17. Nate
Nate
It’s heart-wrenching to see Rory like this. Nervous and skittish around me, uncertain about my motivations.
It’s a harsh reminder that I have a long way to go to earn her trust back.
I hold the front door open for her as we head out toward my Explorer. As we make our way down the walkway, I wave to Rory’s dad, who’s holding Spam to keep him from escaping.
I keep a respectable distance.
I don’t put my hand on Rory’s lower back, or open the car door for her.
It’s taking all of my self-control, but tonight is about rebuilding trust and friendship.
So I give her space while she climbs in and buckles her seat belt, and I settle into the driver’s seat.
“So. Where are we heading?” Rory clasps her fingers, unclasps them, then twists them together again.
I fasten my seat belt then reach over and cover her hands with one of mine.
So much for keeping my hands to myself.
“Somewhere fun. Nothing too serious.”
Rory stares at our hands as they touch, but she doesn’t pull away.
At this point, I’ll call that progress.
I reluctantly pull my hand away to start the ignition and back down the driveway. One touch of her is never going to be enough. I should have known better.
I grasp the steering wheel with both hands as I look over at her. “We’re going bowling. Does that sound okay?”
I look back to the road, but not before I see the flash of excitement that crosses her face, eyes widening with anticipation, before she schools her features into a more neutral expression.
“That sounds fine,” she says, giving away nothing.
Here’s the thing. If this were truly a first date, I might be thrown off by that response, the lack of overt enthusiasm.
But I’ve known Rory for long enough that she can’t hide things from me, even if she tries. She’s excited about our plans for the evening.
I hold back my smile, glad I got something right. “Good. I figured it would be fun, and we could talk. It’s hard to talk during movies and stuff, you know?”
The small talk is excruciating. I want to tell her my side of things, declare my feelings for her, beg her to come back home.
But I’m going at Rory’s pace, and if that means forcing myself to slow down, that’s what I’ll do.
All I need from her right now is to head in the same direction as me. She doesn’t need to be all the way there yet.
“Bowling is always fun. I haven’t gone in years, but I thought it was fun as a kid, you know? I mean, I’ve gone a few times in the past years. But nothing serious. Not like a bowling league with matching shirts or anything.”
She’s babbling again, and I let her chatter for a minute or so.
At the same time, though, I know that she rambles when she’s nervous, and that the rambling makes her more nervous, so eventually I cut in.
“Want to hear about my visit to the school with Ollie?” I ask, breaking into her spiral.
Rory nods gratefully.
I spend most of the drive telling her about our time at the elementary school, embellishing details and dramatizing the retelling.
By the time I mention unicorn farts as we’re pulling into the parking lot, I get a hint of a real smile.
It’s a start.
“I’ll take size twelve, and then…a women’s eight?” I look down at Rory.
It’s not like her shoe size would have changed, of course. But Rory is grasping for a sense of control here, so I’m doing my best to offer it anywhere I can.
She nods. “Eight and a half.”
When the high school kid working the counter turns around to find the right sizes, she finally turns to me.
“I don’t think my shirt really goes with bowling shoes, huh?” she whispers.
I bump her with my hip, glad she’s gotten a little more comfortable, at least enough to joke with me. “It’ll look great.”
It’s not like I need to confirm my opinion, but I take the time to really study her outfit.
Fitted jeans, that seem like they were made for her.
Ankle boots with a heel that give her at least an extra two inches.
And the shirt.
As I really take it in for the first time, my first thought is who the fuck cares if it matches bowling shoes?
The material is this hot pink color–not quite neon, but darker–that highlights every one of her features. The fabric cascades over her curves, highlighting every single one.
It’s stunning.
And at the same time, the fact that I’ve never seen this shirt before hits me like a stab to the gut.
Did she go shopping without me? How does she have clothes that I haven’t seen?
I used to know everything about Rory, and the shirt seems to be mocking me.
This is what you can’t have.
You don’t know her anymore.
She’s not yours.
The kid working the rental counter sets two pairs of shoes in front of us: maroon, gray, and navy leather, with a Velcro closure and a beige sole.
Rory might be right, after all. I don’t know that anyone’s outfit really looks good with these as an accessory.
But, then, I’m not going to lie: I kind of like that the shoes, ugly as they may be, are flats. They’ll put Rory back at her usual height, without the extra inches from those boots.
