Relying On Ben and Jerry (Waltham #1)

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Kind of Perfect

Quinton was a smart boy.

            He knew how to do smart things and he had a lot of smart classes where he got smart people grades. If he wanted to, he could easily get into the same smart people colleges that his brother had applied to and been accepted to. He was just that kind of person. But there was this thing with smart people, this stereotypical remark that I was slowly beginning to realize was entirely true.

            Quinton might be one of the smartest people I've ever known, but this boy had no common sense.

            "Mini-golf," I muttered to myself as Quinton grabbed us putters and golf balls—a plain blue one for him and a psychedelic tie-dyed one for me—and I grimaced, knowing that I was potentially staring my death in the face. I wiped my expression blank when Quinton turned around, so invigorated that if he was a small dog, he would have been shaking like a Chihuahua. He eagerly handed me my putter and my ball, grinning so widely that I felt my lips immediately tugging up in response.

            Damn. I just couldn't say no to that face.

            "Ready?" he asked me, nearly bouncing. "I haven't been mini-golfing in a while, so I might be a tad rusty."

            "I don't think you should be worrying about your skill level," I told him honestly, smiling despite myself, unable to frown when he looked so happy. "The last time I played, I nearly committed homicide."

            He was too busy chuckling to realize that I was being completely and deathly serious.

            "Come on," he said, entwining our hands and making my face heat up as he dragged me over to the first hole, taking the lead when I gestured for him to go first. I drifted back a couple of steps, holding the putter away from my body worriedly, like I might be able to do damage just having it in my hands, feeling my cheeks aching to smile as I watched him, thinking about tonight.

            I had never had more fun in my life.

            We had sat in Pinkberry for longer than we had expected, just talking about everything in the world. He told me how excited he was to get his acceptance to Dartmouth and I had stared at him in awe because that was an Ivy League school and he was shrugging it off like six month old babies could get in or something. I told him about all of the pranks I used to play on my brother and he told me about the ones he had tried on his and how he was a lot less likely to be successful. We talked about how excited he was to graduate and how much I missed Florida. I watched the look on his face waver only slightly when I confessed to him that I wanted with all of my heart to go to a Florida school and then felt my heart soar when the happy look washed onto his face when I admitted that I was going to be sticking around. He told me about his interest in medicine and became one of the few people who hadn't laughed when I told him that I wanted to go into a major that centered around English. When I told him that I considered being a journalist, he told me that he could see me taking on the world, and I didn't know how it had taken me so long to realize how much I cared about this boy.

            He hadn't told me what we were doing until we were walking up the entry way to the mini-golfing course, and if it would have been anyone else I would have immediately switched to brooding. But since it was Quinton, I couldn't stop smiling.