How to Honeymoon Alone

“Then, I’ll shut up,” I say and wiggle my fingers. “I dare you.”

Phillip mutters something like you dare me? and shakes his head, but he accepts my hand.

And then, it all goes awry. My single sandal slips against the cut grass, as I get pulled by Phillip’s weight, and my bare heel digs into the ground. The edge of the pit falters and breaks, and I tumble down. Phillip first, and then me, falling into the depths of the bunker.

I end up half-on-top of him, sprawled on the sand.

It takes me a second to catch my breath. “Oh my God,” I say. “It really is quicksand.”

Under me, Phillip is silent. He’s lying on his back, and I watch him blink rapidly up at the clear, blue sky. “It’s what?” he asks.

“Nothing.” I lift myself off him but keep a hand on his chest. “Are you okay? Did you break anything?”

“Not as far as I’m aware,” he says and turns his head slightly to look at me. “I might be in shock.”

The sand is warm and soft beneath me, and probably all kinds of dirty. I prop my head up on an arm. “You don’t take tumbles regularly?”

“No, can’t say that I do.”

“This is my… third in a week. You get used to it.”

He lets out a surprised chuckle. It grows, until he’s half laughing, half groaning. “Jesus. You really couldn’t pull me out.”

“I could!”

“Eden,” he says.

“My sandal slipped against the grass. I didn’t have the proper traction. That’s why.”

“Traction,” he repeats, and there’s bone-deep skepticism there. But there’s also humor laced through his voice. He stretches out his arms and turns his head back toward the heavens, like he’s relaxing on a sandy beach. “Shit, I don’t even like golf.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “What? You don’t.”

“No, not really.”

“But you’re so good at it.”

“I’m decent,” he says, still speaking to God Almighty up in the clouds. “It’s a slow game and occasionally very dull.”

I shake my head at him. “Why did you decide to do it on your honeymoon, then?”

He takes off his sunglasses and turns his head, dark-blue eyes meeting mine. “I don’t have the faintest idea.”

That makes me smile. “You don’t?”

“No. We were discussing activities with our travel planner, and she mentioned the resort had access to a top-tier golf course…” he shrugs. “My ex stated that I golf. It was suggested. I thought, why not? Might be nice to get some alone time.”

Some alone time, I think. On his honeymoon?

My fingers curl over the sand, past the hot layer on top. “Why did you ever start, if you don’t like it?”

“I think it was because of work. Golf is often on the agenda at retreats, conferences, and occasionally meetings…” He nods, his mouth tightening. “That’s it. I had a client, years ago now. He only conducted his meetings on the course.”

“That sounds ridiculous.”

“Well, he was ridiculously wealthy, and his company was undergoing one of the biggest mergers of the year. So, I learned to golf.”

“Did you… win the case?”

A smile flits across his lips. “After a fashion, yes.”

“Oh. It wasn’t really a case.”This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

“No, I was a legal adviser and drew up contracts.”

I push up into seating. I’m still missing a shoe, and the sun is devastating, and I can feel a tiny trickle of sweat down my spine. Phillip is still lying on his back and doesn’t look like he has a care in the world.

His hair is mussed now, and there’s a calmness about him that wasn’t there the past week.

I smile. “So, why are we out here then?”

He turns his head. “Golfing?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a nice day,” he says, “and you wanted to learn.”

“Right, blame it on me. I’ve been making you suffer out here, watching me hit the ball at literal trees.”

He smiles again. This time it’s crooked, and true, and it makes my own smile falter. “I’ll tell you one thing, Eden. Golfing with you is definitely not dull.”

I dig my teeth into my bottom lip. “Is that your way of saying you’re enjoying yourself?”

“I’ve never ended up on my back in a sand bunker before,” he says. “So… yes.”

Voices reach us, drifting on the wind. It’s a language I don’t understand. German, perhaps, or Dutch. And then, a group of gray-haired men looks down at us from the edge of the sand pit. They’re in the epitome of golf attire.

“Ach,” one of them says, frowning deeply. “Das sind die Clowns, die den Kurs aufhalten.”

“Sorry!” I call and get to my feet. “We’ll get out of your way!”

“Speak for yourself,” Phillip mutters. He’s still lying on his back. “I’m having a grand time.”

I aim a kick at his shoe, but I can’t stop myself from giggling. “Come on.”

“If you insist,” he says and gracefully unfurls himself into standing. He brushes off his shorts and then reaches out, a hand ghosting over my hair. “Sand,” he murmurs. “Let’s go then, Eden, and see where you’ll hit the ball next.”

My hair is still faintly damp from my shower when I leave the hotel room that same evening. It had taken a lot of scrubbing to get the sand out. Can’t say it was the most pleasant experience, considering my shoulders have burned just a tad, but now I’m clean and smelling of perfume and soap.