Easy. Sweet. And exactly what I need.
"I reserved a lane for an hour," Patrick tells us. Before you ask, yes we're going bowling. And yes, my arm is broken and currently wrapped in a cast. And no, it wasn't my idea. Do you think I have a death wish?
The cashier gives me an incredibly dubious look as Patrick helps me shrug off my coat, and I walk up to the counter asking for a size eight shoe.
"I'm right handed," I mumble with a shrug, holding up my broken left hand. She doesn't say anything. She just hands me the shoes with a smirk. I snatch them and walk away, following Patrick to our lane and leaving Aubrey and Ollie to follow behind.
"One hour, huh?" I ask Patrick as we sit down.
He smirks. "I figured we might sneak away after and grab some dinner on our own."
"Sounds perfect to me." And really, I couldn't appreciate him more in that moment. One hour. I can make it through one measly hour. No big deal.
"So, who wants to go first?" Ollie asks when he and Aubrey arrive.
Patrick is already working the monitor, setting up our names. "I thought you might," he says, overly generous. And I look up to see the order is Ollie, Patrick, Aubrey, and then me—last, just like I asked. I mean, really it's just prolonging the inevitable. But still…
Oh, did I not tell you I can't bowl?
Well, we'll get to that.
Ollie walks up, grabs the heaviest ball on the rack, and steps forward smoothly, releasing. Strike. Aubrey lifts her hand for a high five and the two of them smile at each other.
My stomach recoils.
"Nice shot," Patrick murmurs, standing.
Ollie raises his eyebrows, gesturing to the lane. "All you."
I'll admit, a tingle of nerves pricks my heart as Patrick steps up and a strange sense of competitiveness tightens my chest. I want to win. I want to beat Ollie. I want Patrick to be better.
He grabs the same ball as Ollie and lines up. Step. Step. Step. Release. His leg swooshes back in perfect form and…
Strike!
I jump up, cheering, and give him a kiss as soon as he turns around, throwing my arms around his neck. Okay, maybe a slight overreaction, but every nerve in my body snaps all at once, and there's nothing else I can think to do to release all of this pent up energy. And besides, he just looks so adorably kissable when he turns around with a look of complete triumph.
But as soon as we break away, I can't help it. A blush creeps all the way up my cheeks and embarrassment warms my skin. My eyes slip to the side, running into Ollie's furious glare. A thrill shoots up my spine, bringing a grin to my lips. But I break contact, tearing my gaze away and turn around.
Whoa—what the heck did that mean?
Did I make him jealous? Was I trying to make him jealous? Or was that just overprotective Ollie once more—older brother Ollie?
I sit back down, folding my hands in my lap, biting my lip as I stare at the floor. Patrick follows, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and easing back as Aubrey takes the floor.
She bowls a spare. I wince. Does the girl need to be stunning and talented and a good bowler? Aren’t the first two enough?
"You're up, Skye," Ollie prods, teasing. His turquoise eyes dance in the dark, fiery with anticipation.
Patrick gives my shoulder a squeeze, whispering, "You got this."
I walk up, every step a resounding thump in my chest as the rest of the room goes so silent that I can hear myself breathe.
Seven-pound ball? No. Hot pink and way too girly.
Eight-pounder…okay, never mind. Whose fingers are that small?
I grab the nine-pound ball, not really at all sure what I'm doing as I slip my thumb and two other fingers into the slots.
Be the ball.
Breathe.
Be the ball.
Okay, let's get back to what I said earlier. I have no idea how to bowl. I mean, sure I've gone before—with Ollie I might add, hence the smirk burning my back right now—but the whole one-handed throw thing has alluded me for my entire life. I'm more of the squat and use two hands sort of bowler, but the cast wrapping around my left hand has kind of made that option obsolete.
How hard can this be, really?
Just breathe.
I line up, copying everyone else's movements and hold the ball up at my chest. Okay, step. Step. Step. Swing. I throw my arm back.
Whoa!
That ball is way heavier than I anticipated and I stumble, squeezing my fingers for dear life, just barely able to keep the bowling ball from flying backward out of my palm.
Someone snickers.
I don't need to turn around to see who.
A moment later, after a few shaky steps, I try again, a little more prepared. Step. Step. Step. Swing. Release!
And I do it, the ball actually leaves my hand and lands in the center of the lane with a resounding thud. And it rolls. And it rolls.
Oh no.
It's sliding. It's slipping. It's—
Gutter.
I deflate.
"You can do this," Patrick says from behind. I close my eyes, grabbing a different ball, and wait for the light to go back on at the end of the lane. I line up again, throw…
Gutter.
This is going to be a long night.
"Good try," Patrick says, smiling as I take my seat.
"When did you start bowling one handed?" Ollie asks.
I turn to him, glaring under hooded brows. "You missed a lot while you were living in California."
"Maybe." He shrugs, easing up from his seat. "But some things never change, Skye." And then he turns his back on me, stepping onto the lane to bowl.
Strike.
Why am I not surprised?
"So, we're supposed to be getting to know each other, right?" Ollie says as he sits back down, a little smug with his scorecard. "Well here's a juicy tidbit. I was Skylar's first kiss."
I immediately jolt out of my seat. "You were not!" Is he seriously bringing this up right now? Here? "Charlie Saunders was my first kiss. Ninth grade, truth or dare, and it was horrible."
I sit back down, breathing heavily, and realize a thick silence has settled in the wake of my outburst. I glance at Ollie and his eyes are wide, shocked, a little troubled. I flick my gaze to Patrick whose eyes have narrowed to pin pricks. Aubrey is chewing her lower lip, eying me like new competition. And then I understand. Idiot!
Denial.
Denial was the correct approach. Because now, hanging unsaid in the air between us, is the question of what number Ollie was. I never said that it didn’t happen. I just said that it didn’t happen first. And that's a huge difference.
Crap.
"I mean, what are you even talking about?" I continue, mumbling, hoping my voice doesn’t sound as shaky as my fingers. "We've never kissed ever." The words sound lame even to me.
But Ollie takes it in stride, leaning back with a wide smile. "Of course we have, I'm heartbroken you don't remember. Fifth grade, Valentine's Day…"
I release the tension in my body, breathing normally again—of course he's talking about that and not the other thing. Of course. Ollie likes to tease, but he's not mean spirited about it. I smile as the memory trickles to the forefront of my thoughts. "I was in second grade and you were in fifth grade, and in the middle of recess, Bridge and I snuck onto the big kid playground to give you our valentines."
"And," he says, taking over the story, "Bridge gave me a big kiss on the cheek when she gave me her valentine, so when you gave me yours you leaned in for the same, copying her, but you missed and hit my lips instead."
"I think you're forgetting the ending to that story…" I trail off, waiting.