Page 24 of Not Your Valentine
Yep, Taylor threw a spare and I threw a gutter ball.
“Don’t say anything!” I snap.
“I wasn’t going to.”
It’s a good thing I’m not super competitive. Well, I am when I play games with Shirley, but in general, I’m not too competitive. If I were, I might be even more disappointed in myself.
I make a show of stretching my arms over my head. “It takes me a while to warm up.”
Indeed, I do better on the second bowl: I knock down two pins.
“It requires a lot of skill to knock down only two out of ten pins,” I say.
“I’m sure it does.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“I would never,” Taylor says. “I’ll get you a heart-shaped chocolate cake with extra sprinkles afterward. Does that sound like mocking?”
I growl at him.
He throws another spare, and I take another picture of him.
Why is his ass exactly in the middle of the picture? Hmm. Weird.
After that, I stop taking photos and focus on the game. On my next turn, I manage to knock down five pins. The score isn’t close, but I’m happy that I’m no longer making a total embarrassment of myself.
On my final turn, the ball knocks over nine pins—no, ten!
I actually squeal. “I got a strike!”
Before I can think about what I’m doing, I skip over to Taylor, pull him up from the seat, and throw my arms around him.
Okay, what?
Sure, Taylor and I give each other quick goodbye hugs, but this isn’t a quick hug; I still have my arms around him, and it feels really good. But even though I’m aware of what’s happening and that it’s out of the ordinary, I don’t move.
A lingering hug is appropriate for people who are dating, isn’t it? That must be why I’m doing this: I’m a really good actress.
But he has a clean, soapy scent, and I feel the need to just burrow into him. Get as close as possible. Have him unzip his hoodie and wrap the sides of it around me.
“Helen?” Taylor sounds vaguely amused but not unhappy with our current position. His lips are close to my ear, and it would be so easy to turn and plant a kiss on his lips…
Okay, my brain is taking things a little far. I jump back.
“Since it’s the tenth frame,” he says, “you have to throw two more balls to get your score.”
“Oh! Right! Of course! I knew that!”
Yep, good job on sounding normal, Helen. Stellar.
Despite my strike, my final score is still a fair bit lower than Taylor’s, and his score is lower than those of the ladies next to us. Although I might not be super competitive, I don’t like being really bad at something, and I’m clearly not great at bowling. But I managed to throw a strike—a fluke, but still—and generally got better throughout the game. I’m even having fun.
I ask Taylor to sit beside me on the uncomfortable seats so we can take a picture together, and it feels more natural than last week. I make an Instagram post with one picture of the two of us, one picture of him bowling (but not the one where his ass was the focal point), and one picture of my ugly bowling shoes. I also impulsively change my settings so my account is no longer private. I can handle this; there won’t be a deluge of strangers looking me up.
We play another game, and I don’t manage another strike, but I do get a spare.
Near the end of the game, I find myself admiring Taylor once again as he sends the ball down the lane with more speed than I’ve managed. He’s pushed up his sleeves, but obviously, I’m not staring at his forearms. Nope, I’m just admiring his technique, which is better than mine because I don’t have any. Nothing more than that, and I’m definitely not replaying that hug in my mind. Why the hell would I do such a thing? That would be weird.
