Chapter Ten
Chapter
Ten
Hello, Dolly.
Dylan had said, Well, hello, Dolly .
Like she remembered.
Or remembered something, at least.
Ramona had nearly crashed the car into the Thompsons’ trash and recycling bins—which they left on the street pretty much all week long despite garbage day being on Monday—when Dylan had said it.
When they’d arrived at Lakeland Lanes, the entire place had quieted upon their entrance—five people wearing wacky costumes in June certainly drew some stares and laughs, but no one seemed to recognize Dylan Monroe was among them. People said hi to Ramona and April and the girls, waved at Dylan politely, but she slipped into Clover Lake as a normal person, just like she wanted.
And she was having a blast.
And she was annoyingly good at bowling.
And she was laughing and slurping on a blue slushy and eating nachos and smiling, and she was clearly, clearly not affected by the whole Hello, Dolly thing one damn bit.
Which was fine.
It was fine.
Still, as Ramona sent another bowling ball into the gutter, she couldn’t get the confounded song out of her head, nor could she shake this annoyed-hurt-angry feeling.
Maybe she just needed more nachos.
“You’re terrible at this,” April said. “Have you always been terrible at this?”
Ramona turned slowly and glared. “This from the grown woman wearing Olive’s Halloween costume from when she was eleven.”
“Oh my god, is that what it’s from?” April said, looking down at the puffy nylon. “I just found it in a box in the basement and immediately thought, Yes .”
“It’s mine,” Olive said. She was tapping away at her phone, sitting cross-legged on one of the bright orange chairs in their lane. “I got sick at your house after eating too many SweeTARTS and took it off there. I can’t believe you saved it.”
“You’re precious in all ways, Olive Rebecca,” April said.
Olive’s fingers froze for a second, then she stood and tucked her phone into her bag before grabbing Marley’s hand and marching the two of them toward the arcade without another word. Ramona watched her go, her own stomach tightening. Rebecca, while Olive’s middle name, was also their mother’s name. Not a word uttered too often in the Riley house.
“Sorry,” April mouthed at Ramona.
She waved her friend off—not her fault, but the ghost of her mother entering the scene wasn’t exactly helping her mood.
“Dylan, you’re up,” April said.
“Right, yeah,” Dylan said, standing up from where she’d been sitting behind the computer, then heading to the ball return. She paused when she passed Ramona, set a gentle hand on her arm.
“You okay?” she asked softly.
Ramona’s stomach went from tightly packed earth to an undulating ocean.
“Fine,” she said brusquely.
She didn’t mean to.
She knew she needed to let it go, this Cherry-Lolli-Dolly thing. It wasn’t Dylan’s fault they’d never exchanged real names, or that Ramona had told her she was on vacation too, or that Ramona looked quite different eighteen years ago. Or that Ramona was forgettable, unmemorable, a wisp of an event in the realm of Dylan Monroe’s extensive and exciting life. Or that she was now descending into self-pity, which she very rarely allowed herself to do and never led anywhere productive, and only made her feel crabbier because she couldn’t get over herself.
She plopped into a chair, folded her arms, and then unfolded them because she knew she looked like a petulant child. Also, because Dylan was watching her, her mouth slightly turned down, her bright pink bowling ball in her hands.
“You sure you’re okay?” Dylan asked.
Ramona forced a smile. “Totally. See if you can get another strike.”
Dylan didn’t look convinced, but she turned away anyway, sent the ball down the glossy lane with a fervor matched only by the town’s local bowling league team, the Clover Lanies, and knocked down eight pins in a seven-ten split.
“Damn,” she said, but she was grinning, then scurried over to the ball return to try for a spare.
“You need a drink?” April asked from where she was now sitting at the computer.
“How many can you carry at one time?” Ramona asked.
April just laughed. “Margarita?”
“Extra salt.”
“Got it.”
April kissed Ramona on the top of her head as she passed, and Ramona took several deep breaths while Dylan waited for the pins to reset, trying not to notice how cute she looked in her bowling shoes and retro dress.
Because she did look cute.
Gorgeous and cute all at once, which was a dangerous combination, one that made Ramona feel even smaller, even more forgettable, and even more—
“Ramona, hey.”
