Page 11 of Married As Puck
I don’t answer but I keep moving.
“Do you hate Monroe? Do you want him dead after the fight?”
That one makes me slow down. What is wrong with these people? Is that what they think? I keep quiet, refusing to take her bait.
“Why aren’t you answering, Cameron? Is the league suspending you? Are you finished?”
It’s not curiosity in her voice, not really. It’s desperate hunger. She wants blood, she wants to gut me in the headlines tomorrow morning.
“Come on, give me something. Did you or didn’t you threaten to end his career?”
My fists twitch, fingers curl, and I can taste blood in the back of my mouth, the memory of my knuckles hammering that bag until my skin split. One swing and I could smash his camera.
I finally get into my car and shut the door. She’s still talking even though I can’t hear her anymore. I blast the music on the radio and get the hell out of there.
6
I’m not particularly excited about being here, but anything is better than staying home and dealing with an annoying woman who won’t leave me the hell alone.
“Don’t look so grim,” Keith says, slapping me on the back hard enough to jolt me forward. “It’s just bowling. Lighten up for goodness sakes.”
My jaw tightens. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and just barrels on because that’s who he is—Keith, the eternal optimist, the fool who thinks dragging me into bright lights and noise will somehow stitch me back together.
Inside, the place is chaos. Laughter, pins crashing, the metallic trill of arcade machines, kids screaming in the corner. It’s an assault on every sense. I want to turn around and leave, but Keith blocks the exit with his bulk, ushering me toward the counter like I’m some reluctant child.
“C’mon, don’t be shy little one.” He grins at me.
Sometimes I wonder how he has managed to remain optimistic even when life’s so fucked up.
I roll my eyes, “Between the both of us, who should be called the little one?”
“Well…you might be bigger than me but in certain areas, I still have a lot of advantages over you.”
“Oh fuck off.”
He laughs but sighs happily as he rolls up his sleeves as if telling himself he’s ready to take over the world. Shoes. Bowling ball. Score sheet.
He handles it all, talking to the attendant like we’re here for a good time. I keep my hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets, eyes fixed on the stained floor tiles.
When he tosses me a pair of rental shoes, I don’t move.
“C’mon, Cam. Don’t make me bowl alone.” He whines like a petulant child.
We end up in lane twelve. Keith punches our names into the console, embellishing mine with an exclamation mark like that’s supposed to make me feel included. “CAM!” flashes across the screen in bright green.
Finally, I’m able to find a spot to stay in. I sit in the booth, shoulders sinking deeper into the cracked vinyl, my cold water sweating on the table untouched.
I sit down and watch Keith go first, striding up to the lane like some pro, hips loose, grin cocky. He hurls the ball down the polished wood and knocks over eight pins. He pumps his fist in the air like he’s won a championship.
“See? Easy. Your turn.”
“No.”
He groans. “You can’t just sit there, man.”
“I can. Watch me.”
He rolls his eyes and takes another shot, cleaning up the spare. Then he flops down beside me, sweat beading his forehead already. He smells of cheap deodorant and misplaced enthusiasm.
