Chapter 19 Garrett #2
The duckpin lanes are tiny. The balls fit in my hand. The pins wobble like they’re waiting to be knocked over by accident.
Sloane goes first, clutching the ball like it might detonate. Her wind-up is half shot put, half kitchen disaster.
She lets it fly. Three pins go down.
“That’s your approach?” I ask, barely holding in a laugh.
“It worked.”
“Barely.”
“Your turn, hotshot.”
I pick up one of the miniature balls, testing its weight. “The key is follow-through,” I explain, lining up my shot. “You want to keep your arm straight, release at the bottom of your swing—”
My ball hits the gutter before it's halfway down the lane.
Sloane's laugh is immediate and completely unsympathetic. “Oh, that's precious. Please, continue with your expert instruction.”
“That was a warm-up.”
“Sure it was.”
My second shot clips two pins—practically a miracle, all things considered. “Better,” she says, patting my arm with mock encouragement. “You’re really improving.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I’m enjoying this exactly the right amount.”
When it's her turn again, I watch her adopt the same clumsy stance, and something protective stirs in me.
"Here, let me—"
I step behind her, and the world narrows to this: the warmth of her body just inches from mine, the subtle curve of her spine visible through the soft wool of her sweater.
My chest brushes against her back as I settle into position, and I feel her go completely still, like a deer sensing a predator—except there's nothing prey-like about the way her breath catches, sharp and expectant.
My arms come around hers, caging her in without trapping her, and the scent of her shampoo—something clean and citrusy—fills my senses.
It mingles with the faint trace of her perfume, that warm, subtle fragrance that's been driving me quietly insane all evening.
This close, I can feel the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat, can sense the way she's holding herself perfectly motionless, as if afraid that any movement might shatter whatever spell we've stumbled into.
My hands settle over hers on the miniature bowling ball, and the contrast hits me like a physical shock—my fingers, scarred and calloused from years of hockey, completely engulfing her smaller, softer hands.
The ball feels insignificant between our joined grip, just an excuse for this impossible intimacy in a public place where we should be maintaining distance.
"It's all in the follow-through," I murmur, my lips so close to her ear that I can feel the delicate shell of it warm against my breath. The words come out rougher than I intended, heavy with something that has nothing to do with bowling technique. "Let your arm swing naturally. Like a pendulum."
She shivers—just barely, but I feel it ripple through her entire frame where she's pressed against me.
The soft cashmere of her sweater is impossibly smooth under my palms as I guide her arms through the motion, and I have to fight the urge to let my hands drift, to explore the curve of her waist, the graceful line of her shoulders.
Slowly, deliberately, I guide her through the motion, my body moving with hers in a rhythm that feels dangerously intimate.
She leans into me—just slightly, just enough that I can feel the full length of her back against my chest—and the rest of the arcade dissolves into background noise.
The flashing lights, the electronic sounds, the handful of other patrons—all of it fades until there's nothing but her warmth, her scent, the soft catch of her breathing that tells me she's as affected by this as I am.
"Like that?" she asks, her voice softer now, breathier, and I can hear the question beneath the question, the awareness that we've crossed some invisible line between playful instruction and something far more dangerous.
"Exactly like that."
We’re not talking about bowling anymore. The ball sits forgotten in her hands as I turn her slightly, just enough that she has to look up to meet my eyes.
“Garrett...”
“Yeah?”
“We're in public.”
“I know.”
“Someone could see.”
“There's no one here but us and that kid who's been playing Guitar Hero for the past hour.”
She glances around the mostly empty arcade, then back at me. “This is dangerous.”
“This is duckpin bowling.”
“You know what I mean.”
I do. We're forty minutes outside Minneapolis, in a no-name arcade where no one knows or cares who we are. For once, there’s no spotlight, no team, no rules. Just us.
“Bowl,” I say, stepping back. Every instinct wants to stay close, but I let her go.
Her form is flawless this time. The ball arcs down the lane and crashes into the pins, clearing half the deck.
“Much better,” I say.
