Chapter Nine #2
I wonder how many people get to see both? Probably not too many. Maybe Scott, maybe Ivy. Possibly his parents, too. But as I watch him lean on the counter, talking to the young, star-struck teenager behind it, I suddenly feel lucky to be included in the few.
***
“How are you doing that?” Flynn whines as I take another bow.
I laugh and shake my head at his disbelieving look. I just bowled my third strike in a row. A total and utter fluke, obviously. Was I going to let on to Flynn that my performance tonight was likely just beginner’s luck? Absolutely not.
“It’s raw talent.” I shrug, smirking at him.
“You’re cheating.” He shakes his head, looking up at the scoreboard where I am a good thirty points ahead of him. “You have to be.”
“How can I be cheating? I don’t think cheating is even possible in a public bowling alley.
” I laugh, patting Flynn gently on the shoulder and walking toward the small table in the middle of the seating area.
Another young teenager is placing two large pizzas onto the table.
I pick up the soda that was brought earlier and take a sip, my stomach growling as I eye the pizzas.
Flynn comes up behind me, slipping a hand around my waist and pulling my back to his chest.
“Thanks,” he says, nodding to the teenager.
I glance up at Flynn only to see that he’s staring right back at me.
Suddenly, my chest tightens, and I let my gaze drop, only for a moment, to his lips.
My mouth feels dry, and I suck in a breath.
I feel Flynn’s fingers tighten against my waist before he lets me go.
He steps away, and I silently mourn the loss of his warmth.
Damn it.
I am the one who said we shouldn’t be so touchy-feely in public.
I am the one who wants the ground rules.
Yet, here I am, thinking about whether his mouth still tastes like spice and red wine, or if that was just in Italy.
If it was, I really want to find out what he tastes like now that we’re home.
Flynn takes a seat on the small plastic chairs, and I sit next to him. Our thighs squish together.
Why am I torturing myself?
“I cannot believe you are one of those pineapple on pizza people,” he murmurs, shaking his head. I stare at him, then I look at the pizzas. This time, more closely. Sure enough, the one closest to me is covered in cheese and sauce, with peppers and mushrooms, ham and sausage, and … pineapple.
“You remembered,” I mutter.
“Well, yeah.” He takes a piece of the other pizza, which looks as though it has just about every type of meat there is on it. “Hard to forget when you committed a food crime every time you asked if they did pineapple while we were there.”
I laugh, picking up a piece and taking a bite. The cheese bubbles in my mouth, and I groan. “This is good.”
Flynn just shakes his head at me before taking a bite of his slice.
We eat in silence, letting the atmosphere infiltrate the bubble we seem to have created over the last hour or so of gameplay.
The sounds of bowling balls rolling down the laneway, the crash of the pins, the cheers of the victorious as they celebrate their points are accompanied by a generous range of music playing above us in the speakers.
It’s a Saturday night, so the lanes are lit up and there are strobe lights of all different colors lighting up the area. It’s kind of a vibe.
When I hear Whitney Houston’s ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’ come over the speakers, I squeal and start bobbing my head to the music.
“I love this song,” I tell Flynn between bites. I take another sip of my soda and move in my seat. “Whitney is my mom’s favorite singer. We used to dance around the kitchen, blasting her music while we cooked.”
“You’re into music, huh?” Flynn turns to me, his pizza half gone now. He stretches his arms over the back of the small plastic seats. I am hyper aware of how close his hand is to my arm, and when I feel his fingers lightly brush over my skin, I have to suppress a shiver.
“I love music.” I sigh, nodding. “It just … it helps define my mood.”
“The guitar in your bedroom,” he states, now drawing gentle patterns with his fingers against my arm. I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it.
I raise a brow. “What about it?”
“Do you ever use it? I’ve never heard you play.”
“I—uh,” I say, cringing a little. “I used to. Not as much anymore.”
“Why not?”
For a moment, I think about confiding in Flynn about Grant.
I think about how freeing it might feel to tell someone what actually went down with him and how my eyes were opened to all the things Grant forced me to change about myself.
I think about how therapeutic it might be to confess the real reason we broke up that very last time.
I stop myself, though.
I got his number. Flynn Reed’s actual number. I’m so going to fuck him.
The words sound distant and far away, but it’s a clear memory, no matter how quiet. Flynn Reed is a playboy. I can’t forget, even when he makes me feel like I should. Even when he opens car doors and makes me laugh, and looks like he will devour me if I give in and let him kiss me again for real.
“I just … stopped.” I shrug and take another bite of my pizza.
“Why?” he asks again.
“I don’t know. I just did.”
“Well, you should consider taking it back up.” Flynn takes one of the napkins sitting next to the pizza plates and wipes his hands. “You’re probably just as good at playing guitar as you are at ten pin bowling.”
