Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
EVE
T he Bowl-a-Rama is completely empty when we walk inside. And silent, aside from the eighties pop song playing.
“Huh,” Aidan says, glancing around. “Guess this spot is another hidden gem.”
Harlow snorts as she pulls her hood down. It’s pouring out today, making any outdoor activity unpleasant, which is why bowling was suggested.
I glance at Hunter. He’s nodding along to something Rylan is saying to him.
I haven’t had a chance to talk to him today—not that I’m sure what I would say, aside from thanking him for the soy milk that mysteriously appeared in the fridge. Harlow knows my preference for it too, but Conor said Hunter was the one who went grocery shopping with him. He was in the shower when I ate breakfast, and didn’t reappear downstairs until we were all ready to leave and head here.
Hopefully, he’s forgotten about my comment last night—along with the range of other ways I’ve embarrassed myself in front of him recently—and some streak of me acting calm, cool, and collected around him is about to begin.
Given that I have a complete lack of coordination when it comes to anything athletic, I kind of doubt it.
The middle-aged man behind the counter—wearing a yellow polyester shirt with Frank stitched on the front pocket—looks understandably thrilled to have some customers.
“Where are ya folks visiting from?” Frank asks around the toothpick sticking out one corner of his mouth.
“Somerville,” Conor answers.
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s in Washington,” Harlow adds.
“I’ve heard of Seattle.”
Harlow shrugs. “Sure, close enough.”
“Write down your shoe sizes here.” Frank flips over one of the flyers advertising the Bowl-a-Rama’s hours and shoves it across the counter along with a dull pencil. We take turns writing. “How many lanes?”
Conor and Harlow exchange a look.
“Boys versus girls?” she says.
“Just one lane,” Conor tells Frank.
He frowns before typing something on the keyboard in front of him. Frank probably assumed we’d take up two lanes. Possibly three.
I was thinking the same. Hoping we’d be going at the same time, rather than sitting around and watching each other bowl.
What if I fall on my ass? Or don’t hit a single pin? Or?—
“Come on, ladies.” Harlow hooks one elbow with mine, grabbing Rylan with the other. “Time to strategize.”
She pulls us to lane six, the only one with a lit screen.
“What about our shoes?” I ask.
Not that I’m looking forward to putting on the ugly sneakers, but Frank seems like he’d be a stickler for rules.
“The boys will bring them over,” Rylan answers as she takes a seat on the right side of the lane.
Harlow sinks down next to her. I take the last chair.
“Okay.” Harlow claps her hands together. “Team name, guys. What are we thinking?”
“Pin Pals?” Rylan suggests.
“Ooh, that’s cute,” Harlow comments. “E?”
“Livin’ on a Spare?”
Harlow beams. “Damn. Look at you, coming through with the bowling lingo.”
“It was written on one of the posters behind the counter,” I admit.
Rylan laughs. “Still counts. It’s catchy.”
Harlow glances over one shoulder at the huddle of Hunter, Aidan, and Conor waiting for Frank to grab our shoes. “I guarantee the boys are going to come up with something dirty.”
“Agreed,” Rylan says. “Like Three Fingers Fit or Bowls Deep.”
Harlow laughs so hard she starts coughing. “Damn. You and Aidan are so perfect for each other.”
Rylan sticks her tongue out. “Bitch.”
Harlow’s still giggling.
I peek at the counter. The boys are walking this way, laces dangling from both hands.
“Guys, we’re running out of time,” I say.
“You’re right, you’re right.” Harlow sobers. “Alley Cats?”
“Ball Busters?” Rylan adds.
“Split it up, ladies!” Aidan calls, dropping the shoes he’s carrying on the floor. Hunter and Conor do the same. “We’re ready to kick your asses.”
Rylan flips him off. “Good luck.”
Unless she and Harlow are Olympic-level bowlers, no luck will be necessary. I certainly won’t be the one carrying the team.
I find my size in the shoe pile and slip them on. “Split is a bowling term, right?” I whisper to Harlow as I tie the laces.
“Yeah,” she replies. “When you knock down pins in the middle and leave some standing on both sides so that?—”
“What about Split or Swallow?” I ask.
“ Evelyn Jane ,” Harlow mock-scolds me. “I fear I’ve been a terrible influence on you.”
“You have , Harlow Cara.”
She smirks and bumps my shoulder before turning to whisper to Rylan.
Rylan hoots a few seconds later. “It’s perfect!” She leans past Harlow to flash me a thumbs-up.
I finish knotting my laces and glance at the guys. Aidan and Hunter are slouched on the plastic seats. Conor’s standing with a ball already in hand. “Ladies first,” he says, winking at Harlow.
“You go first,” she whispers to Rylan.
Rylan nods seriously. “And I’m not supposed to aim toward the center, right?”
“I mean, aim toward the center. But it’ll veer, so don’t actually aim toward the center,” Harlow replies.
Rylan looks to me. “Am I crazy, or did that make no sense?”
“It made no sense,” I assure her, increasingly nervous about my own turn.
“Rye! Bowl!” Aidan bellows. “You already had your secret strategy session.”
Rylan rolls her eyes before she stands and walks toward the lane.
“Wait, what’s your team name?” Aidan asks. “Gotta put it on the board.”
“Split or Swallow,” Rylan replies primly.
Aidan makes a choked sound, then coughs. Conor’s chuckling. Hunter’s only reaction is to lift his eyebrows a little.
“I knew you were going to make it dirty,” Aidan says.
“I knew you were going to make it dirty,” Rylan replies. “And Eve was the one who came up with it.”
Aidan tips an imaginary cap to me. I smile, then check my buzzing phone.
It’s a call from my mom. I silence it, then shove my phone away.
