Chapter 15
Jonny’s Pints and Pins must be new because I never saw it in my eighteen years growing up in Seabrook.
The busy tourist season over the summers has done good things for the town, I suppose, if it means having this bowling alley with an adjoining brewery. And it’s strangely leprechaun-themed, which I guess is good?
A small group of coworkers from the coffeehouse is huddled together, calling out what size they require for bowling shoes. I don’t notice Harper beside me until I feel a tap on my shoulder, and she says, “I’m gonna grab a pint. Want anything?”
I’m shocked that she’s over twenty-one.
“I’m okay,” I respond. She nods before scurrying toward the bar.
The lighting is dim. There are radio hits a decade too young to be considered vintage blaring through a tinny speaker. I follow my unlikely group of coworkers to our bowling lane.
“Anyone need bumpers?” a girl named Sonia asks, dark hair sashaying as she looks back and forth at everyone.
I shake my head no. Everyone else does too.
“Just me?” she laughs self-effacingly. “Alrighty, then! Let’s bowl!”
I sit on one of the two benches facing each other, politely watching Sonia toss the bowling ball down the lane like a terrified cat, yanking her hands back and squealing when it escapes her fingers.
It zigzags dejectedly down the lane, hitting the bumpers a record amount before finally making it to the end. One pin hit.
“Aw, man! How is that even possible? The whole point of bumpers is that you hit the pins,” she pouts, making eyes at a scrawny kid everyone calls “Grom” sitting across from me. I sense a budding romance forming between them. He’s the first person her eyes flicker to every time she makes a joke.
Someone gets up to bowl next, and I look around at the leprechaun-themed scene.
Declan said he would be attending, and yet, I don’t see a hint of him.
I watch Grom pick up a marble-green bowling ball and throw a perfect strike, followed by a girl named Luna, who is so quiet I’ve never heard her voice, even while taking orders.
When it’s my turn, I choose a medium-sized ball and aim for the leprechaun’s hat behind the bowling pins, but my body does not follow suit and the ball rolls down the gutter.
I make eye contact with Luna as I walk back and we both titter silently.
Harper waltzes back and sets a clear mug filled with an amber liquid onto the table as I resume my spot.
“Oh, hey!” I say, relieved to see her. “Is the bar backed up? What took you so long?”
“How’s the bowling going, Blair?” she asks, ignoring my question as she plops down beside me. Her thigh touches mine even though there’s enough space to avoid it.
“Pretty good, I think.” I point at the TV screen hovering from the ceiling. My name is dead last.
She punches me in the shoulder playfully, eyes a little glossy. “What the heck? Are you some sort of secret phenom or something?”
“Yeah,” I say, deadpan. “Professional bowler was the job I was supposed to have instead of this one.”
“Really?” she asks, suddenly not understanding the bit. I can smell the alcohol wafting off her breath.
“No.” I don’t elaborate and lean away, but not enough to where she’d notice, I hope.
I feel more than see Declan’s arrival as he ambles over to our lane. His face is serious, the freckle on his lip and neck visible even in the dark bowling alley. I can’t choose which one to pay attention to more.
Lip freckle. Neck freckle. Lip freckle.
“Oh shiiiii—” Harper sputters, swiping the clear jug off the table and knocking the rest of the liquid back before Declan comes to a stop beside us.
“Harper,” he says, voice even like a father who was kind but meant business. “Can we have a word, please?”
Harper only nods, getting up and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
She walks in front of him, head hung low as he saunters behind her. His limp is in clear view as he walks away.
Are you not allowed to drink outside of work? Or is this considered a work event? Maybe she used a fake ID.
I mull over the strange interaction between Declan and Harper, trying to understand what I’ve just witnessed.
Their relationship seemed to go beyond manager and employee.
It didn’t seem romantic, more sibling equivalent if anything, but that, too, didn’t make sense.
I’d never seen Harper in all my years growing up here, so where did she come from?
I take my turn to bowl, distracted by my thoughts, and offer a cheer and a whoop to meet the minimum social requirements for my coworkers on their turns. I order a strawberry lemonade from the QR code on our table, and then swipe over to the Apartment 302 group chat.
Roshi
How’s being a barista treating you, Blink?
