When I was too angry to be useful and too young to admit anger needed somewhere to go, he would hand me the club and point toward the far fence.
“Hit it clean or hit it mad,” he’d say. “Only one goes straight.”
I hated that.
Mostly because he was right.
I roll my shoulders once and set another ball on the mat.
This time, I loosen my grip.
The ball lifts clean, not far, not impressive, but straight enough.
I should not feel betrayed by a golf ball.
I do anyway.
My phone buzzes on the bench behind me.
For one stupid second, I think it is Peyton.
Not Peyton.
Roman: Room is fine. Evan is annoying everyone equally.
That, at least, I understand.
I type back.
Keep it that way.
Then I set the phone down and pick up the club again.
One ball.
Then another.
Not to fix anything.
Just to put my hands somewhere they cannot make anything worse.
I cannot control the article.
I cannot control Peyton.
Last night proved I can barely control myself.
The worst part is not that I wanted her. Wanting is simple. Wanting has a body, a door, a bed, a way to be answered or refused.
The worst part is not last night.
It is after.
When my mother texts about manners and my team laughs around me and Peyton exists somewhere in the city with a deadline, a byline, and my name inside her mouth in a way no one else will ever know.
I set another ball down.
Do not ruin her.
