Page 36 of Blocked Score

“Like, you don’t have a lucky pair of socks that you have to wear? Or a receipt from a store you shopped at on the day of your biggest win ever that you keep in your pocket on game day? Not even a particular song you listen to before a big game?”

“Nope. Preparation and focus are what bring home wins, not illogical superstitions. Like, look at this place,” Lane says, coming to a halt as we pass a tiny storefront wedged between an ice cream shop and a dog groomer that advertises psychic readings. “People come in here just hoping to hear that what they want in their lives is fated to happen to them, so they don’t have to work for it.”

My brow creases. “I think most people who go to these places just think it’ll be fun. Like for a laugh on a night out after having a couple drinks. What’s wrong with doing something just for amusement?”

“Yeah, like fleecing drunk college kids of their money is any better.”

I grab his wrist. “Come on,” I say, pulling him across the street.

“What? Where are you dragging me?”

“The bar,” I announce, having just spotted a divey-looking place called Tall Mike’s across the street. “We’re going to become two of those drunk college students you’re talking about, then we’re going to get our fortunes read, and you’ll see that it’s fun.”

“You want to get drunk?” Lane asks, like he’s absolutely scandalized at the idea since the sun’s still out.

“Oh no, it’s a weeknight, we have class tomorrow, better only drink skim milk all day long. And make sure we eat our vegetables for dinner.” I deepen my voice to mock Lane’s tone.

“I do not sound like that,” Lane says with a flat expression as I drag him across the street, though I catch the glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

A cheerful warmth envelopes us when we step into the bar. Is there anything cozier than being in a snug, warmly-lit dive bar on a cold winter evening?

Even though it’s still early, there are several other people here, though it’s not packed like I’m sure it is on a Friday or Saturday night. Just enough fellow patrons to make us not feel like degenerates for drinking right as the sun’s sinking below the horizon on a Wednesday.

To Lane’s credit, he’s not too much of a stick in the mud to sit at the bar next to me and order a drink. I cheers him and take a sip.

“You really want us to go to that stupid place after this drink?” Lane asks, like he’s still thinking I must be joking.

“No. I want us to have another drink after this one. Then maybe another.ThenI want us to go to the fortune teller’s. If you’re tipsy, maybe it’ll soften the steel rod up your ass enough for you to enjoy it.”

“Smart. Knowing that I’m going to be hungover in my eight-am class tomorrow will make getting scammed out of my money evenmorefun,” he snarks. But when I side-eye him, I can see that he’s got a dry grin on his face.

After a couple sips of beer, I’m feeling emboldened enough to say, “You know, Lane, I happen to know you’re notasdull and uptight as you like to let on.”

Touching on our past feels like wandering too close to a livewire crackling with deadly current.

Lane takes a gulp of his drink. “I have been known to let loose on occasions.” His eyes rake down my body, searing me where they weigh, and I wonder if the same memories are currently flashing in his head that are in mine.

“Assaulting a bouncer or two,” I reminisce in a sing-song voice. If we’re going to indulge in a memory, it’s better if it’s one of the goofier ones rather than one involving hard or wet body parts.

“Spraying someone with mustard is not assault!” Lane retorts. “And there’s noor two. It was just the one.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to segue into asking him how he’s been for the last year and a half. But luckily, I haven’t consumed enough alcohol yet. My better judgment immediately pumps those breaks because it knows that question will only make me reflect on the miserable year and a half I had between then and now.

Plus, I don’t want Lane to think our time together meant as much to me as it did. I don’t want him to know how much I’ve been thinking about it, dwelling on it, in the time since. I don’t want things between us to get awkward.

Instead, I switch tracks, and we talk about Cedar Shade. I ask him about his favorite spots, hidden gems, and what places different types of people tend to congregate on a Friday or Saturday night.

Slipping back into a normal conversation feels surprisingly comfortable, like how my feet felt slipping into those roomy shoes he bought me on the day of that sudden summer downpour in Chicago.

Ugh. That’s one of those memories I need to hold at bay, especially when I’m so close to Lane that I can see the gold flecks in his green eyes. Remembering that day is dangerous for my heart.

By the time we pay our tab, I’m feeling tipsy. Those small dumplings we had at the ramen place were all I ate since this morning.

Outside, the sky is now an inky black, and the street is lined with rich, orange halos from the streetlights. A neon signadvertising psychic readings glows in the tiny window of the shop across the street.

“Ready to have your mind blown?” I ask Lane, who rolls his eyes in response.

I go to step off the curb to cross the street, but sparks shoot up my arm when Lane wraps his hand around my wrist to hold me back. The two drinks I just had make it impossible for me to resist reveling in how good the firm, warm pressure of his grip feels.

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