He mocks a retch. “That stuff was revolting. Especially the strawberry. I can’t believe we ate like that. Nowadays, my body can’t take it.”
“It’s all downhill after thirty, Bran. Or so I’ve heard,” I say. I roll up the sleeves of my cardigan as the waiter with a Mr. Monopoly mustache drops a heaping plate of loaded nachos in front of us.
Polite as ever, Brandon waits for me to pull my first cheesy nacho from the top of the pile before methodically selecting his. As expected, he chooses a relatively plain one, which he smothers in sour cream. “Oh, definitely. I used to be able to fall asleep anywhere. I can’t get a lick of shut-eye on planes anymore. Or any old pullout cot at a hostel. I’m a princess now,” he says through a crunchy bite, massaging his neck for emphasis.
A grin spreads across my face upon recollection of the many instances when he fell asleep in the library, mid–study session. “You’re basically a geriatric. Are you sure you can handle a round of mini putt without throwing out your back?” I joke.
“Oh, don’t worry about me. I can hack it. Hope you practiced your swing.” He cracks his knuckles, making a show of competitive spirit before peering at the nearest putting hole to our right. It’s a Star Wars–themed hole with rotating lightsabers ready to block incoming balls.
Putters bar is admittedly an appropriate date spot, with the retro black-and-white-checkered floor and charming neon signage. It’s located in a huge warehouse consisting of three massive mini-golf courses alongside two designated food and drink areas. Unlike a typical Astroturf course, each hole is a callback to a famous movie or television show. Behind the Star Wars hole, there’s a partially obscured Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz at the end of a yellow brick road.
As I strain to see the other holes from my vantage point, I catch Trevor’s eye. After much groveling and empty promises to be his personal chef for a week, he agreed to leave the supreme comfort of his bed to accompany me. Of course, he’s subtly seated one booth down. To Brandon and any other patron, he’s just a random dude. Little does anyone know, he’s my moral support, at the ready to ensure I don’t say anything I regret.
But the longer I talk to Brandon, the more I realize I didn’t require backup after all. Turns out, my memory isn’t totally unreliable. Brandon is as delightful and outgoing as he always was—practically a walking eharmony ad. He asks all the right questions, makes just the perfect amount of eye contact, nods at all the appropriate times. And every time he smiles, my heart does ten consecutive somersaults. I want a custom-embroidered pillow with his face on it. That got admittedly creepy, real fast. Why am I like this?
Like the precious creature he is, he’s letting me scrounge all the cheesiest nachos for myself. It’s reminiscent of long nights in the campus library studying for finals. Brandon and I would combine snacks. He’d bring sweet, and I’d bring salty. Candy bags from the corner store were his go-to, and he always saved the fruity ones for me, knowing I didn’t like the other kinds.
As we plow through the nachos, Brandon tells me he’s still traveling the world, all while doing freelance website design remotely. Despite the success of his business, he still craves the “authentic” travel experience, preferring to stay in hostels. He obliges me with some hostel horror stories, including mentions of cockroaches and bedbug infestations. His dream is to live in a tiny hut over the water in a tropical paradise, without a cell phone or footwear. I try to envision that life for myself, to no avail.
“So where’d you get those pants?” he asks, leaning sideways to peek at them under the table. “They’re so unique. My friend has a similar pair from Nepal.”
My lips part, but zero sound comes out. Behind Brandon’s shoulder, Trevor gives me a self-satisfied I told you so smirk while merrily sipping his beer. He promptly goes back to flirting with the cute blond waitress who’s been chatting him up since we arrived.
Thankfully, the mustached waiter saves me before I dig myself a deep grave and blurt out a lie. He hands us our putters and golf balls and rattles off a brief description of each course. Brandon thanks him and remarks how he himself can’t grow a mustache to save his life, quickly winning the waiter over with his natural, self-deprecating charm.
When the waiter leaves, there’s a moment of film-worthy perfection when Brandon and I just stare at each other, grinning, high off the memories of our younger selves. I almost wish someone would snap a photo of us in this moment. It would be the perfect movie or book cover.
We decide to start on the course labeled Intermediate. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or a fairy godmother above, but I sink the first Jaws-themed hole in one go.
“We have a pro over here!” Brandon announces, chuckling at my mini happy dance.
We spend our time between holes reminiscing about college. He fills me in on what some of our old friends are up to, and I do the same. Cheat sheet: They’re all married and having children. Except for us. Despite that depressing fact, Brandon’s presence puts me at ease, so much so that I don’t even know why I dragged poor Trevor along in the first place.
Halfway through, I loosen up and order a Bellini. Three drinks later, we’re at the last hole, doubled over, belly-laughing as we recount a particularly messy night in residence that resulted in one of our friends sleeping in an orphaned grocery store cart in the parking lot （he’s now a father and a tech millionaire）。 Brandon offers a celebratory high five as we return our putters. No wonder I got myself arrested by airport police for this guy.
I flash Trevor a stealth thumbs-up on our way back to the booth, silently giving him permission to leave if he so chooses. But he doesn’t. He continues nursing his beer.
“Have you done any traveling since college?” Brandon asks, sipping his new drink.
His question is like an abrupt scratch on a record player. I mumble a low “No, not yet.” This elicits a frown. “I’ve been super busy with work,” I clarify, like that’s the sole reason.
Brandon’s face lights up with renewed curiosity. “There’s always tons of jobs open for nurses at the Red Cross. You should totally look into it. It would give you so many opportunities to see the world, all while making bank.”
“Really?” The very idea is disturbing, and yet my desire to please him compels me to keep going. “I’d love to do something like that. Or just take a couple of months off, pack my life into a suitcase, and hop on the first flight I can find,” I say with the casual, dismissive air of a socialite who globe-trots via private jet at her whimsy, monogrammed Louis Vuitton luggage in tow.
He drums the table with his knuckles enthusiastically. “Why not? I mean, what’s stopping you?”
Besides my extreme fear of flying? My aversion to the unfamiliar? My mountain of debt?
“Nothing, I suppose.” I mentally slap myself as the words roll off my tongue with far too much ease. My gaze drifts from Brandon’s face, catching Trevor behind him. He’s wide-eyed, frantically making a cross with his arms, mouthing, No.
I ignore him, refocusing on Brandon, who’s passionately describing his upcoming three-month trip to Indonesia to spend some time in Borneo. Deep in the rain forest at Sepilok.