Page 82 of What if It's Us

You just said my hormones are talking! Maybe I AM pregnant. Who knew I wouldn’t need the internet to google my symptoms when I have a Ledger Dayne pointing them out for me?

Me

Just get over here. I’m grabbing my body spray now.

Marlee

“Ledger!”Ella shouts from the doorway to her dressing room. Our final practice of the preseason has ended and I’m making my way to the parking garage. “Your girl is in need of an intervention!” She gestures to Marlee standing next to her looking guilty as ever with her phone hiding her very guilty grin.

“For Christ’s sake Mar, you need to stop googling symptoms,” I tell Marlee when I stop in front of her. Stretching out my hand, I quickly confiscate her phone and slide it into my back pocket.

“Hey! I wasn’t googling symptoms,” she protests, reaching for it. “I was reading about basal body temperature variations.”

“Which is—wait for it—basically a symptom,” Ella says with a laugh. “You’re driving yourself crazy, you know.”

She huffs glancing between me and Ella. “Do you have any idea how long this two-week wait feels?”

“Yes.” I nod. “That’s why I’ve planned an emergency mental health field trip.”

She blinks. “You…what?”

“Hope you don’t mind getting a little slushie spilled on that outfit,” I grin and fold my hand over hers. “Because we’re going out.”

“Wait, we are? Now?”

“Yep. Right now.” I glance over at Ella who passes me a wink and then waves to an unsuspecting Marlee.

“See ya, guys. Have fun!”

I pull into what has to be the most aggressively colorful mini golf course in town only partly cringing at how vibrant everything is here. Colorful is definitely an understatement. You can spot the entire place from the highway.

“This is—wow.” Marlee eyes a fiberglass pirate ship with a very questionable lime green and hot pink paint job.

“I know.” I hand her a neon green golf ball. “It's uncompromisingly terrible. That’s the point.”

We’re the only adults here without children in sight, but somehow that makes it better. She’s already smiling despite herself as I line up my first shot and promptly launch the ball directly into the decorative moat.

Marlee giggles and I look at her, deadpan. “Warm-up shot. I planned that.”

She laughs—an honest, full laugh that I love the sound of—and I can tell that some of her anxiety is already melting away. That in itself makes me feel better too, though I would happily carry her stress for her any day of the week.

We make our way through the course, Marlee insisting on narrating like a bad sports commentator—"And Ledger Dayne approaches the dreaded Windmill of Doom! Can he conquer the spinning blades of destiny?"—while she steadily kicks my ass.

When she sinks a hole-in-one on the volcano-themed tenth hole, I throw my arms up in the air. “What the fuck? I’m clearly playing with a mini-golf assassin. Should I be afraid?”

She smirks. “No. But I’m thinking it might not be a bad idea for you to take notes.”

After the eighteenth hole—she wins by the way—I grab us each a slushie. Blue raspberry for her, cherry lime for me. Marlee finds a seat on a bench overlooking the course and when I take the seat next to her, she’s giggling as she watches two kids comically try to herd a rogue ball back onto the green.

“Thank you,” she says when I hand her slushie to her. “How did you know blue raspberry was my favorite?”

“Lucky guess.”

We take a few initial sips, both of us watching the kids play. “Did we look that silly?” she asks, gesturing to one of them nowchasing his ball that bounced off the green and is sliding into a sand pit next to a fake crocodile pond.

“What? Pshh. Speak for yourself, Remington,” I tease. “I looked like a damn pro out there.”

After another lengthy slushie sip, I nudge her knee with mine hoping the few moments of silence between us doesn’t mean she wants to avoid conversation. “Feeling any less… spirally?”

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