42. Patrick

Iwas proud of myself.

I only changed outfits twice before settling on a deep emerald polo shirt and khaki pants. Dane had teased me about my tan-on-tan safari outfit, so I thought he might enjoy this little jungle guide number. Dark green made my hair and eyes pop.

The bowling alley was quiet, which was strange for a place that specialized in the hurling of heavy balls down wooden alleys to slam into plastic or metal—what were pins made of?

Anyway, the quiet was eerie.

It was a Tuesday night, so I figured most Atlantans were either stuck in traffic or had just gotten home from a long day's work and were foraging for food.

I didn't eat before leaving my apartment. I didn't want to risk Dane being hungry and me being full and the awkwardness that would follow as I stared blankly, watching him shove meat into his mouth and chew.

God, I was rambling in my own mind.

My palms were clammy, so I wiped them on the back of my pants, down below the knee so I wouldn't wrinkle the part where they clung to my butt. Dane liked my ass.

My Diet Coke and pineapple concoction had just the right amount of Jack Daniels to be both delicious and calming. It had a bendy straw. I loved how they crinkled when I curved them toward my mouth.

A chime sounded, more like the tinkling of a rude little bell, announcing another patron had arrived. I nearly knocked over my drink wheeling about.

Two teens entered, a boy of around fifteen and his date, I assumed, a girl who looked a little older.

"Cradle robber," I mumbled, grinning to myself, remembering how young love felt.

That made me think of Dane and how he made me feel. My heart fluttered.

I glanced at my watch. "It's just seven-oh-five. Relax, Patrick."

I watched the doting teens awkwardly lace their fingers together. It might've been the first time the freckled boy had ever held hands with a girl. Between the Jack Daniels and the Disney-level cuteness overload, I had barely noticed time tick by.

At seven twenty, I checked my phone. No message.No calls. No missed anything.

My heart sank.

"It's still early. Give him time." To remain positive and hopeful, I ordered another drink. Pineapple and Diet Coke sounded so weird when I read it on the board, but the mixture was named "Pi?a Cokel?da" and I couldn't resist.

The chime sounded again, this time heralding the arrival of a bowling team, four burly men who looked like lumberjacks stuffed into bowling shirts made by Abercrombie. Fur and fat rolls poured out of every opening, some of which weren't part of their shirts' designs. They laughed and teased, and I swear one of the men's voices was higher pitched than Lucy when she got her skirt stuck in the oven.

"The queens have arrived." I saluted with my glass, which was again half empty.

At precisely seven thirty-two, a boy with foppish hair and more acne than should infest any human face saddled up to my high-top. "Still want me to hold lane six?"

His eyes traveled from me to the open lane surrounded by other bowlers. It was one of the few still unoccupied.

"Can we give it a few more minutes?"

He nodded. "You've paid for the hour, so sure. Just thought I'd ask."

He shuffled back to his desk and pretended to busy himself arranging shoes in cubby holes. That made me glance down at my own shoes. I grinned, a sad, almost somber thing. I'd bought those shoes for our date, our first real date. I'd cleared out a pair of dress shoes in the front of my closet just so I had to see them every morning when I got ready for work. They made me think of Dane. That made each morning better … until it didn't. After the article, seeing them just made me sad.

I clicked them together, hoping Dorothy's magic had found its way into my not-so-ruby slippers.

The clicks didn't do anything but make a little noise, and even that was drowned out by rolling balls and rattling pins.

My second drink was empty.

I ordered a third and a basket of onion rings, an appetizer of fried cheese sticks, and a soft pretzel with creamy cheese sauce for dipping. If Dane was done with me, I would sulk like a champ. Abs be damned. If they'd had tater tots, I would've left the security of my table and sat at the bar, just to be closer to the fried goodness coming out of the kitchen. Alas, the rings would have to do.

