CHAPTER 16 Rowan
CHAPTER 16
Rowan
A t the newly remodeled and kinda retro-chic/intentionally kitschy bowling alley, the sweet-looking girl with the septum piercing behind the counter is asking Charlie for his shoe size. The crash of balls smashing pins interrupts the Johnny Cash song playing in the background. I’ve just about got my first shoe on.
I try to suppress my grin, but it won’t stay hidden. Sure enough, I’m on a second date with Charlie. He grumbled about going but then insisted on paying, so I know what’s up. Charlie secretly wants to be here—he’s just used to hiding his true feelings. Some sense tells me he thinks if people know what he really wants, he won’t get it.
Or maybe I’m projecting. Could be why the only thing that ever mattered to me was Wilbur.
I’m making it my mission to know the real Charlie. Not the one he lets others see. And I’m going to let him see me. Scars and all.
I mean, if he wants my broke ass—which is fairly obvious, given how hard he comes when he’s inside me—I’m all his. I only wish I could even out the economics between us somehow. Maybe there’s some other job I can get to help pay for things. Or at least take him out.
Right now, I’m not sure I could afford to take him to Taco Bell.
It’s lunchtime, and this place is at about 50 percent capacity. Not a favorite with the after-church crowd, I guess. The worker hands Charlie his shoes, and he comes over to where I’m sitting in the booth by the approach area.
“It’s been a while since I’ve done this,” he says, sounding apologetic, the shoes dangling from his fingers as he shifts his weight like he’s not certain where he should sit.
“That’s okay. You’ll have second-beginner’s luck.”
“I’m not sure that’s how it works,” he mutters. But he sits down next to me to put his shoes on, and I watch him before I slip on my second shoe.
He’s a size twelve. I’m not. I love how big he is compared to me. I love that he has to lean down to kiss me. And when he bends his knees so he can fuck me, nrgh —yeah, I’d better not think about that here, since my jeans are pretty damn tight already.
Charlie looks simultaneously hip and ridiculous in mismatched bowling shoes with the number twelve on the back. Like he’s going to a 1950s dance in red-and-blue suede saddle shoes.
He stands and walks over to select a bowling ball, and I watch every move he makes. The way the pockets of his dark wash jeans are placed perfectly on his ass cheeks. How his belt emphasizes his lean waist. How his shoulders are broader than his hips by far, and how the plaid shirt he’s wearing has bulges where his biceps make it pop.
GODHE’SSOBEAUTIFUL . My heart. I want to squish him and boop his nose. And then let him have his way with me. I shiver, and Charlie looks at me quizzically. I shoot him a smile and finish tying my shoe before striding over to the rack of bowling balls. I choose one based on the fact that it matches my hair, rather than by weight or position of the finger holes—priorities, right? When I return to our lane and set my ball on the stand, I see he’s taken a seat in front of the screen to type in our information.
He starts to enter “Charlie” in the scoring section, but I launch myself into his lap and take over. “Oh, no. You’re not putting down your real name. I’m thinking you’re gonna be ‘Chaz Daddy.’”
Charlie pinches my waist like he’s going to tickle me and lifts his knees up to try to tip me off. “Ugh. Fuck no. Don’t call me Chaz, and I’m not your daddy.”
I type as fast as I can, while he keeps trying—not that hard—to get me off of him. It’s like I’m on a bucking bronco, but I keep my seat. The group at the next lane over glances at us, and I give a little wave with the hand I’m not using to type. “Too late,” I say to Charlie, having hit enter. I grin, pleased.
His lips touch my nape, and his voice is husky. His strong arms wrap around me. “Then what do we put down for you?”
“‘Baby Boy.’ Obviously.” I type it in while squirming in his lap. I hit enter again and turn to face him.
Charlie rolls his eyes, but the side of his mouth quirks up the tiniest bit. I give him a quick kiss and hop off.
Now my pants are really too tight, but thankfully it doesn’t seem like anyone’s paying that much attention to us. The group who looked at us earlier is cheering for one of their own.
After checking that my antics aren’t going to get us kicked out or anything, I focus entirely on Charlie. I watch him exhale as he stands up, grabs his ball, and sets up at the line.
Then he bowls a motherfucking perfect strike.
“You asshole,” I groan, slumping in the seat, my hand over my eyes. “You know how to bowl?”
When I peek, he shoots me a smile that blows me entirely away. A smile that makes my mouth dry and my pulse hummingbird in my throat. A smile that makes me want to tackle him, audience be damned. “Maybe,” is all he says .
But two can play at that game. So I stand up with my big pink ball and pretend like I don’t know how to set up or throw.
I look over my shoulder at Charlie. Then I throw the ball—perfectly—and don’t bother to watch all ten pins fall.
Charlie doesn’t say anything, but I do get an eyebrow raise. For him, that’s like yelling. Finally, he asks, “So I guess you know what you’re doing, too?”
“I had a foster family who were decent and enrolled me in a league so I’d stay out of trouble,” I explain. “It was the nicest place I stayed by far. I’ve spent a lot of time throwing balls down a slick surface.”
“My dad and I used to compete in a league when I was about twelve,” Charlie says.
“Then we’re evenly matched.” I knew I was right to pick bowling for our second date. Next up, axe throwing. Or the shooting range. Or Rocky Horror —I’ve always wanted to see it.
We keep going, both of us getting strikes, frame after frame. I’ve never bowled a 300, although I’ve gotten close. But Charlie is bringing out my A game.
Finally, at the end, I throw a spare and Charlie gets a strike, and he does a “yusss” fist pump for his perfect score that makes me fall over laughing.
