Friday, June 14
I saw Kent at a recovery meeting this morning and mentioned I was playing golf with Blake at Stonewall Orchard in a couple of hours.
“That course is really hard,” Kent laughed. “It’s beautiful but hard. You’ve barely played. Good luck.”
“I’ll wear a short skirt,” I laughed. “Stopped me from getting yelled at last time.”
Kent shook his head and laughed harder.
I drove home, kicked Blake out of bed, and headed for the golf course. Blake strapped our bags on the cart and drove to the first tee. My text alert dinged. An old grade school friend I hadn’t seen in thirty years was in town. Randy friended me on Facebook years ago and had randomly called days after I'd asked JB to move out. He was living in Wyoming, his first marriage had ended badly, his ex had poisoned their daughter against him, he had two children with his current wife, and that marriage was going great, he said.
“Hey Brenda!!!!” Randy texted. “I’m in town til (sic) the 24th. Would love to see you!”
“Love to see you, too,” I texted. “Playing golf with my son now. Maybe dinner the 20th? Gotta go.” I switched my phone off and threw it in my golf bag.
I was hitting well for a beginner. Made it over some water features. But I was slow. Blake let two parties play through. On the eighteenth hole, as I was lining up a shot on the fairway, an old man yelled, “Hit the ball! Every single shot!”
“Shut the fuck up,” Blake shouted back. “Mind your own fucking business.” Blake looked at me. “Really? He yells on the last hole? You’re taking longer than most, but not bad. And you’re making up for it by not being a duffer. I’m reporting him.” Blake flagged down a ranger. “That guy up there is heckling my mom,” he said.
I wrapped my arm around Blake’s neck and kissed his cheek. “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks for standing up for me. You’ve got balls. Dad wouldn’t have done that.”
“Dad’s a pussy.”
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