Chapter 9. #2
“Same, if I speed a teeny bit. What if …” I hesitate, wondering if this is a bad idea. “We could …” My brain is seriously fighting my heart over this. Or my gut. Or is it my dick? Whatever it is that’s steering my brain right now. “What I’m trying to say is …”
“Yeah?”
I scrunch up my face. “Fairview’s partway between us.”
It takes him a second. “You … wanna meet up there instead?”
“It’d be easier for you,” I reason, making this all about him and totally not about hiding my family or huge house.
“You could even still see your concert. Then afterwards, we can … meet up in Fairview. I know a couple less-popular hangouts. It’d be away from prying eyes here at home. We’ll be … more alone.”
“Fairview,” he mutters, then more pleasantly, “Let’s do it.”
I bite my lip, exorbitantly happy. The next second: “But what about Little A and Kit-Cat?”
“They were just an excuse. Though …” He clears his throat.
“I do actually care about them. How about I’ll see how they’re doin’ next time?
Maybe try to leave some bread out for Little A, right on the edge of the pond.
Don’t expect him to come up to you. The more sensitive creatures, they need …
to feel safe first. Before they can start trustin’ you. Know what I mean?”
I sit with that for a second. Is he talking about himself? Us? “Yeah,” I say, deciding to interpret it just like that.
“As for Kit-Cat, didn’t you say she probably left for Fairview?”
I grin. “We’ll see her there, then, throwing down on the dance floor.” Austin laughs way too hard at that. Then I do, too.
When we hang up, I slap the phone to my chest and stare off at the bright blue sky, heart racing, stunned by my brazenness.
When that sky turns dark, I’m making a trip to Fairview.
I spend the rest of the afternoon walking through a dream. Is it the mere thought of heading out of town that fills me with such terrifying excitement? Defying what my parents would very much rather have me do? Or is it meeting up with Austin again, this time in a place away from people we know?
Am I being stupid about this?
Or smart for once?
What is it about me that so thoughtlessly wants to dive into the deep end every time I catch feelings?
Like if I don’t chase after him, he’ll disappear.
Like an odd-feathered duck in a pond. Or a cat on a porch that has no name—a lot like whatever’s going on between me and Austin, happening with no name.
Yet.
I’m bouncing in my seat, bent over the steering wheel with exhausting excitement, as I make the drive out to Fairview at half past nine.
I’m going early because I don’t want to waste one single minute we could spend together.
I picked a spot and sent him the address.
He said he’d see me at 10:30, not a minute later.
When I arrive at the bowling alley, he’s already there. A plaid shirt with the sleeves folded up, tucked partway into blue jeans, a belt, boots, and a tilted baseball cap, shading his face as usual.
Not that much extra shade is needed. I picked Fairview Lanes because they’re doing their weekly Blacklight Night where they stay open late and have the lanes glowing neon, and it’s definitely dark enough to keep any curious eyes off us. We’ll feel like we’re all by ourselves.
“Show ran a bit short,” he explains when I approach. “Must’ve skipped a song or two. Maybe forgot to do an encore at all. I barely noticed.” He smiles, lips catching whatever light escapes the front glass windows of the building. “It’s good to see you, T.”
I’ll be honest. I’m terrified. I don’t know why. I can’t seem to calm my nerves enough to steady my hands. I’m just figuring some magical calm will find me when we get inside, change our shoes, and become playful rivals on those glowing lanes.
But I don’t show a speck of that anxiety when I say, “It’s good to see you, too, Austin.”
His smile doesn’t go away.
Then we head inside.
It isn’t as much of a “less-populated hangout” as I remember.
Last time I was here, I was probably still in high school.
Blacklight Night has clearly gained traction, though the majority of what I’m seeing are teens and tween brats who seem more interested in role-playing as adults, awkwardly flirting, gossiping, and enjoying their freedom away from mommy and daddy—which in so many ways is exactly what I’m doing that I can’t even properly make fun of them.
The darkness seems to put us both at ease despite all the noise.
We change shoes, take the lane at the far end near the side door exit, and pick our balls.
I get a lime green one with a swirl of white that glows amazingly in the atmosphere.
He gets a dull red one, but when it hits the light right, tiny hot pink specks appear.
He goes first. I’m gifted with the unexpected sight of Austin strutting up to the lane in those tight blue jeans. My eyes snap up to his face when he glances back at me and says, “Prepare to get smoked.” He goes for the shot.
It gutters instantly.
On his second try, a single pin gets clipped by sheer luck.
When it’s my turn, all the pins scatter apart. “Strike,” I say, licking my finger and drawing a point in the air. “Prepare to get smoked, I believe you said?”
Austin just leans back in his bench, smirk twisting halfway up his face. “I’m rusty,” he growls before strutting up to show me what he’s really made of.
I prepare for greatness.
Two pins on the first go. Another gutter on the second.
He blames the weird lighting.
This playful trash-talking and competitive banter goes on the whole game.
But what I don’t quite appreciate until four frames in is how comfortable it makes me.
My fears have all melted away. This feels totally natural, bowling with him, like we do this every weekend.
Our laughs come so much easier. I don’t judge what I say as much, just letting whatever fly out of my mouth (even if it’s another sick burn about his “super bowling skills” I can’t resist).
Then I grow bold enough to say, “Let me give you a pointer.”
The music is loud. He doesn’t quite catch it. “Give me what?”