The young couple caught my eye again. They were bowling on lane four, a couple of spots down from our empty aisle. Most of their time was spent awkwardly avoiding bumping into each other as they switched positions; bowling to scorekeeping and back. The boy looked so nervous at one point, I thought he might puke right there on the hardwood. The girl displayed the grace of a princess at a ball.

"So sweet," I muttered, my head now resting firmly in my palms, elbows dug into the tabletop. I fiddled with my straw, moving ice cubes around what remained in my glass, and watched the show.

The rings went fast. Nothing says love like fried onion circles, especially dipped in ranch or thousand island. The pretzel was lukewarm, and its dip was almost congealed, so I focused on the cheese sticks. I was fairly certain they were the gourmet microwave variety, but damn, they were good. I'd just stuffed half of the second one into my chipmunk cheeks when the door chimed again.

A few seconds later …

"You leave me any of those?"

I jumped so hard, I nearly hit my knees on the underside of the table. The poor pretzel flew into the walkway between the lanes and the bar, and my glass tipped over, sending ice cubes in all directions. Thankfully, I had finished my drink. There would be no alcohol abuse on my watch.

"Oh, hi. Um, sorry, shit. You startled me." I fumbled for the pretzel, leaning over the banister and stretching with everything I had, but it was well out of reach.

Dane's infectious grin widened. "Sorry. Didn't mean to. Was I supposed to throw food too? Is that a thing here now?"

I wiped the cheese from my lips and righted my glass. "No, I don't think so. Well, I mean, I guess it is. I just did."

I was so flustered that words just fell out of my mouth. There was no thought, no time to order them or offer intent. They just tumbled like a pretzel on well-worn carpet.

My face felt redder than that carpet too. I tried to meet Dane's eyes, but the whole place was a little fuzzy and starting to spin.

"Easy there." A firm hand gripped my arm, guiding me back onto the stool. "How many of those have you had to drink?"

I held up the Boy Scout sign then spread my fingers. "I think the last one was a dupe … a copy …"

"A double?" he chuckled.

I nodded.

His deep rumble grew louder, and his teeth flashed in the dim lights.

Great. He's laughing at me.

I looked back at the table, cluttered with half-eaten cheese sticks and remnants of onion rings. When I turned back, Dane had stepped closer. Irish Spring and … cologne? Dane was wearing Drakkar? Do they even still sell that stuff?

Memories of high school and big hair flashed in my mind—memories of my first crush and his old Camero. Peter? Paul? Poopie?

I giggled. It wasn't Poopie.

"Something funny?" Dane asked.

"I said Poopie," slipped out.

Between the utter rubbish of my comment, the alcohol in the three drinks, and the confusion that blanketed his face, I lost it. Bowlero was suddenly the funniest place on the planet. If they'd had comedians performing, it wouldn't have made me laugh more. And the best part was, the harder I laughed, the more confused Dane looked, which made me laugh even harder.

"Oh my god, Poopie. I said poopie." I was wheezing. Tears were streaming. The cute little prepubescent couple was staring.

And Dane was stunned "Maybe we should get you a water?"

"Oh no you don't." I stumbled forward, bracing myself with a palm to his chest.

Damn, he was hard and big and beefy. I let my fingers squeeze a little. Heat rushed through me, and my jeans tightened.

Dane gripped my shoulders and held me away from him.

"We need to bowl, poopie pants," I said, immediately cursing my rebellious mouth. "You come late, you get bowled on. Them's the rules."

Was I really drunk? I didn't feel drunk. Dane felt drunk. No, Dane felt hard. Wait, I was hard. I felt that when I touched him. I got all tingly down under, like an Aussie pee-pee.

I giggled.

"Do I want to know?" Dane asked.

"Nope. Bowl time, big boy. Suit up!"

I think he sighed. It might've been a laugh or a grunt. I wasn't sure.

"I have my shoes on already."

My eyes flew south and …

"Holy shit." I covered my mouth with one palm. My eyes had bugged out and were now fixed on Dane's. I mumbled through my hand.

