Fainting

Chapter 15 - Allison

I haven't played golf in a while, so I thought I would be out of practice. But even though I am out of practice, the lack of it doesn't seem to mean anything as I beat Mark by six. Despite my supposed sugar high. I'm going to get him back for that comment.

I made par – professional average result; it's the predicted amount of hits a professional is expected to use to get the ball in – on most of the holes, while Mark only got par once; the rest of the time he got at least a bogey, sometimes a double bogey – one or two shots over par.

"Ha," I say as we return our balls and Mark's club. "I won."

He grumbles. "Don't need to be so mean about it."

I give him a pat on the back. "You played well, partner."

He snorts. "You're not country."

I pretend to look offended. "Was my accent that bad?"

"Kinda," Mike from the counter calls as we walk away. "Don't forget your club, Parker."

"Oh, thanks." I turn around and grab it; I forgot I brought my own today. "And I didn't ask you how bad my accent was."

"I agree with him," Mark says, jutting a finger in Mike's general direction.

Mike smirks while I stick my tongue out at Mark. "Ya'll are mean."

"My name is Mike," Mike calls, presumably to Mark.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Mark," Mark responds, walking away.

"Your names are pretty much the same," I comment to Mark as we walk away.

"Yup. Exactly the same, apart from the 'i' in his and none in mine, my 'a', his 'e', and my 'r'."

I swat his arm. "They sound the same, Rude."

"Is that nickname going to stick?"
"Yes."

"You sound very sure of that."
"Why wouldn't I be?" Honestly, he has zero faith in me. I can be hyper on a normal amount of sleep and I can keep a nickname for anybody that I want.

He shrugs. "Well, if that's my name, yours is Hyper."

I restrain my laughter, just barely. "That, unlike your nickname, is actually a name."

"Right. I'm being nicer than you deserve, giving you a real name instead of an adjective." He's clearly containing laughter too.

"Look at you. You know grammar terms. Race you to the parking lot," I call, narrowly avoiding his swat at me.

I win.

"What kind of food do you like?" I ask after we've sat in silence on the curb for a few minutes.

He shrugs. "Good food."

I turn towards him and gasp. "No way. Who likes good food? The best kind of food is the disgusting, slimy kind, not the good kind." I shudder.

He lets out a laugh. "I know, I'm very original."

I laugh, too. "No, but really. Chinese, Italian, Mexican?"
"I don't know. As long as it's interesting and tasty, I don't care."

I act like I'm going to say something smart, like which one is my favorite, but then I let out a breath and turn back towards the lot. "Yeah, me neither."

He smirks. "Why'd you ask?"
"I was thinking of making us supper," I say quickly before I change my mind. And then I clarify; the clarification was meant for him but it might have been for me too. "You know, to prove that I am self-sufficient and can cook in my van."

"I didn't say that you weren't."
"I could see it on your face that you wanted proof and so my mind can be put at ease that I've proven it."

"Oh, you needed to prove something? Aww."

"Shut up." He laughs. It's a deep, joyful sound. "I'm losing my desire to cook."

He stops, just barely. "Okay, I've stopped laughing. You can cook now."

I stand up, pulling his arm, and therefore him, up with me. "You're going to keep me company."

"I am?"
Sliding open the door, I look back at him and his dimple. Why is he so cute? "You can also be the DJ if," he smiles evilly, "you can incorporate both of our styles nicely."

"That's a high order, Hyper."

"I have faith in you. What do you want?"

"Pop."

I roll my eyes as I turn around. "For supper, Mark. Not music."

"No, I don't want pop for supper."

I turn back towards the counter, giving up. "I hate you. Noodles with cheese it is."

I can feel him smiling as he chooses the music. I hope I don't regret this.