I showed up at the driving range at eight AM in yoga pants and a hoodie, holding a set of clubs Jackson had dropped off the night before.
"I look ridiculous," I said.
He looked up from adjusting a tee. Smiled. "You look cute."
The word hung between us. His smile faded.
"Ready to learn?" he asked quickly.
"As I'll ever be."
The morning air was crisp, smelling like cut grass and dew. A few other golfers dotted the range, their clubs making sharp cracks as they connected with balls.
Jackson handed me a club. "This is a seven iron. Good for beginners."
"It's heavy."
"You'll get used to it."
He positioned me in front of a tee, a white ball perched on top like it was mocking me.
"Okay, grip it like this." He demonstrated, hands wrapped around the club.
I copied him. Or tried to.
"No
