Page 50 of Dearly Unbeloved
Rose and I are last up in the lineup of bowlers: Jazz, Liam, Maggie, Cal, Xan, and Kami all go before us. I like Kami, but she’s god-awful at bowling. She struggles to pick a ball, then drops her choice before making it to the end ofthe lane. It does nothing to diminish her enjoyment, though—she laughs it off, joking with Xan that she hasn’t improved since they were kids. And Xan takes full advantage, grabbing the ball before it rolls away and standing behind her as she bowls, his hand against the small of her back, giving her tips on her form.
I watch as his thumb brushes the edges of her burgundy braids, a wide smile stretching over his face when she knocks down half the pins. He raises his hand for a high five, but Kami hugs him instead, and it’s like a lightbulb goes off in my head.
“I’ve never done this before,” I say, and Rose turns to me, frowning.
“You’ve never bowled?”
“Nope. Anything I need to know? I just throw the ball, right?”
Her eyes widen. “Please don’t throw the ball. Youbowlthe ball.”
I do my best impression of clueless.
Of course I’ve bowled before—my dad was obsessed with our local bowling alley’s nachos growing up, and we were there pretty much every weekend until they changed the salsa they used.
“What does that mean?”
“You want to build up momentum when you swing back, then push it through the air.”
I continue my confused facade. “That sounds a lot like throwing it.”
“No, no, it’s like... Okay, watch me.”
There are a few things about Rose Cannon that no onecould ever dispute: she loves to be the best at things, and she loves telling people (mostly me) what to do. And both are enough to distract her from how overstimulating this place is.
The most surprising thing is that she’s not a bad teacher—when I’m not being too stubborn to let her teach me, that is. Rose patiently explains what she’s doing as she picks up her ball and takes her position at the end of the lane.
She bowls a perfect strike. Of course she does.
When it’s my turn, she hovers by my side while I look through the balls. I already know I’m going to pick the shiny orange one Maggie used, but I weigh up a couple before asking her which one I should choose.
“Put your fingers there—don’t,” she warns when I open my mouth to make a joke. “Okay, how does that feel?”
“It feels a little loose. Like it could slip.”
“Not that one.” She takes it and glances over the other balls. Her eyes zero in on the orange, and she checks the weight before handing it over. “Try that.”
I slide my fingers into the ball—the jokes really do write themselves. “That feels good. Tight, but not too tight. I feel like I have good control,” I say, rotating my wrist.
Rose follows me to the end of the lane, talking a mile a minute about velocity and angles and a bunch of other stuff that makes no sense to me, but she no longer seems stressed, so it’s working.
I plant my feet, and she adjusts my stance. I do a test swing, and she wraps her arms around me from behind, directing me like we’re in an early 2000s rom-com and she’s teaching me how to play pool.
She smells so good, feels so goodwrapped around me, that I don’t want her to let go. But she does, reminding me to aim for the gap between the pins, and I let the ball fly.
Badly. Very, very badly. It rolls along the gutter and doesn’t take down a single pin, because years of bowling practice as a kid didn’t prepare me for how to aim when Rose clasps the back of my neck, her thumb pressing into the clasp of my collar, and murmurs, “You’ve got this.”
I expect her to laugh at my attempt, but she shocks the hell out of me. “Don’t worry. You’ll get them on the next one.”
She squeezes my neck before heading off to retrieve my ball, and I suck in a deep breath. I was supposed to be calming her down, not riling myself up. Fuck. I don’t like how easy it’s become for her to distract me.
“Let’s try again,” she says, her voice soothing.
I swear I’ve unlocked a side of Rose I only ever see in bed—a patient side. Since she mentioned the promotion, I’ve had a few doubts about her in a leadership role at work, but I can see it. She’s a good teacher.
Her hand is glued to my back as I swing the ball.
“Rose?”
