Page 23 of Summer Lessons
On the one hand, it was great being so close to him—and on the other, it was torture being so close to him.
And on the third hand, they now had a backup of two other parties who needed to play through.
“Okay,” Mason said, letting a lot of breath out on his exhale. “Are we good? Knock that little fucker up and over, and then the rest of it is short game.”
“Yeah, fine,” Jefferson said, but Mason saw his eyes had glazed over. He was done.
“I’m going to move back and let you go for it, okay?”
“God, yeah, faggot—move back and give the guy some room!”
They both jerked their heads around to see the foursome waiting for them to get their shit together—all blandly handsome guys in their fifties with capped teeth.
Mason wanted to smack them—except he knew he was going to be a nonbigoted version of them in about twenty years, and he hoped someone would have some patience with him.
“I’m sorry,” he said with forced cheer. “My friend is new. Once we finish this hole, you guys can play through.”
“You’reapologizingto him?” Jefferson asked, furious.
“We’re holding up the line,” Mason said. “Don’t worry—it’s all my fault. I talk too much.”
“He called you a—”
“Jefferson, just swing and we’ll get out of his way, okay?”
Jefferson scowled at him, then scowled at the guy with the capped teeth and the plaid pants, and then grabbed Mason’s face and planted a big, bruising kiss on him.
Mason stood, stunned for a minute, and about the time his brain said,This doesn’t happen often, open mouth, extend tongue, Jefferson pulled back and gave him an apologetic little peck on the lips. Then he turned to the ball and, with decent form, whacked it as hard as he could. They grabbed their clubs under the gimlet eye of the jackass with the Brylcreem and took off, Mason flooring their golf cart to maximum revs.
“Wow,” Mason said, wondering when his heartbeat was going to slow down.
“It wasn’t your fault, it was mine,” Jefferson said.
“You’re new—he should be more patient—”
“I didn’t realize we were holding up the line. I was being an asshole, thinking you were talking down to me when you were just teaching me. It makes me check out.”
Mason had seen him doing that. “I’m sorry. Golf isn’t really your—”
“You tried so hard at soccer. Give me another chance?”
And for once he wasn’t looking into the distance or to the side. He was looking hungrily at Mason’s face, like for approval. Mason—who had pretty much written off pancakesandthe blow job at this point—felt himself warm again.
“Of course,” he said, smiling tentatively. “If you want to learn—”
“I want to try again,” Jefferson said seriously. “Please?”
“Of course.” Why not? They were there.
They got down to the hole and Jefferson took Mason’s advice and putted effectively. They finished the hole about five over par—which, on the one hand, stunk on ice, but on the other? It showed a learning curve, and Mason was all for that.
They hurried to the next tee, doing their best to get ahead of the foursome that appeared to have it out for them.
It went better until, three holes later, Mason stood behind Jefferson, adjusting his form and correcting his swing, and Jefferson suddenly fidgeted upright.
“Uh, Mace?”
“Yeah?”
