April 2000

"This? This was your brilliant plan? Show me the error of my ways?" Greg trailed behind Stacy to the third hole, raising his arms, his putter grasped in both hands, and twisted to the side to allow a stampede of teenagers to pass. "Listening to you argue the point was bad enough, but this is a waste of time. Miniature golf is not better than real golf. Full-sized golf. Golf without packs of high-school dropouts and unsupervised toddlers interrupting all of my shots."

"I never thought it would be this busy," Stacy admitted, reaching the tee. "Who plays miniature golf on a Sunday morning?" Crouching, she peered along the course's stretch of uniform kelly-green and set her red golf ball on the tee.

"You," Greg replied, swinging his putter to point at her. "And half of Princeton's juvenile delinquents." Stacy stood as Greg let his club fall and bounced it against the ground with steady, dull thuds. "It's like golfing with the Lilliputians. Look." He gestured to his putter, angling it for inspection. "Even the clubs are tiny.

"Oh, God, Greg, stop whining." She slapped Greg's golf ball into his open outstretched hand. "You brought this up. It was your idea."

"I said we should go golfing. You're the one who made it miniature."

Stacy rolled her eyes. A lock of her hair fluttered across her face, and she tucked it behind her ear. "For God's sake, Greg. It's golf. There are golf clubs, and golf balls, and green grass-"

"That"-Greg pointed sharply at the ground-"is a carpet."

"-and eighteen holes. It's the same thing, just"-Stacy shrugged-"more compact."

Greg sighed. "See, that's the problem. Real golf involves distance. Holes are hundreds of yards apart. It lets the players have some room to breathe. Keeps them away from-"

"Let me guess. All the morons?"

"That," Greg confirmed, smiling proudly at her, "and, here, I can't free-wheel a golf cart through sand traps."

"Greg, no, that-that's not even possible. Golf carts can't go through sand traps. They're not built for-"

"Wilson said that, too, and put money on it. God, what an easy fifty bucks."

An affectionate half-smile appeared on Stacy's face as she imagined it: Wilson standing cross-armed at the edge of a sand trap, laughing while Greg gleefully blazed a path from one end to the other. Two Lost Boys rooted in their own carefree, timeless Never Land. "Speaking of Wilson," Stacy said, "any word from your partner-in-crime?"

Greg sobered instantly, bowing his head as if he were ashamed of the answer. "No." He lifted his club and poked at the petals of a lavender crocus along the edge of the course. "As far as I know, he's still holed up in the Finger Lakes, sipping wine with his new girlfriend, the latest damsel-saved-from-distress."

"Barbara."

"What are you? Her best friend?" Greg snapped, then pressed his lips together. He heaved a sigh through his nose as he sliced through the crocus patch, scattering petals across the mulch. "Three and a half weeks and they're already taking vacations. Long vacations."

Stacy caught Greg's wrist in her hand and pulled him to face her, rescuing the remains of the flower bed. "One week," she said, "and we were living together." When Greg huffed a breath, unable to argue the point, she loosened her grip and stroked her thumb over the soft underside of his arm. "A vacation's slow by your standards."

"He hasn't been answering his phone."

Stacy released his arm, letting her hand fall with a slap to her side. "God, Greg, don't sulk. Let him enjoy this time alone. You can bother him all you like when he comes back." She rose onto her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. Lowering herself to the flats of her feet, she offered him a confident half-smile. "I bet you won't make it to the hole in five strokes."