He grinned, reached up, and removed my hand from my mouth. "Try that again."

"You wore them."

He looked down and clicked his heels together, just like I had. "I can't believe you got me shoes with the logo and all. They're pretty cool."

My heart soared. Did this mean … was he not still mad or … holy shit, he wore the shoes.

"We still have a lot to talk about. And no, I haven't forgiven you. Not yet, at least, but you need to be sober for all that. Let's go bowl. You should be fun to watch, even if the bowling sucks."

"Hey! I'm gonna lick your ass!" I screamed, loud enough to turn heads.

A crimson flush invaded every inch of Dane. "Kick. You're gonna kick my ass." Then he leaned in and whispered, "We're nowhere near the licking stage again."

"Oh, right. All kicky, no licky."

Dane chuckled as he wrapped an arm around my waist and guided me to the lane. I could've died right then and lived a happy life. I wanted to melt into his arms and sleep forever.

Dane was sitting in the scorekeeper's seat when my eyes fluttered open.

"Dane?" I glanced around. The lanes were packed, with more people waiting to bowl at the bar. Eighties pop music blasted over the speakers, and the smell of fried food overwhelmed everything. "Oh god, I think I'm gonna be sick."

Dane shot forward, trash can in hand. "I've got you. Aim here."

I startled at his hand cradling my neck. And yet, it was so comforting—or distracting—that the nausea subsided.

"Here." He reached back to the scorekeeper's table and retrieved a glass of something clear. "Drink a little water. Go slow."

I bent the straw, enjoying the crinkly noise, and sipped. The icy cold felt good. "How long was I out?"

"Long enough for me to bowl two seventy-four, then two eighty-nine, then two seventy-three."

"Holy shit."

"About me bowling three games while you were passed out?"

"No, those scores. That's professional level, isn't it?"

Dane shrugged. "Told you I grew up with it. Guess it comes back pretty quick."

"We should take you on the road, make money on this."

He chuckled. "We should, should we?"

The way he said "we" was odd. I couldn't read if he was annoyed or amused, maybe a little of both. I had passed out drunk the moment he'd arrived.

"Sorry I was such a mess when you got here," I said, sitting up.

"It's my fault. I'd decided not to come, but … I guess I changed my mind. By the time that happened, I was already thirty minutes late."

"You weren't coming?"

He shook his head slowly. "I was still pissed. I guess I still am. I didn't think … there just didn't seem any way I could trust you again. I didn't see a point in trying."

His words hit harder than my headache. I stared into his eyes. His jaw was set, but there was something—a question—in his gaze. No, not a question. Doubt. He wasn't sure about something. Was it coming here? Was he questioning that decision? Or was he unsure about shutting me out?

God, I know we don't talk much, but if you ever loved me, please let it be that last thing. Let his doubts be about giving me a second chance. Please, please, please.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

I rubbed my temples with the heel of my palms. "Like you dropped me off one of your ladders, but I'll live."

"You feel okay to talk?"

God yes! "Sure."

"There's a back room where they throw kids' birthday parties. There shouldn't be anyone back there this time of night. You okay going back there, just so we can actually hear each other?"

"Yeah, of course. Lead the way."

We racked our balls. Well, I racked mine. His was personalized and went back into the fancy leather bag he carried. He said something to the acne-clad teen behind the desk, calling him by name, then led me through the arcade to a small room with fold-up tables and short plastic chairs. Murals of purple dinosaurs, princesses, and odd-looking sea creatures covered the walls in a vivid display of prime colors.

Dane shut the door behind us then pulled up a chair made for a five-year-old, flipped it around, and sat with its back facing me. It looked more like an oversized cup he might wear playing sports than a chair.

I grabbed a larger chair, probably for a parent, and sat normally.

He was guarded behind plastic. I was exposed. I prayed our seating wasn't foreshadowing of the conversation to come.