It’s the closest thing to “How are you?” I’ve received from either of them. I spin my thumbs, considering how to respond to the text and the stirring sensation I feel in my chest every time I think about Roshi and Faye. I miss and resent them at the same time.
The ripped leather of the bench sags to the left as someone sits beside me—moss-green carpenter pants and loafers, his fancy shoes.
I can tell who it is without lifting my gaze.
Isn’t it funny to have the ability to recognize someone by the precise position of their legs, the degree each foot faces, the exact angle at which they relax when they sit?
“Where’s Harper?” I ask, setting my phone beside my thigh.
“I got her a ride,” Declan says, looking at the scoreboard on the screen above us.
“A ride where?” I push.
“Home.”
“Why—”
“I think I saw your mom’s car parked in my neighborhood yesterday,” Declan cuts me off.
I would’ve kept pushing about Harper had he not taken me so off guard.
“Oh?” I feign shock, considering how I should play this. “What neighborhood do you live in?”
“A little further downtown from the coffee shop. Off Maple and Brickstone.” He motions the directions with his hands like an eighty-year-old man.
The sight makes me want to smile before I think better of it and suppress it. Declan always gave the vibe that he was a grandpa inside a young man’s body. It was wholesome in a way I could never credit other men being.
“Oh!” I pretend for recognition to hit me in this moment. “Near the beach, right?”
He nods in confirmation.
“Yeah, she was there. I was too, actually.”
He looks at me, waiting for me to elaborate.
I allow myself one second to stare at the hair falling over his brow in perfect disarray before obliging him.
His hair had never decided whether it was blond or brown, so it settled on being both.
And the glasses haven’t made an appearance in a while, I think.
“Lottie, uhm.” I clear my throat and feel self-conscious that he’ll think I’m incapable of keeping it together at the mention of her. He wouldn’t be wrong, and yet. “She left me a house.”
He furrows his brow thoughtfully. “The one across the street?”
“Across the street from what?” I ask dumbly, wanting him to spell it out for me.
“Oh, across the street from mine, I mean.” He’s the one who looks self-conscious now. “That’s where I saw your mom’s car parked, at least.”
Did you also scan every parking lot for my car, for my mom’s car, after we became strangers?
“I didn’t know you lived there. When did you move in?” I resist the urge to bite my nails as I wait for his response, wondering if the desperation to know him is emanating off me in cartoon heat waves.
“About two and a half years ago,” he says, staring at Grom as he gets up to bowl and then cheering for him as he gets another strike.
Two and a half years ago? He would’ve been barely twenty, moving into a nice house in downtown Seabrook.
“Did you…” I start, trying to figure out a way to ask without prying. “Did your parents sell the other house?”
“No.” He runs his hand up his shoulder, messing with his shirtsleeve. I notice the muscles in his shoulder as he presses his arm into the leather between us. “They still live there.”
I nod, but I’ve only become more confused. Did he buy the house? Did his parents buy it for him? Or is he renting with roommates?
“How many roommates do you have?” I ask, taking a sip of my lemonade.
“None.” He looks at me.
I stare at the hue of his mauve lips. I wish mine were that color naturally. I rub my lips together self-consciously. I see him notice.
“Oh. Cool,” I manage. “That’s nice, then. Living alone. Having your own space.”
Am I usually this bad at conversation?
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “It’s okay.”
I nod to show I’ve heard him, then swivel my head to Sonia, who needs something more sophisticated than bumpers if she wants to hit more than a single pin. The people around us “ooo” and “aww” in sympathy as the ball discards itself into the gutter yet again.
“Will you live in it?” he pipes up, now looking at me like he’s desperate for me to share something. Or maybe I’m imagining that he is.
“The cottage?” I repeat as I figure out how much to share with him.
“Mm-hmm,” he confirms.
“No,” I snap. “No, I’m leaving in September.”
He looks at the scoreboard again and I wonder if he heard me.
“Why?” He returns his ivy-speckled eyes to me.
“Consulting job got deferred, remember?” I did tell him this, right?
“Yeah, but…” He pauses, seeming to think for a second. “Now you have the cottage. Why not stay?”
