Page 63 of Romance Is Dead

“Mini golf?” I stared at the sign skeptically. Upon closer inspection, one of the i’s in “mini” was missing.

“Yep!” Teddy said brightly. “My treat.” He marched confidently toward the entrance, where an admissions stand squatted near a barrel of putters and a rack of golf balls.

Not having much of a choice, I followed.

The course looked like it’d seen better days. The man at the entrance was grumpy, handing us clubs that were slightly rusted and pencils for our scorecard that were sharpened down to nubs. The sidewalk leading to the first hole was cracked and bumpy, roots from nearby trees running underneath and making the walking surface uneven. But the shade was nice, and a breeze rustled the leaves overhead pleasantly.

And, more importantly, my heart started to slow from a frenzied gallop to a brisk jog.

“I have to warn you,” Teddy said as we approached the first hole, themed after the cryptid MVP himself: Bigfoot. “I am very good at mini golf.”

“Please.” I held my club over my head with two hands as I stretched side to side. “I’m basically an expert. I could go pro.”

This wasn’t true. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d played mini golf. But it felt like something that could be true, if I tried hard enough.

Teddy raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know there was a pro mini-golf circuit.” He stepped aside, holding out an arm in deference. “After you.”

Slightly regretting my showboating, I placed my ball on the tee and studied the green. It was a straight shot leading to a giant replica of Bigfoot’s head. You had to get the ball through his mouth to the other side, where the hole presumably waited. I squared up to the tee, swung my arms back, and tapped the ball gently.

It promptly barreled toward Bigfoot’s head, missed the mouth, and ricocheted off one of its cheeks.

“Pro, huh?” Teddy placed his own ball on the tee. “Is that some kind of pro strategy that I’m unfamiliar with?”

“Yes.”

Unfortunately, Teddy completed the first hole with ease, getting the ball through the Sasquatch’s mouth and into the hole with two strokes. Meanwhile, it took me four tries.

“Who’s the pro now?” Teddy marked the numbers on the little scorecard, the mini pencil laughably tiny in his hand.

“Really? You’re keeping score?”

“Absolutely, Jigsaw. And no cheating. I saw the way you tried to sneak an extra stroke in there when I wasn’t looking.”

“You would know about extra strokes.”

He smirked. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

I grumbled something indecipherable as we moved on to the next hole, this one featuring the Loch Ness Monster. Players needed to jump their ball over a little canal and then dodge the mechanical neck of the monster, which swung its head over the hole.

“Thank you, by the way.” I gave him a look of gratitude before lining up to take my first shot. “For teaching me that breathing trick. It really helped.” My ball shot off the tee and rolled into the water.

“No problem.” Teddy tossed his club into the air before catching it handily. “Box breathing. I’m a frequent flier.”

“Does that happen to you a lot?”

“Panic attacks? Not all the time. I got them more often when I was a teenager, before my mom got me into therapy.” Teddy tapped the ball, making it over the water on the first try. “It’s a good technique for a lot of situations, though. Anxiety attacks. Or when you’re just worrying a lot. Or when you’re already losing mini golf after two holes.”

Biting back a grin, I smacked him playfully on the arm, determined to refocus and claim victory. But once again, Teddy got it in after two tries, while it took me three. At least it was an improvement.

Although I did mentally cross professional golfer off my list of next career possibilities.

After another three holes—themed around the chupacabra, Jersey Devil, and thunderbird, respectively—we caught up to a family of five at the sixth hole. The two women looked harried and exhausted as their three kids all tried to putt their balls at the same time. Once the older two finished, the parents tried to get the youngest—a little boy who looked around the age of four—to hurry up. However, he would not be deterred from his preferred strategy, which included holding the putter with one hand on the grip and the other approximately two inches above the foot.

It wasn’t effective.

Sensing it would be a while, Teddy leaned against a nearby tree. “If you had to date a cartoon character, who would it be?”

I nearly choked on my spit. “What?”

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