“I’m bored of pretending he doesn’t suck.”
“He also needs a haircut,” I say, just piling on. “He wouldn’t look so feminine if he had a shorter style.”
“That’s what Lowell says!” Topanga cries. Welp, I guess that proves my father and I can no longer deny how we’re essentially the same person in every way. Why don’t we just hug?
“But you do say that,” she mumbles when a returning Lowell gives her a frowny face.
“Let’s hurry up before that large family gets in front of us,” Conor says, sounding genuinely worried.
“Fuck that shit,” I announce, grabbing my golf club. “That one kid looks like a dawdler.”
After glancing at the ensemble of ten kids, two parents, and one grandma, we hightail it toward the course. Conor joins me as we walk in front of Lowell and Topanga. I hear her whispering about how fun this is to her husband. I almost feel bad for him. Except he could fake shit like I do. No one is forcing him to act like a bitchy baby.
“Speaking of large families, how many do you see in your future?” Topanga asks as Conor takes a shot at the first hole.
“I want a dog and a cat,” I reply. “One of each. Just as God intended.”
“No, seriously.”
“Kids are awful,” I say, gesturing back at the family waiting behind us. “Have you met Taryn’s son? What a loser.”
“He’s seven,” Lowell mutters.
“Exactly. That means his terrible personality isn’t from being little or not knowing how the world works. He’s willfully shitty. I don’t know if you heard, but he picks on Future, who is wonderful. I feel as if I should pick on Devil, just to make things even.”
“He’s seven,” Lowell says again and then takes his turn. “And maybe if people stop calling him Devil, he would stop acting like one.”
Flashing a smile at Topanga, I tease, “Bronco needs to watch out. Looks like Lowell might have a new best friend. And I heard his replacement is seven.”
“I heard that, too. Man, that rumor has already hit its stride,” Conor says, shaking his head at Lowell’s shitty shot.
“Look, I refuse to pick on a small child,” Topanga says and steps up to where Lowell places her ball. “I will admit his mother did a terrible job and should take a few parenting classes before he ends up burning down her house.”
“Firestarter, huh?” I ask after she makes her shot. “Sounds about right. I never plan to let him around my dog and cat. Can’t chance him setting them on fire.”
I hit the ball, which bounces off the course.
“When you said you weren’t good at this,” Conor says, fishing my ball out of the bushes, “I thought you were setting me up to get smashed by your talent. I figured wrong.”
Smiling, I take my ball and roll it toward the others. “I never lie.”
“Never?” Topanga pushes while she prepares to hit her ball into the hole.
“Well, I lied about having no kids. If Conor’s game, I want a son that looks just like him.”
“I’m going to fuck you right here,” he says, wrapping his arms around me while the family behind us gasps at how he used a foul word.
“Winner of the game gets to be on top.”
Conor looks at where Topanga nails her shot. “Wait, do you mean her or me?”
“Considering how close I came to banging my own father,” I say, and the man in the family behind us gasps again, “I don’t think I should screw his wife even if she defeats us in this game.”
The large family very deliberately, and with great flair, stomps away to complain or maybe give us room.
Lowell sees them go and snorts, “Fucking townies.”
Maybe my dad hates local people or large families. Whatever the reason, his demeanor changes after Conor and I scare them off. Soon, he’s offering me helpful hints on how to swing the club so that I don’t hit the balls with such force. I wish I could ignore the childlike stirrings inside me. I should be savvier at my age. Yet, of course, I take his every positive comment as the biggest fucking deal ever.
Conor doesn’t help by backing off enough to let Lowell do his bonding routine. Topanga also gets suspiciously quiet. Is this all a planned ruse to make me look stupid?
No, no, it’s fine. Don’t panic. Conor doesn’t play those games. I trust him to never screw with my heart.
After we finish playing, I get stuck standing in the lobby with Lowell. Nearby, Topanga chats with a lady from Dunning’s school while Conor talks on the phone to his sister.
“Did you headbutt Taryn out of instinct, or is that a move you normally use?” Lowell asks and runs his thumb over my lump.
“Uncle Clive claimed as a girl that I would suck at fighting. He suggested headbutts and crotch shots. Clearly, the second one wasn’t an option despite Taryn’s butch face.”
Lowell smirks. “She does look like Rooster. Odd how his kids got their looks from the wrong parent.”
“Conor has strong genetics. Our kids probably won’t look anything like me.”
“You never know. Might at least have your brown eyes.”
Thinking about where I got my brown eyes must inspire a sappy look on my face. Lowell’s body language shifts immediately.
“I should have stepped in when they fucked with you,” Lowell says, rubbing the back of his neck as if awkward over admitting his failure. “I’m not used to trouble like that.”
“Wyatt fucks with you a lot.”
“Did Conor tell you that?”
“No, but I noticed when I was waitressing at Rooster’s. That’s why I spit in his whiskey one night.”
Lowell surprises me by leaning forward and laughing hard. I try to act nonchalant. What do I care? I’m a grown woman without any interest in my daddy’s pride. Then, I catch Conor’s gaze, and he gives me a soft smile. Right then, I feel like a five-year-old desperate for my parent’s approval. I’m a fucking idiot!
“Are we eating together?” Conor asks Lowell, maybe realizing my emotions went sideways. “Or are we ditching you?”
“We can eat,” Lowell says, glancing at me.
I keep my gaze on Conor once Topanga arrives. “You pick the place. I need to feel up Monroe before my hands revolt.” Then, he maneuvers us, so he’s blocking their view of me. Cupping my face, he asks, “Are you going to cry?”
“I never cry.”
“I’m sure you do sometimes.”
“No. I barely cried when Zella died.”
“That’s not healthy.”
“You didn’t cry when your dad died.”
Conor’s cool expression cracks as he asks, “How do you know that?”
“You told me when you were stoned the other night.”
“Oh, well, I thought you were stoned too and wouldn’t remember.”
“Even stoned, I memorize everything you say because I’m obsessed.”
Smiling, he leans down and kisses me softly. His lips linger against mine as he whispers, “Why do you look sad?”
“I’m getting my hopes up that he’ll like me, but that’s a boner move.”
“Don’t say boner when we’ve gone this long without sex.”