Why would he want me to stay? Especially when it’s directly across the street from him? The depraved part of me starts reading into his words like they’ll provide what I so desperately want.
“There’s not much left for me in Seabrook,” I reply.
He stares at me.
A beat.
Two.
So long that I map every section of his irises where it looks like bombs of bluish iridescent shimmer have exploded between pools of sage green. I stare at how the two colors swirl together until I’ve forgotten what we were talking about.
A waitress comes to offer refills. I hand her my empty cup. I don’t remember tasting a single drop of the strawberry lemonade.
“Would you like anything to drink?” the waitress asks him, blinking a couple times when he turns around to look at her.
“A water would be great, please,” he says, voice kind. I get a glimpse of his dimple as he turns back to face me, smile washing from his face like the last suds from a car wash being rinsed away.
“Will you excuse me for a moment?” he says.
“Oh, yeah. Of course.”
He stands to greet everyone, and it’s in this moment that I realize he hasn’t spoken to anyone else here. Even though he’s our manager. And this is his event. He sat next to me immediately and showed no interest in joining a different conversation.
I watch with interest as he greets Grom, dapping him up and smacking him on the back like guys do. Sonia and Luna smile at him excitedly, and they all usher him over to grab a ball as they enter his name on the screen beneath mine.
He walks up to the lane with his long legs, rears the ball back, and releases it.
It flies down the middle in a perfect line.
Strike. They all cheer for him, and he spins around, smiling sheepishly.
My lungs constrict at the sight of his dimple.
He was great at football; I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that he is still athletic.
To my shock, he walks back over to me, resuming his spot on the torn leather seat. “So, that Calvin guy from earlier…” he starts, brushing his chin in thought. “You guys going on a date while you’re here?”
“Hah.” I snort. “He’s the one with my number, so we’ll see.”
The question was interesting though. Would I go on a date with him if he asked?
In college I would’ve turned him away without a second thought.
No matter how attractive. I was dead set on chasing my independence, not stopping for a moment to hand my heart over to a boy just for him to drop it when he got bored.
But now? The independence I chased wouldn’t arrive until September, no matter how fast I ran.
Lottie was gone. My friends were across the country.
Nothing looked like I thought it would. So, why not do something else out of the ordinary?
At this point, I didn’t think anything could be as scary as my actual life.
The one that existed without Lottie in it.
I felt like I was in a horror movie. A boy taking me out and then dropping me would be an interesting side plot at best.
“But, yeah. I think I will if he asks.” I reach for my cup, forgetting that I handed it to the waitress for a refill, and put my hand under my thigh instead.
He’s silent for a second, looking up at the scoreboard. “He’s not worth your time,” he says, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
I become aware of my heart beating as I try to decode what he’s implying. Especially coming from him. Someone who didn’t think I was worth his time after an entire lifetime spent together.
“You would know about that, wouldn’t you.” It flies out before my mouth has a chance to meet with my brain. I watch it land, shoulders flinching as if I’ve physically thrown something at him. I dig my fingers into the underside of my thigh where he can’t see my hands.
“Someone not being worth my time, or me not being worth yours?” he asks, staring at me like my answer will provide his next breath.
His energy is so concentrated on me, I forget there are people surrounding us, drinking, eating, having fun to the beat of pop music.
My ears pick up the thud of dropping bowling balls and muffled cheering as if from a hundred miles away.
My eyes only see Declan, like the light stops illuminating all else once it reaches the periphery of his solemn face.
“The former,” I breathe.
Why did I just admit that? I berate myself internally. But then I picture him sitting on the curb outside Lottie’s funeral, face blushing as he referenced the friends he shouldn’t have known about. The ones he only knew because he’d checked on me.
I watch his eyes dart from my left eye to my right. Then down to my lips and back up again.
“You’ve always been worth my time, Blair.”
His words feel like a vacuum, sucking up my ability to hear anything else as they reverberate through my ears.
But before I can respond, his phone rings. He stands up sharply and crosses the bowling alley and bar as he takes the call.
I replay his words, but I can’t make sense of them.
Why wasn’t I worth his time for the past four years?
I glance at the scoreboard, my name still last, and stand up to leave without saying goodbye to anyone. I throw a ten down for my strawberry lemonade.