was playing a tournament in Ireland and had the lead up until the back nine. Then it was me and an Irishman who everyone was cheering on, obviously. We were neck and neck. He’d go up a shot, and I’d shave one. Then I’d go up and he’d shave two. He made some amazing shots, and in the last three or four holes, I convinced myself he was a lot better than me, and judging by the crowd noise, I didn’t deserve to win. It was easy to convince myself, too, because some of the shots he made looked so easy. Out of a bunker. Out of the rough. Clean down the fairway. On the last hole, I bogeyed—went over par—and not only didn’t come in second but added enough strokes to come in third. On the very last hole.”
“Oh, wow,” she said.
“After that, I couldn’t get out of my own head. I was so focused on other players that I began to not only forget what I did well, but just how to play in general. I started tanking.”
“What happened?”
“I found the sports psychologist who helped me turn it around. But if you had asked me after Ireland what my future was, I would have told you I was quitting.”
“So the moral of the story is, I should get a sports psychologist?”
“Or maybe, don’t let one contest decide your fate. Make it at least two.” He smiled.
Amy laughed.
They finished the meal with him talking about some places he’d played around the world. When they were done, she began to clear without even thinking about it.
“Hey,” Harrison said, taking the plates from her hand. “I am going to remind you one more time that this was a full-service dinner, and I meant it. I only let you make the salad because I like talking to you. But I’ve got it.”
An offer to do the dishes could give any woman sparkly feelings, but then add to that this was the second time he said he liked talking to her (toher, the person who made Ryan’s eyes glaze over and Jonah said wasso extra), Amy’s sparkle was on full blast. “Okay,” she said, and handed him the plates. “Thank you. That was delicious.”
“You are very welcome.” He grabbed a few more things and went into the kitchen with a bit of a limp.
Amy was enjoying his company so much (another surprise that in a mere twenty-four hours, she had changed her mind about him being anything but a welcome addition to her retreat) that she wasn’t ready to go hide in her room just yet. But she did take the opportunity for a quick appearance check.
Okay, not exactly a femme fatale, but she was okay with what she saw in her bathroom mirror. She looked a little windblown, but her makeup had held up, and she did not have that harried-mom look like she did when she ran Ethan to school in the mornings, usually still in her pajama bottoms and that very old and faded Texas Longhorns hoodie.
She was dabbing on a bit of blush when her phone rang. She looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Julie. “Hey,” she said, answering on speakerphone. “Did you get hold of Sam?”
On the other end of the line, Julie snorted. “Finally. And in usual Sam fashion, she insisted there was nothing wrong with the sound system, and that you were being too sensitive. But then, she got an email from her guest complaining of the same and agreed the volume was too loud.”
“I appreciate it. For the record, I live with males who play video games. I am not too sensitive. That music was a foghorn.”
“Oh, and she says if anyone is moving, it’s the freeloader. That would be you.”
“Sam is as delightful as ever,” Amy mused. “But you tell her, I am not moving.”
“I did. So tell me everything,” Julie said eagerly. “Have y’all made out yet?”
“For God’s sake, Julie,” Amy complained. “Are you still in middle school or what?”
“No, but I’d go back for this. And honestly, I wouldn’t mind a couple of do-overs from eighth grade. So what’s happening? Are you still not talking to him?”
“We’re talking,” Amy said slowly, unwilling to throw Julie any bones just yet, but knowing she would. Some things were too good to keep to oneself. “Actually…we just had dinner.”
“No,” Julie said gravely. “Youcookedfor him? You said specifically you would not cook a single thing for two weeks!”
“He cooked for me, believe it or not. Steaks, because I know you’ll ask. And…martinis.” She put down her makeup brush and examined herself. She looked good. Fit, anyway. Not a beauty, but not unattractive, either.
“I hope he didn’t cook martinis, but, Amy, this is fabulous. My God, how long has it been since you’ve been on a date?”
“It was not a date, so don’t call it that. It was a neighborly thing to do, that’s all.”
“Neighbors have sex all the time,” Julie opined.
“First of all, you say that like you have any knowledge of what neighbors do all the time. You live in a high-rise with twenty-somethings for neighbors.”
“Tech professionals, actually.”