When I glance up, Hunter’s looking this way. I break eye contact quickly, focusing on Rylan setting up to bowl.
“Your name’s too long to fit, babe,” Aidan says. He’s perched in the chair behind the small computer that controls the screen. “Wanna be Swallow or SOS?”
“SOS,” we all say in unison.
Aidan keys in our team name.
Rylan rolls the first ball.
The green ball veers left, left, and then ends its roll down the lane in the gutter. Her second roll takes the same unfortunate path.
I relax a little. It doesn’t bode well for our chances of winning, but it means my poor performance will stand out a little less.
“That’s okay,” Aidan says, clapping encouragingly. “You know what they say.”
I glance at Harlow. “What do they say?”
Harlow laughs. “You’re either good at bowling—or good in bed.”
“Oh.” I laugh too.
“But—” She glances at Conor, who’s up next. His ball stays straight, smashing into the first row and sending all the pins flying. Aidan cheers loudly as Strike flashes across the screen. “It’s bullshit,” Harlow finishes.
“Lucky you,” I tease.
“You’re up, Hayes,” Conor says, returning to his seat.
Harlow stands and carefully selects a purple ball from the rack. Squints up at the screen. “You guys are KD?”
“Knuckles Deep,” Aidan explains.
“I was close,” Rylan says.
I grin as Harlow walks to the line at the top of the lane, staring intently at the pins that have been reset in a triangle formation.
“Spread your feet, Hayes,” Conor calls. “And remember to keep your arm straight.”
Hunter groans. “ Seriously , Hart? She’s on the other fucking team.”
“You didn’t lecture Phillips,” Conor retorts.
“Because I wasn’t coaching ,” Aidan interjects. “I was being supportive in the face of adversity.”
Harlow bowls a strike.
Rylan and I put Aidan and Hunter’s celebration to shame, chanting Harlow’s name as she returns to our side of the plastic seating section. Conor is grinning; his teammates are scowling.
“Don’t be sore losers,” Rylan calls. “I know my dad’s coaching stats. You guys have had practice.”
“Not this season. We’re national fucking champions!” Aidan cheers as he stands to take his turn.
He doesn’t manage a strike, but he does knock all the pins down during his turn. Since Rylan didn’t hit any, the boys are back ahead.
The last time I went bowling was Amelia Holloway’s twelfth birthday party. Meaning I have little to no confidence in my ability to contribute to the team. I was never the kid who got picked first during gym class or made any significant contributions during dodgeball, and that was not when I was playing against three athletes.
But I stand determined to hit something . Maybe I’ll visualize a photo of my dad’s face to help motivate me. More of the hurt has faded, leaving pure anger behind.
Everyone’s watching me. The attention feels brighter than a spotlight as I stand and head for the rack filled with bowling balls of different sizes and shapes. Why are there so many options and why do they all look different? I should have paid closer attention to which balls Rylan and Harlow selected.
“Hey, Phillips, didn’t you say you wanted to get snacks?” Hunter asks suddenly.
“Yes. You know I’m always hungry,” Aidan replies.
“Let’s go. Hart can monitor the girls for any cheating.”
“Hey!” Rylan protests. “I rolled two gutter balls, and you’re accusing us of cheating?”
“Hart might let them cheat,” Aidan muses. “He’s clearly handed his balls over to Harlow.”
“She’s never had to ask me to carry her,” Conor retorts.
I have no idea what that means, but Aidan seems to. He grimaces before glancing at Hunter. “Snacks?”
“Snacks,” Hunter agrees, standing.
“Anyone else want anything?” Aidan asks, giving Conor a look that makes him grin.
I obviously missed something. I shake my head no, and so do Conor and Harlow.
Rylan stands. “I’ll see what the options are.”
My gaze drops back to the rack of balls. At least I’ll have less of an audience for my first attempt. The spotlight has dimmed.
“Try the medium first.”
Hunter’s voice registers a half second before his proximity does. He’s only a few inches away. Close enough to touch. Close enough to hear the startled breath I suck in.
“And aim for the pin to the left of the center,” he adds. His knuckles graze my hand, hanging limply by my side, as he passes me and follows Aidan toward the concessions.
My mom loves candles. She always used to light them for dinner and it was my job to extinguish them after we finished eating. Before I lowered the snuffer, I’d stick a finger in the flame for a few seconds to see what it was like.
That’s how the aftermath of Hunter’s touch feels. Like a lick of fire, warm enough to feel but not hot enough to burn.
I grab a medium ball and glance over my shoulder. Rylan, Aidan, and Hunter are over by the snack counter, conversing with Frank. Harlow and Conor are both on their phones. Texting each other, probably.
I no longer have an audience.
My tensed shoulders relax, registering that. And something else occurs to me. Not only did Hunter do exactly what he chastised Conor for—helping the opposing team—he also caused a distraction.
Maybe it wasn’t intentional. Maybe he was hungry.
“You good, E?”
I startle at the sound of Harlow’s voice, almost dropping the heavy ball on my foot.
“Yep,” I reply, walking to the top of the lane. I focus on the center pin nearest me, then shift my gaze one to the left. Squint toward it, swing the ball back, and relax my curled fingers so it slips free from my grip.
Watch, heart racing, as it rolls, rolls, rolls down the wooden lane. It’s on the lane , not in the gutter. It collides with the left side at an unimpressive velocity, but it tips one. One that tips another and another and another. Six fall in total.
“Yes, Eve!” Harlow cheers.
Conor’s smiling too.
So am I, even though the second ball I roll follows the same path and doesn’t add any more pins to my total tally.
When the rest of our group returns from the concession stand a few minutes later, Hunter’s hands are empty.