15. Natalie
NATALIE
Henry’s car pulls up in front of the bowling alley. I’m in full incognito mode, wearing a baseball cap pulled low, drowned in an oversized hoodie and plain black leggings. It’s the kind of outfit I wouldn’t normally be caught dead in, which is exactly what makes it perfect.
Henry’s wearing a navy cap, jeans, a plain black T-shirt and the most ridiculous pair of gas-station sunglasses I’ve ever seen. He looks like a movie star trying to pass as normal, but he’s too tall, too clean, too him. He’s unmistakable, even when he’s trying not to be.
“You know how to play?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say. “You roll the ball and pray it doesn’t end up in the gutter.”
He smirks. “Sounds like you’re describing your dating history.”
“I’m going to wipe the floor with you.”
I reach for the car door, but he makes that sound, the one that says don’t even think about it, and he walks around to open it himself.
“Thank you,” I say sweetly as I slide out. “Such a gentleman.”
He leans in and kisses me, one hand closing over my ass. I laugh against his mouth. “Okay, I take that back.”
His grin sharpens. He leans in closer. “Good. Because there’s nothing gentlemanly about what I want to do to you.”
Want being the key word.
It’s been weeks, and he still hasn’t let me touch him. Every time I think we’re finally past that line, he pulls back. I’ve seen the look. Wild, desperate, like he’s seconds from coming undone. Then his jaw locks, and it’s gone. He reins it all back in like it never happened.
I’ve tried to push things a little further but he always stops before it goes too far.
I might try harder if he weren’t already keeping me so thoroughly satisfied.
I’m still not sure what’s holding him back.
He hasn’t exactly explained, and I haven’t exactly asked.
Pressing him might lead into conversations we’ve both been avoiding.
The kind that sound suspiciously like what are we?
We head inside, and it’s exactly what you’d expect.
Neon signs buzz overhead, the ball return hums like an old refrigerator, and pins crash rhythmically.
The air smells like shoe spray, flat soda, and something fried.
Colored lights bounce off plastic tables and polished lanes.
A group of teenagers crowd around a claw machine while a guy with a mullet orders nachos at the counter.
No one looks twice at us.
We rent our shoes and claim a lane at the far end. I’m typing names into the scoreboard when Henry leans over my shoulder.
“‘Ethel’ and ‘Harold’? Really?”
“Would you prefer Henry Carter and Natalie Wright?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says with a shrug, like it’s the obvious choice.
“We’re supposed to be a secret,” I remind him.
“Alright, Ethel.”
I like that he doesn’t care who knows. I really do. But liking it doesn’t make it smart. We’re supposed to be careful, and here he is, acting like secrecy is optional. Like we could just exist out in the open with no consequences.
Henry goes first. He picks a ridiculous bright green ball, lines up, takes two easy steps, and rolls it so smoothly it barely makes a sound. The pins explode. Strike.
“Beginner’s luck,” he says, already grinning.
“Uh-huh.”
I grab a purple ball that feels like it’s clinging to my fingers for dear life. My first throw nearly dislocates my shoulder. It wobbles down the lane, clips a single pin, and collapses in defeat. Henry makes a sound that’s definitely laughter.
I tell myself I’m not competitive, that I’m a pillar of grace, but when I gutter the second ball I mutter something that is not exactly graceful.
“Want a tip?” Henry asks.
“No.”
He steps in behind me anyway. One of his hands rests lightly at my waist, the other wraps gently over mine, adjusting my grip on the ball.
“You’re muscling it,” he says. “Let the lane do the work.”
“I like doing the work,” I say, just dry enough to make him smile.
His fingers trace along mine, easing the tension in my wrist. It’s absurd how intimate it feels. Just the weight of his hand, the sound of his breath at my neck, and suddenly I’ve forgotten we’re surrounded by neon lights and stale nachos. He guides my arm back, slow and smooth, then steps away.
“Try now,” he says.
I roll. The ball curves like it’s been waiting to prove him right and knocks down eight pins.
“Good work,” he says, like a proud coach. “Guess you might be competition after all.”
By the time we pull up outside my building, it’s late. We played five games. He won every single one. By a lot. I accused him of being secretly pro-level. He claimed I was just “adorably bad.”
Somewhere between the second game and the third tray of greasy food, I stopped worrying about what this is, or who might find out.
For a while, it was just us. Elbowing each other between turns, arguing about technique, laughing until my face hurt.
It was the kind of fun that sneaks up on you.
Silly, light and easy. So easy, it made me forget why things are supposed to be complicated.
Now we’re here. Parked. Not quite ready for the night to end. I know the routine. He’ll come up, we’ll make out, mess around a bit, and then he’ll leave. Then I’ll lie there pretending I won’t miss him the second the door clicks shut.
I turn to get the ritual started, but he speaks first.
“I brought a bag,” he says.
It takes me a second to catch up.
“You want to stay over?”
“Yeah.” He says it like it’s nothing, but his gaze doesn’t leave mine. He’s watching me closely, like he’s trying to figure out if I’ll flinch.
The truth is, I like the idea of him staying here. Waking up next to me. Not rushing off into the night, not pretending this is just physical. Just…being here. Like a real thing.
I want that. I really, really want that. Which is exactly the problem.
My pulse skips and my mouth goes dry and I look down at my hands because I can feel it creeping in. The part of me that knows better. The one that’s been repeating the rules from the start: keep it simple, keep it light, don’t get attached.
Henry staying over is not simple or light. It’s the kind of thing that leads to feelings and expectations and conversations I’ve very carefully avoided.
“That’s…not what we do,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “We’re just…it’s not…”
The words dissolve. They sound ridiculous even to me.
He leans on the wheel, a little closer now, voice quiet and low. “I’m not asking for your hand in marriage. I just want to fall asleep next to you. Once. Wake up and make you coffee in the morning. That’s it.”
I close my eyes. That’s the worst part. He’s asking for something normal, and I’m the one panicking like he proposed.
“It’s not a big deal,” he says. “Unless we make it one. Which we won’t. Because it’s not.”
He’s right. It’s just one night. One bag. One morning. That’s all.
“Fine,” I say. “But just this once. Let’s not get in the habit—”
I don’t finish, because he’s already out of the car, heading for my door, looking so quietly pleased with himself it makes my chest ache.
This might not be smart but right now, it feels good. Right now, it feels dangerously close to happy.