I come up to him. When I take hold of his hand to adjust how he’s holding it, his eyes lock on mine like I’ve just become the only person on earth.
That’s exactly how it feels. Nothing has or ever will compare to the intensity radiating from his eyes like starlight, and I’m bathing in it as I show him how to better grip the ball.
“Like this,” I tell him, standing right next to him.
He hasn’t said a word, staring back at me, locked in.
“Feet just like this.” I give his foot a playful nudge.
He adjusts, nearly falling over. All of our energy has shifted.
The cocky guy in a baseball cap is traded for a nervous boy on his first-ever date, not unlike the tweens fumbling around us with no game, astounded that I’ve come so close to him, that I’m touching him.
The look in his eyes, it gives me confidence to keep doing this, to stay close—even if I’m fairly sure none of my priceless bowling wisdom is sinking in.
“You paying attention?” I tease him. “This is super-duper-duper important stuff, y’know. ”
I’m still holding Austin’s hands with the ball.
He hasn’t pulled away.
Then he asks: “Anyone ever tell you you’re dangerous?”
I lift my eyebrows at him. His question comes so softly, it feels a thousand times more intimate than I think he intended.
Or maybe that’s exactly what he intended. “Dangerous?”
“Yeah.” He smirks. “Because if you weren’t helpin’ me hold up this heavy-ass ball right now, I might just drop it right on my foot with that disarming look you’re givin’ me right now.”
I lick my lips.
It’s more of a nervous tic than it is anything meaningful.
But it pulls his eyes right down to them.
And I’ll be damned if he isn’t suddenly having some very different thoughts now.
Other than how this bowling ball would feel if it actually did drop on his foot.
Thoughts that have everything to do with how he could ruin these lips of mine, were I to give even a hint of permission.
Standing this close to him, I’m tempted to give it.
“Wanna try now?” I ask him, and I am literally confused about what, exactly, I’m asking him to try.
He smiles, hesitates, then proves himself a gentleman once again by interpreting my question without innuendo, nodding at me before taking up the ball himself and lining up with the lane.
I step back. He gives me one last glance, armed now with my advice, prepares, then launches his ball at the lane.
It pops off his fingers wrong, flying two lanes over. Two tween girls shoot him a look as his ball rockets down their gutter.
He tried.
I don’t even know what time it is when we finally spill out of the bowling alley, laughing at ourselves.
He can’t stop attempting to describe the looks on those tween girls’ faces, cracking himself up worse each time he tries.
I insist that I’m a better teacher than he is a student, and he doesn’t deny it.
“Some kinds of greatness, you just can’t teach,” he reasons, then smiles at me under one of the parking lot lights.
“You’re really good at knockin’ down balls. ”
“Pins,” I correct him, drawing closer, “with a ball.”
He chuckles. And now it’s Austin licking his lips. My eyes pull to them with near inevitable desire. “What is it about you,” he says, his voice suddenly so much softer, “that always seems to get me so dang tongue-tied?”
Neither of us can say anything for a moment.
It’s obvious neither of us want this night to end.
“There’s, uh …” I dig my foot into the pavement as I push out the words. “… a movie. Late-night movies. Showing. At the …” I lift a hand and point off. “… down the street. Just a block over.”
“I will watch any movie with you,” he says with certainty.
The butterflies are back in full force.
They don’t calm, even when we leave our cars in the bowling alley parking lot (people do it all the time), and walk a block (four, actually) to the movie theater.
It’s way bigger than Spruce’s, with twelve screens and a big concession stand that, even at this hour, is still open and running with two popcorn machines.
We weren’t planning on getting anything until the intoxicating aroma hits us both, making us regret not ordering at the very least a basket of fries or wings or something at the bowling alley, and we end up getting not only a fat tub of popcorn, but boxes of Sour Patch Kids and two Coke ICEEs.
Whatever machine printed out our tickets at the front was running low on ink, so it’s either of our guesses what movie we’re seeing and what number theater to go to.
I don’t care what’s up on the screen. Austin doesn’t either.
We pick a random theater, walk in, find it’s in the middle of whatever movie, and just take a pair of seats in the back row.
“You gotta remind me to write a thank-you note,” I whisper.
He leans into me. “Huh? Thank-you note?”
“To Chase Holt,” I say back, then turn to look at him.
He’s so close. Threateningly close. Those eyes in the dark, how the distant glow of the silver screen sparkles in them like my only sign of life in an ocean of darkness, the beacon I embrace. His lips part as if to say something, but he doesn’t.
I elaborate. “He’s what brought us together.”
After a moment’s reflection, he smiles. “Right.”
“I’m having a lot of fun with you tonight.”
“Me too,” he whispers back.
“I seriously don’t want tonight to end.”
“Me neither.”
“And I have no idea what’s going on in this movie.”
“Neither do I.”
“And I don’t care.”
My eyes float to his lips. It’s no surprise that our popcorn has gone completely ignored, except for the one or two initial bites we took at the concession stand itself.
And the boxes of candy? What candy?
All I know are his lips and his sparkling eyes …
And …
And the words that finally trouble their way off my tongue. “I really … really wanna kiss you right now.”
“You sure?” he whispers, and his eyes are on my lips, too.
What a gentleman. Asking if I’m sure. Giving me this chance to change my mind, despite the obvious desire on his face for the very same thing I’m craving.
It only takes the slightest lean of my head.
Our shoulders press together.
Then our lips.