A deep voice.
Familiar and husky. A voice that when growled into Ramona’s ear, all breathy and pleading, almost always led to very exciting things.
She turned to see Logan Adler standing next to her, a bottle of beer in his hands. Low-slung jeans that absolutely loved his thighs, a plain gray tee clinging to his torso for dear life, rugged brown boots not quite laced up all the way.
“Hey, Logan.”
He smiled—perfect teeth, never even had braces, while Ramona suffered through years of orthodontia—and sat down next to her, one arm slinging behind her chair. He had the whisper of a beard, neatly trimmed and golden brown, just like the thick tresses that swooped over his forehead like a damn hair commercial.
He was gorgeous.
A paragon of human beauty.
And every time Ramona saw him, she couldn’t stop thinking about his face between her legs and why in god’s name she’d ever broken things off with him in the first place.
It was a problem.
Though maybe, in her current self-pitying, forgettable state, it was the exact opposite of a problem. Logan was sweet and safe, and god he was so, so good at cunnilingus.
“What’s with the getup?” he asked, waving a calloused hand at her costume.
“You don’t like it?” she asked.
“I love it,” he said, grinning at her. “Very Wynonna Earp.”
She laughed. “I think I’m more of a Waverly.”
“Nah,” he said, taking a sip of his beer. “Those chaps are badass.”
He held her gaze—hazel eyes, lots of green and gold and some sort of magic that made her forget that his favorite band was Nickelback.
Made her forget about Hello, Dolly and fireworks and first kisses.
“What are you doing here, Logan?” she asked. “You hate bowling.”
“Yeah, but Jared and Hollis don’t,” he said, motioning toward his buddies a few lanes down, guys Ramona had gone to high school with.
“Jared still going to ask Lorraine to marry him?” she asked.
“Next week, for her birthday,” Logan said. “Far as I know.” He leaned a little closer. “You wanna get out of here?”
She opened her mouth, but then a whoop went up in front of them—Dylan nailing the seven-ten split.
“Did you see that?” she asked, clapping her hands as she twirled around, her skirt flaring.
Her smile dipped when she saw Logan sitting there, his arm draped around Ramona’s chair so that his fingers brushed her shoulder.
“That’s a hard shot,” he said, tipping his beer at her.
She nodded, walked slowly toward them. “I thought so.”
Logan looked her up and down. “Marilyn Monroe?”
“Dolly,” she said, and Ramona’s stomach plummeted to her feet again.
“Logan. Nice to meet you.”
“You too?” Dylan said, her voice tipping up at the end like a question.
“You new in town?” he asked.
Dylan’s eyes flicked to Ramona’s, eyebrows raised.
“She is,” Ramona said. “Summer.”
“You with this crazy movie?” Logan asked.
“Sort of,” Dylan said. “Crew.”
He nodded, not even a single flicker of recognition in his eyes.
“I know Dolly from a trip she took to Clover Lake years ago,” Ramona said. “When we were teenagers.”
The truth slipped out like an oil spill, but she didn’t regret it. She waited for Dylan to realize the truth. Recognize her. Figure it the hell out. Anything that didn’t make Ramona feel so invisible.
But Dylan just smiled. Nodded. “Right.” She clasped her hands behind her and grinned, no curiosity in her expression, no wondering, not even a glint of confusion. As though she and Ramona were in on this secret identity plot. “Summer before tenth grade.”
“Ninth.”
Ramona stared at her, almost like a dare. Dylan stared back, expressionless but blinking rapidly, holding her gaze for about five seconds before she jutted her thumb toward the lane. “Do you think Olive would mind if I bowled her turn?”
It took Ramona a moment to get out “Not at all,” but she managed it. She even put together some version of a smile—mouth upturned in what probably looked more like a grimace than a grin, but she wasn’t the actress here.
Not by a long shot.
“She looks familiar,” Logan said.
“One of those faces I guess,” Ramona said flatly.
Logan narrowed his eyes at Dylan, but shrugged, then pressed his shoulder to hers. “So, about getting out of here.”
Yes was on the tip of her tongue, because why the hell not. She watched Dylan fling a ball down the lane without a care—or memory—in the world.
Why the absolute hell not?