I have nothing against the boots, really. They gave Rory this extra length to her legs, and the way she flaunted it was everything.
But given a choice, I’ll take Rory at her natural height, no heels involved, because at that height, her head tucks right against my shoulder in the perfect spot. When we hug, my chin can rest on the top of her head.
It’s like we were made for one another, fitting together exactly right.
We’re still a perfect match. I just need her to see it.
I fasten my own rental shoes, which don’t add much style to my outfit, either, although the jeans and gray T-shirt were never going to win any fashion awards.
While Rory picks out her ball, I order us a couple of beers and then enter our names into the scoring system, setting it so that Rory is up first.
“All set?” I ask as she walks up, holding a bright-pink ball.
“Yep.” She hefts the ball in her arms, and as she does, I realize she’s picked a twelve-pound one.
It seems a bit on the heavy side, especially given my choice of a ten-pounder. I wonder if I should say something.
There’s a fine line between mansplaining, questioning, being curious, and meddling, and I’ve never been great at identifying exactly where that line lands.
So for the sake of our not-really-a-first-date, I say nothing about the excessive weight of her ball. She’ll either figure it out, or she won’t.
I lean back in the plastic chair, proud of myself for making the right decision to say nothing.
Strong work, Nate.
Rory steps up to the alley, studying the pins like a seasoned pro. She brings her arm back slightly, getting some momentum, then lets go of the ball as she swings forward.
The ball tumbles gracefully from her fingers and lands in the center of the lane with a resounding thud. It slowly makes its way along the polished surface for a few feet, only to veer off into the gutter before it gets even halfway to the pins.
I press my lips together.
Don’t say anything about the stupid ball or how much it weighs.
“Good try,” I say.
“Darn.” She plants her hands on her hips. “Two tries per turn, though, right?”
“Yep.” I point to the ball return, where her ball is popping up. “You’ve got this. Aim right for the center.”
Probably the most obvious and least helpful piece of information I could have offered.
This is why we keep our mouths shut, Nate. No more mansplaining.
With the second roll, Rory repeats her performance. Nice form, heavy thud, the ball slowly meandering down the alley.
This time though, it doesn’t fall into the gutter. The too-heavy hot pink ball grasps onto the edge of the alley for dear life as it reaches the pins, knocking one down before it accepts its fate.
Rory claps her hands. “Hey, it’s better than nothing!”
I love her spirit. I’m glad she’s not taking this too seriously, either.
I wasn’t sure how tonight would go, but so far, despite the initial awkwardness, we seem to be settling back into a comfortable pattern of friendship, at the very least.
Rory rolls her shoulder as she looks at the ball return, waiting for that stupid pink ball. “I’m going to grab a lighter ball, too. Just in case.”
I hold back a smile. It’s less that I’m happy about her picking a different ball–honestly, she can do what she wants–and more that I’m glad I was right.
I do still know Rory.
She checks out the different options on the rack behind our alley, and she settles on one that’s a pale blue by the time I’ve taken my turn, the two rolls scoring me a whopping three points.
“Maybe I’ll have better luck with this ball.” She goes through the motions again.
On her first try, the new ball takes almost the same path as the first, rolling right into the gutter after a tentative trip down the lane.
Maybe if she rolled it a little harder?
Rory shrugs, smiling as she walks back toward me after knocking down two pins on her second roll for a total of three for this turn.
“Well, I guess I won’t be winning any Olympic medals for bowling anytime soon, huh?”
I laugh with her as I stand up to take my turn. I take down six pins, then two more with my next roll for a total of eight.
Looks like I’m not destined for the Olympics, either.
Rory picks up her ball and steps toward the lane, still giggling.
I love that she’s getting more comfortable. But at the same time, I want to make sure I don’t end up squarely in the friend zone, and we all know there’s a delicate balance.
Don’t get me wrong. I’d rather be friends with Rory than nothing. I’ll take anything that will keep her in my life.
But if she gives me an opening to hint that she’d like to be more than friends, I’m taking it.
And right now, I see that opening.
A way to get close to her, regain some trust, without seeming like the only thing I’m trying to do is touch her. Or mansplain. Either could be a dealbreaker.
I walk up behind her as she stands, waiting for the machine to reset the pins so she can roll the ball.
“You want to bring your arm back farther when you roll. It’ll give you more momentum.”
“Okay.” She nods but doesn’t look at me as she hefts her ball, elbow bent.