Page 80 of Ambiguous
I don’t know whether I’m scared or hopeful. Or both.
CHAPTER30
Jules
Iwalk next to Sam at the arcade while the manager points out the Skee-Ball machines. We’re visiting under the ruse that I might film a music video here, so we nod politely as if we couldn’t see the games just as well on our own. I’m not-so-surreptitiously taking video of Sam as we walk around.
This place, with an ancient arcade, a miniature golf course, and dodgem cars, smells like spilled beer, buttered popcorn, and candy floss. It’s dingy and grimy and run-down.
I love it.
It’s past sunset, and most of the property’s lights are off, although we can see the grounds. Loren paid for us to have the whole place for the evening, so there’s a skeleton crew but no other patrons.
“We can arrange for tickets to come out,” the manager says, “if you want a practical effect. Or I suppose you can do it digitally.”
“I’ll check with tech,” I say. “Do you mind if we play a round of golf? Since we’re here?”
“We’re actually doing this?” Sam asks.
“Would you like me to get putters and balls?” the manager asks.
“Absolutely.”
He trots off.
“It’s good to see you,” I say, leaning over to whisper in Sam’s ear.
“You, too.”
“Even if this is not the way I want you to see my balls.” I rub my hand over my face, hiding my grin.
“Ha ha. Yes. Me, too. I can’t believe you went there.” In the dim light, I can’t tell if he’s blushing. I think he is. “But there’s truth in it.”
The manager returns and hands us the equipment, then shows us to the first hole. “Do you want me to turn on the rest of the lighting?”
I shake my head. “We can make out the course. Better to not draw attention to ourselves.”
“Whatever you like,” he says. “Take your time. Just let me know when you’re done.” He turns and heads back to the office.
I smile. “Shall we begin?”
* * *
“Hit the ball through the windmill. Then it will roll down the hill and right into the little cup.” Sam gestures helpfully at the large windmill that is part of this challenging hole.
“Like that’s easy,” I mutter.
“Just don’t pound it,” he warns. “You have to use some finesse.”
Steadying the putter between my hands, I line up like I’m some famous golfer and attempt to hit the thing straight. To my surprise, it misses the windmill blades, passes under the fake building, and goes where it’s supposed to go.
Sam grins and gives me a high five. “You’re a natural.”
“Pretty sure I’m not.”
“I’m not, either.” Sam lines up and swings. The ball bounces, hits the windmill with adonk, and ricochets back to us, and I snicker.
“It’s not as easy as you made it seem,” he grumbles, picking up his ball and repositioning it on the mat at the start of the hole.