“Good teacher.”
“Motivated student.”
We finish the game—she wins, obviously—and head to the prize counter with our tickets. The teenage attendant stares at us, dead-eyed, as we dump them on the counter.
“How many?” he mumbles. “Four hundred thirty-two,” Sloane announces. She’d been counting, of course.
I scan the shelves, ignoring the practical prizes—keychains, stress balls, flashlights.
“That one,” I say, pointing to the largest, most absurd prize available: a giant, electric-blue sloth that's approximately the size of a small child.
“Seriously?” the kid asks.
“Seriously.”
“Garrett, what am I supposed to do with that?” Sloane protests as he uses a telescoping pole to retrieve it. “He’s our son,” I declare, accepting the sloth with mock solemnity. “Our… son?”
“Our secret sloth-child. A tribute to tonight’s triumph.” I bow as I hand him over. “What shall we name him?”
She stares at the absurd thing, then at me. Her expression shifts. The careful guard she always wears slips, replaced by something simple and bright: joy. “Steve,” she says, hugging the sloth’s fuzzy bulk. “His name is Steve.”
“Steve the Secret Sloth.”
“Steve the Secret Sloth,” she repeats, and when she smiles at me over his plush blue head, I swear I could take on an entire playoff team solo.
The drive back feels like floating. Steve's buckled in behind us, and Sloane's thumb traces lazy circles on my palm where our hands rest on the console. Every red light becomes a small gift—another excuse to steal glances at her profile in the dashboard glow, to watch the way she smiles at nothing.
Neither of us mentions that we should probably let go. That someone might see.
When I pull up to her building, she doesn't reach for the door handle. Just sits there, still holding my hand, staring up at the familiar brick facade like she's seeing it for the first time.
I scan the street automatically—empty sidewalks, no late-night dog walkers, no cars idling with phones pointed our way. Her building sits tucked back from the main road, shielded by mature trees that cast everything in shadow. Safe.
"Steve's going to need an escort," I say.
"Definitely a two-person job." But she's grinning when she says it.
Getting him out of the backseat is ridiculous. His massive blue limbs catch on everything—the seatbelt, the door frame, my jacket. Sloane dissolves into giggles when his fuzzy head gets stuck, and I have to physically wrestle our stuffed son free while she steadies his body from the other side.
"Our parenting skills need work," she gasps, still laughing.
"We'll figure it out."
The words slip out easier than they should. She goes quiet, but not the bad kind. The kind that feels like settling.
We duck into the shadowed alcove by her door, hidden from the street by a brick overhang. She props Steve against the frame like he's standing guard. Her keys jingle in her hand, but she doesn't use them. Just turns to face me in the dim light.
"Thank you," she says. "For tonight."
I want to tell her it was nothing. That I'd drive to a hundred arcades, win a thousand giant sloths, just to see her laugh like that again. Instead, I step closer.
"Thank you for saying yes."
"Even though you gave me no choice?"
"Especially because of that."
She looks up at me, and something shifts in her face. The guarded look she wears everywhere—gone. Just Sloane, relaxed and real, standing in the glow of a streetlight like she's exactly where she wants to be.
My hand finds her cheek. Her skin's warm and impossibly soft.
"Garrett."
The way she says my name—not rushed, not whispered like a secret she shouldn't be telling. Just my name, steady and sure.
She rises on her toes and kisses me.
My world tilts.
Her lips move against mine without urgency, without the frantic edge of stolen moments. Her hands slide up my chest, fingers curling into my jacket, and I taste cotton candy and possibility. When I pull her closer, she melts into me like she belongs there.
Like we have all the time in the world.
When we break apart, I don't step back. Can't. Her forehead rests against mine, and I count the gold flecks in her eyes while we share the same breath.
Her keys catch what little light filters into our hidden alcove.
"Garrett."
"Yeah?"
She doesn't step back either. Just looks up at me like she's making a decision that could change everything.
The key slides into the lock with a soft click.
Her eyes never leave mine as the door swings open.