Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“And that’s very important,” I say, then take a beat. “Three, you can’t hold a phone and a golf club at the same time.”
“And four—anyone can play.”
“We’re brilliant. Do you think we might win an Emmy for our series?”
“Yes, and before you know it, we’ll open up our own consulting service. We could teach classes on dating. The Date Doctors are here for you,” she says in an infomercial voice.
“Yes, and people will come to us and ask questions like, 'Should I take out my phone during a date?’” I continue as we near the course.
Rachel mimes slamming a hand on an imaginary buzzer. “Wrong, Bob. The correct answer is pay attention to your damn date.”
“Oh. So we’re the Gordon Ramsay of date doctors,” I say, as I turn into the course. “Got it.”
“You think that’s the wrong branding? I could try a different approach.” She clears her throat, adopting the tone of a mob heavy. “Hey, Bob, if you take your phone out on your mini golf date, you might not get any pussy.”
I crack up. I don’t know why it’s so funny to hear Rachel say pussy outside of the bedroom. I just know that it is. Maybe that’s a question someday for a Word Doctor or a Humor Doctor.
“That’s some damn good advice, Rach,” I say as I slide into a parking space.
Yup, bye weeks rock. This day is as good as it gets. But when I cut the engine, and turn to her, there’s concern on her face. “Carter. We might need to share some don’ts.”
“Okay?” I ask tentatively, unsure what she’s getting at, and whether her tone is real or faux serious. “Like what?”
Her gaze lands on my big rings, then back on me. “Like…don’t be a competitive beast.”
Whoa. That’s very specific. But I play along. “Hmm. Is that a general piece of advice?”
“Oh, c’mon. Don’t you remember when we all went to mini golf earlier in the summer?”
Of course I do. She’d flown up from Los Angeles to scope out locations for her shop before she moved. “And you, Monroe, Juliet and I played a nice game of mini golf,” I continue. I don’t add that I won with a five under par. But I don’t have to. Victory speaks for itself.
“And the whole time, you were dead focused on the game. Only the game. You were in the zone like it was a Sunday.”
“I’m competitive. I literally have to be,” I say, and I’m getting the feeling she’s not teasing me anymore.
This is a real admonishment.
“And you kept checking the par for every hole, and you were determined to be under par,” she adds, and her memory is an iron cage.
“I like games,” I say, defensively.
“I know.” Her expression is gentle, but her reprimand is real. “But maybe, just maybe, cool the competitive drive.”
She’s being helpful. I get it. But I’m kind of annoyed. We’ve played all kinds of games together over the years—scavenger hunts, escape rooms, mini golf. She’s never told me to cool it before. Why didn’t she tell me sooner that I was being an asshole that day?
“Sure,” I say, a little cold. Self-protection and all.
“Carter.” There’s a plea in her voice.
I hold up a stop sign hand. “Message received. I’ll be chill.”
She sighs, clearly worried this don’t has gone south. Well, it has. “Don’t get mad and pouty. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?” I grab the door handle to get out of here. This car is suddenly too small. I need to go for a quick walk. Burn this off. This convo reminds me too much of Quinn. She got on my case about too many things. I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now.
Rachel reaches for my arm, wraps her hand around it. “I didn’t mean it like a correction. It was more of a suggestion of how I like to play. I like it casual,” she says, trying so hard to be upbeat and positive.
Unlike me.
“Sounded like a correction though,” I grumble, but then I replay my words. Fuck, I sound like a little dick. I try to shake off this irritation. “Hey, it’s no biggie. I’ll be less competitive. Want to hit the links?”
She’s quiet in a resigned sort of way. “Do you want to talk about this?”
“What’s there to talk about?” I ask with a big smile. Fake it till you make it. I’ll get this annoyance out of my system soon enough. All on my own.
“Carter, I don’t mind your competitive side. I’m just not like that. And I don’t know how to play that way. But please don’t be mad at me,” she says, and her voice is wobbly.
“I’m not mad at you, Rachel,” I say, and soon, I swear I won’t be pissed about this.