Some Kind of Normal

Were we? I glanced in the mirror and watched her house disappear from view.

“We’re hanging out.”

“Huh. Serious hanging out or just hanging out?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I replied honestly.

“Well, you just make sure you’re careful is all.”

“Got it covered, Dad.”

He glanced at me sharply. “You guys having sex?”

I shook my head and groaned. What was this? We’d had the birds and the bees talk years ago, and it consisted of Dad buying me a box of condoms and telling me to “use them, goddammit. Your mother and I are too young to be grandparents.”

“No, Dad, we’re not having sex.” Not yet, anyway. “And can we talk about something else? Gee, way to kill the mood.”

Dad steered the car with the palm of his hand—something he would have given me shit over—and turned off of Everly’s street before heading toward Main.

“Where we going?” Obviously in the wrong direction.

It was early yet, just after eight, and we had at least another hour and a half of sunlight.

“Thought we’d hit some balls.”

Surprised, but in a good way, I shrugged. “Sounds good, but we don’t have our clubs.”

“Threw them in the trunk when you were showing Everly how the dog plays dead.”

“Okay,” I replied, wondering what this was all about. He was a pretty crappy golfer. My mom was the superstar in our family, and I don’t think I’d ever gone to hit balls with him before.

“I’m probably going to suck,” I said.

Dad snorted. “It’s like riding a bike, Trev. You’re way too natural of an athlete to forget how to line up a ball and hit it.”

Yeah, but the last time I’d been on a golf course, my knee hadn’t been screwed up. I didn’t think I was going to be all that stellar, but the thought of spending an hour or so hitting balls with my dad was a good one.

The driving range was still fairly busy, but we managed to find two spots side by side. I changed my shoes (Dad had thought of everything), grabbed my clubs, and set up shop by a couple of older ladies who gave us the stink eye as we walked by. Didn’t blame them. Dad looked like he could ride with the Hells Angels with his sleeved tattoos and shaved head. And me? I guess they weren’t exactly used to dudes with blue streaks in their hair.

I gave them a wave, smiled that smile my grandmother liked to boast about, and asked them how they were doing.

That was that. Ice was broken. They smiled in return, said it was a perfect night to hit balls, and then complimented me on my clubs.

I saw the way my dad rolled his eyes when he brought over a couple of buckets of balls, and I tried not to laugh. As much as the whole charm thing seemed to have landed on me in spades, apparently it skipped a generation, and he’d never been hit with that particular stick.

I grabbed my seven iron and took a few practice swings. Felt good. Got into the groove. Sent the ball flying. Once I was warmed up, I took out my driver and lined up my shot. My knee was starting to throb a bit, so I adjusted my footing. I took a moment and then, with gentle wrists (the secret, according to my mom), sent the ball straight down, well over 250 feet. Heck, practically 300.

The ladies beside me gushed about my form and asked if I belonged to the local country club. I’d had a junior membership years ago, but music had kind of taken over, and other than football, I’d pretty much given up on sports.

I laughed, shook my head, and said no. They were shocked when I told them I hadn’t picked up a club in nearly two years. The tall, thinner lady gave me a second look, her eyes softening a bit as she placed her club back into her bag.

“Are you that boy who was in the bad car accident last summer?”

I nodded, not knowing what to say really. It had been a long time since anyone had brought up the accident with me.

She glanced behind me. “I recognize your daddy from pictures in the paper.” She winked. “How wonderful to see you out here. You’re looking good as new.”

I shoved a tee into my pocket. Looks could be deceiving.