I laugh and shake my head, cleaning off my own hands and standing again. “This is a fluke. The last time I came to one of these places, I was probably still in high school, and I remember sucking so bad, my friends asked me to just skip my turn.”
“That’s fucked up.” Flynn shakes his head, a smirk toying at his lips.
“I’m glad I’ve made a comeback,” I say as I pick up one of the balls and get ready to hurl it down the lane. I glance over my shoulder, giving Flynn my best smile. “Just in time to kick your ass.”
***
I’m in the Boston Times gossip column.
Me. Katie Murphy. Local Boston girl who grew up stealing the column from my dad’s newspaper every other week, in the damn column.
I am almost positive that the spread is completely thanks to Hollie, but that didn’t stop me from squealing and running out to buy a copy when Ivy texted me a picture of it.
Pictures of Flynn and me covered the column.
A small write-up accompanied it, but it was just speculation about who I was and where we met.
Hollie fed them a story, and they ran it, and now I'm in the fucking Boston Times.
I stand behind the bar, waiting for the last of the locals to filter out so we can lock up.
The paper is open to the gossip column in front of me.
The pictures are mostly from the game. There are a few of Flynn and Scott on the field before the game, warming up, a few of Ivy and me celebrating the touchdowns in the box, and, of course, there is a giant one of when Flynn kissed me.
To my surprise, though, there’s an addition from Saturday night.
The picture is grainy. It’s dark, and the only thing lighting our figures are the strobe lights, but it’s undeniably Flynn and me.
We’re standing so close together, smiling and staring at one another.
I’m laughing, and Flynn has his hand up, obviously in the middle of tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear.
In the moment, I forgot about all the cameras and the people that were likely watching us because Flynn is so famous. It felt like I was hanging out with a friend.
No.
It felt like I was on a date.
A scraping sound pulls me from my thoughts.
Justin is pulling the chairs from under the tables and stacking them on top.
My chefs closed up the kitchen over an hour ago.
Monday’s aren’t all that busy, but I gave myself a shift tonight knowing that Flynn would be out of town.
The house is a little too empty without him there. It feels weird.
The game was on here anyway. Flynn scored three touchdowns, and I watched every single one.
I look back down at the picture of us in the bowling alley. It makes me feel …
I don’t know. Or at least, I can’t name it.
It’s not butterflies or anxiety. It’s not nervousness.
It’s almost as if it’s comfortable. I’m relaxed and happy, and laughing in the picture, so I feel all of those things looking back at it.
But then I remember what happened the last time I let him in, and I can’t seem to correlate the two feelings.
It’s confusing.
“Whoa.” Justin leans over the bar and looks at the photos. “I cannot believe you’re dating Flynn Reed. That’s so awesome.”
“Uh-huh,” I murmur, not really paying any attention.
“Are you just staring at pictures of the two of you making out?” Justin laughs when my gaze shoots up, and I scowl at him.
“No.” I close the paper and tuck it away in my bag under the bar. “There’s a picture of Ivy and me that I really like and want to keep.”
Justin just laughs as he collects his things. I walk him to the front door. “Drive safe,” I tell him as I wave him off. It’s just past eleven p.m., and as I lock the front door to the bar and start my rounds of all the windows to check their locks, my fingers start to feel like they’re buzzing.
When I’m confident I’m safely locked inside of Pat’s, I turn out the lights to the main bar area and make my way down the hall to my office.
Two years ago, when I started doing more of the management stuff for Mom and Dad, I decided to convert the office into a secret studio.
I never sat in here doing any actual work, so it was hardly used, and Mom has her own down the hall, so it’s all mine.
I turn on my computer, get the recording program up, and then set the camera to the right angle. It isn’t a very fancy setup. I don’t have the same production value as some videos I see across the site, but considering this is my secret channel, I don’t think anyone cares.
Years ago, when I gave up playing music and singing in the quad, I started to feel like I had lost my connection to music and how happy it made me when I was playing it. Grant obviously hated me playing at home, so when I started to work more here at the bar, I just switched.
I started staying late and extending my hours. I started adjusting my schedule so I would close the bar down because once I did, I retreated into the office and I played.
Then, one day, I posted a video of myself playing and singing an acoustic version of a reworked Adele song onto an anonymous YouTube channel. It blew up.
So I posted another. And another.
Never showing my face. Never saying anything other than when I sang the lyrics to the songs I chose. I didn’t have any fancy editing or production. I record directly onto the site, and then I just press upload. No caption, nothing.
Just me and my music.
I take a deep breath, getting up the sheet music and the lyrics for ‘Better Man’ by Taylor Swift on the screen in front of me. When I press record, and I strum the first few bars of the music on the guitar in my hands, everything fades away. Grant. Flynn. Fake relationships. Real feelings.
While I’m playing, while I’m singing, I’m free.