Greg narrowed his eyes, already bright and focused. The corner of his mouth twitched, a grin threatening to pull across his face. "I'll make it in three."

~~~

"You know what? You're right. Miniature golf is fun," Greg's voice called from beyond a tall windmill obstacle. "When you don't follow the rules."

Stacy crouched near a round hedge, peering over her shoulder toward the windmill. She spied the white, gentle flutter of Greg's t-shirt as the wind, stronger since rainclouds had overtaken the sky, lifted the fabric away from his body. Her gaze lingered on him for a moment as a smile slowly spread over her face. "You're supposed to be helping me," Stacy shouted toward him. "Not playing hide-and-seek."

On the eleventh hole, Greg had nudged the back of her knee with his putter, mid-stroke. Stacy had jerked with surprise, which had sent her golf ball sailing off-course, over the grounds, and out of sight. Greg had capitalized on the opportunity to roam the course, abandoning the quest for Stacy's golf ball within minutes, investigating obstacles and, Stacy assumed, planning his strategy. She'd paused her search several times to watch him. After all this time, she still loved to watch him while he was unaware of it-peeking through the cracked-open door of his office as he worked, or lying awake with him as he slept, or moments like these, studying him as he retreated into his own thoughts, quietly observant but intensely focused. Stacy drew a deep breath as she returned to face the hedge, resuming her search.

Behind her, Greg's footsteps skittered over the mulch and faded completely. A moment later, his voice sliced through the air. "Found it!"

When Stacy stood, swiveling to face the source of Greg's voice, she discovered a long L-shaped tunnel, the gray fiberglass surface dull and rock-like. She approached the entrance, peering inside as she passed under the arch, scanning for signs of Greg. "Come on, Greg," she said, breathing an exasperated sigh. She combed her fingers through her hair. "I didn't come here to play-"

An involuntary shriek interrupted her as Greg's arms wrapped around her waist from behind and pulled her against him. Greg walked her backwards until he connected with the wall. Stacy drew her bottom lip into her mouth, closing her eyes at the warm stream of Greg's breath, the heat of his mouth, as he pressed a kiss to the side of her neck.

"Yes, you did," he whispered, letting the words fill her ear before he spun her to face him. Before Stacy could argue, his hand rose to cup her cheek. Greg's fingertips threaded through her hair, and his thumb brushed over her cheekbone as he gently guided her forward to kiss her.

Stacy's mouth opened against his, her tongue meeting his as it swept past her lips. The shouts and squeals of children, the distant roll of thunder, the impacts of passing footsteps condensed to an indistinct drone, and Stacy's ears filled with the sigh of Greg's breath, the sound of his kiss. Her hands pushed beneath the hem of his shirt and slid together over his stomach, his ribs, his chest, and she spread her fingers wide to feel the push and arch of his body. When Greg hummed into her mouth, it was easy, natural, to flatten her hands on his back, fit herself against him, and deepen the kiss, answering, Yes, I did.

Greg broke the kiss abruptly, inhaling sharply. Stacy felt his chest expand against her, a strained grunt vibrating through his body and into hers. "What?" she asked, searching his face. Greg's brow furrowed, and Stacy smoothed the worry lines with the backs of her fingers.

"Nothing." He dropped another kiss on her lips. "It's nothing."

Stacy trailed her hands down his back and out from under his t-shirt. Quirking her eyebrow, she smirked at him. "I need my ball back to play."

"You could have mine. You could have my club, too," he said, reaching around her to cup her ass, steadying her as he pushed himself against her.

"God, you're worse than a teenager," she said, her smile negating the weight of her words. She shoved him backwards playfully. "Come on, my ball. Give it up."

With a roll of his eyes, Greg reached into his back pocket, fished out the ball, and lobbed it at her.

A grin pulled across her face as Stacy headed for the exit of the tunnel, carrying her ball. She expected to hear Greg's footsteps behind her, to see the blur of his body barreling past her, the start of an unspoken, unannounced race to the tee. She braced herself, ready to break into a full-speed sprint.

"Stace-" Greg's voice broke behind her. "Stacy, wait."

Stacy faltered, but forced away the spark of worry that popped in her chest. "The ploy's not going to work, Greg," she called, passing beneath the tunnel's arch. "I'm not going to let you pull me back to the starting line when I've already gotten a head-start. For once."

A sharp, strangled cry pierced her ears, and Greg called again, "No, Stace, it's not-I'm not-"

Alarm immediately flash-flooded her chest, and Stacy spun so suddenly, so fast, that she nearly toppled over her own feet. Her heart felt as though it somersaulted into her throat, blocking her breaths as her eyes found Greg. He was bent over in the middle of the tunnel, his head bowed and face hidden. His hands gripped and squeezed his right thigh, the muscles in his arms tense with the effort.

"Greg?" Stacy dropped her golf ball and hurried to stand beside him. She laid her hand on his back. His whole body heaved. "Greg, are you all right?" Stacy knew the answer before the question had ever left her mouth, but his answer-his delivery, his tone-would reveal more than a simple word ever could.

Greg's fingers pulsed with a rhythm as frenzied and erratic as his breaths. He swallowed audibly as he shook his head. "No."

No. Honest. Simple. No hesitation. No bullshit, and no sarcasm. Sour, acrid fear erupted inside Stacy's stomach, burning as it rose through her chest and into her mouth. Oh, God. God. Oh, God. No. Something's wrong. It's bad. Oh, God.

"It hurts." Greg's voice rose, tight with strain. His face bunched with a grimace as a groan stuttered out of him, between clenched teeth.

The sound ripped through Stacy like gunfire. "Okay. It's okay," she whispered, swallowing against the hollow dread clawing along her throat. "Let's go. We'll go." She curled her hand around his arm, gently urging him to shift his weight and take a small half-step forward.

Greg fell against the wall before he completed the step, bracing himself with his shoulder. "Can't. I can't."

For a fleeting, heart-freezing second, Greg lifted his head and met her eyes with a distant, unfocused stare. He looked lost, Stacy realized. Scared. It terrified her, forcing a tremble through her legs. Her voice wavered as she said, "Greg, honey, come on." Her hand slid along his spine, over his neck, and stroked the hair at the back of his head. "It's okay. It'll be okay. Try again. You have to try again. Just get to the car. It's okay."

Stacy was uncertain that Greg had heard her, but, after a moment, too still and too long, Greg finally reached for her, wrapping his arm around her back. His fingertips sank into the muscle and bone of her shoulder, and Stacy bit her bottom lip, stifling a cry as they both took a slow, careful step forward.

"It's okay. It'll be okay," Stacy repeated, ignoring the quick shake of Greg's head. She rubbed her hand across the small of his back as they moved together with a second step. "It'll be okay."