It’s like he’s peeled away layers of seriousness and remembered how to play. He reminds me of those dogs at the pound who need to feel safe before they can start wagging their tails.
Do I make Charlie feel safe?
Also: I think Charlie has the heart of a dog. He’s loyal. He comes when I call him. He doesn’t question me, even when I’m bad.
God, I want him. I want this to be real.
“Good job,” I say.
“Thanks.” It seems Charlie may have a shy side that I knew nothing about. No one knows, I suspect, except maybe his brother and sister .
This is very, very interesting. I nudge his arm, and it wraps automatically around me, squeezing my shoulders. Like he can’t help touching me.
“Hungry?” Charlie asks.
I nod.
We walk over to the snack bar, which is one of those trendy sorts I’ve seen but never eaten at, with doctored-up tater tots, poke nachos, and all kinds of fruit with Tajín, along with house-brewed kombucha and beer.
Charlie orders ramen, and I get mixed kebabs with a spicy sauce, and we end up splitting both. As we sit at the Formica table, I pepper him with questions, which I think is my new favorite thing to do.
Correction: new favorite thing to do with our clothes on.
“Tell me some pet peeves,” I say, licking sauce off my fingers and leaning toward him.
Charlie stares up at the black-painted ceiling, thinking for a moment. Finally, he says, “I hate bicycles built for two.”
I snort out an uncouth laugh. “Who hates those?”
“Me,” Charlie says. “They’re annoying as fuck.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say, my smile making my voice sound extra fond. But I am extra fond of Charlie.
“You asked. Pet peeves are highly individual. What’s one of yours?” Charlie sets down his chopsticks and looks at me intently, and the way he studies me—oof, I can’t get enough. No one pays as much attention to me as he does. Nobody ever has.
I tap my lip with my finger. I asked. Don’t I have some pet peeves? Maybe not. I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind: “I hate it when forms don’t work for me. Like, I don’t know my actual birthday, so I just put down what I was told it might be. I don’t know the answers to a lot of the stuff that’s required. I write big, so there’s never enough room for me to write my name. And I hate it when there’s no ‘pink’ option for hair color. I just don’t fit into forms very well. Never have.”
“You don’t know your birthday?”
I shake my head. “I think it’s maybe April 17.”
“And that’s because of your foster care situation?”
“Kinda.”
He looks at me for a long time, as if he’s debating whether to press me on it. But he gives me privacy. “Interesting. Forms have always been easy for me. I guess I see all forms as Kafkaesque bureaucracy. So if they want a letter, I give them a letter. If they want a number, I give them a number. Maybe I just always try to fit in.”
“And I never will.”
His brows furrow and release, and he tilts his head. “Do you want to?”
I shrug. “I don’t think I do. Otherwise”—I gesture down my body—“I wouldn’t look like this.”
Charlie reaches out and tugs on a lock of my hair. God, yes, Daddy. Please. “Is your hair always pink?”
I take another bite of kebab. “It’s often pink. Sometimes purple or turquoise. Or black.”
“What is it naturally?”
“Kind of blond.”
He nods and sips his beer. “Now that I think about it, the place where I really have pet peeves is in movies or books. I hate unlikable main characters. Or movies about movies. Movies where they have to put on a show or a play. Or when they have to go back in time to solve a problem. Or when love is the answer.” Part of me wants to laugh at him for being so cynical. The rest of me feels heavy, my stomach clenched. Maybe I’m more of a romantic than I thought.
I swipe his beer when he sets it down and look at him over the rim as I raise it to my lips. “You don’t think love is the answer?”
He crosses his legs and fixes me with a stare. “Shit, no. It’s as bad as klieg lights.”
I squint at him. “Super bright old-school movie lights? ”
He nods.
“What’s your problem with klieg lights, and what do they have to do with love?”
“They’re a cliché,” he huffs.
“Um.” I chuckle at his indignation. “Most people don’t pay any attention to that kind of technical shit.”
“Why do you?” Charlie challenges.
“I guess because I’ve watched the bonus features on my favorite movies. I’ve picked up a few things.”
“Makes sense.”
Something inside me swells—a warmth, my nerve endings tingling, my pulse in my throat. I get the idea that Charlie doesn’t open up to many people, and the fact that he’s telling me all these things, even if they’re banal … it means something. I adore getting to know him. He’s so quirky.
He slurps up some more noodles, and I don’t know why I think the way he eats is adorable, but I do. “Oh, and I hate jazz,” he says. “Like, free-form jazz. Regular jazz is fine. I just don’t like rambling, five-minute improvisational piano solos followed by solos from every single other member of the band … for every song. What’s the point?”
I whistle. “That’s a really random list.”
“Most pet peeves are pretty random, aren’t they?”
“True. But I love how it makes you seem all individualistic.”
“I think that’s the point. What are some more of yours?”
“I hate it when I can’t see over someone at an event—a concert or whatever—and they won’t let the shorter people go in front. I get annoyed when people think they’re being all polite at a stop sign and letting someone else go first, but in reality they’re being rude fuckers who are messing with the system.”
“You sound irritated about all of that.”
“Yep. That’s why they’re pet peeves.”
Charlie leans across the table and kisses me. “I’ll be sure to let you stand in front of me at a concert. And to take my right-of-way at stop signs.”
“This is a good second date,” I tell him. “Where are we going on our third? I’m thinking axe throwing.”
Charlie rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t protest. I take that as massive progress. I’ll wear him down eventually.
Or maybe I already have.