I sit with that for a second. Is he talking about himself? Us? “Yeah,” I say, deciding to interpret it just like that.
“As for Kit-Cat, didn’t you say she probably left for Fairview?”
I grin. “We’ll see her there, then, throwing down on the dance floor.” Austin laughs way too hard at that. Then I do, too.
When we hang up, I slap the phone to my chest and stare off at the bright blue sky, heart racing, stunned by my brazenness.
When that sky turns dark, I’m making a trip to Fairview.
I spend the rest of the afternoon walking through a dream. Is it the mere thought of heading out of town that fills me with such terrifying excitement? Defying what my parents would very much rather have me do? Or is it meeting up with Austin again, this time in a place away from people we know?
Am I being stupid about this?
Or smart for once?
What is it about me that so thoughtlessly wants to dive into the deep end every time I catch feelings? Like if I don’t chase after him, he’ll disappear. Like an odd-feathered duck in a pond. Or a cat on a porch that has no name—a lot like whatever’s going on between me and Austin, happening with no name.
Yet.
I’m bouncing in my seat, bent over the steering wheel with exhausting excitement, as I make the drive out to Fairview at half past nine. I’m going early because I don’t want to waste one single minute we could spend together. I picked a spot and sent him the address. He said he’d see me at 10:30, not a minute later.
When I arrive at the bowling alley, he’s already there. A plaid shirt with the sleeves folded up, tucked partway into blue jeans, a belt, boots, and a tilted baseball cap, shading his face as usual.
Not that much extra shade is needed. I picked Fairview Lanes because they’re doing their weekly Blacklight Night where they stay open late and have the lanes glowing neon, and it’s definitely dark enough to keep any curious eyes off us. We’ll feel like we’re all by ourselves.
“Show ran a bit short,” he explains when I approach. “Must’ve skipped a song or two. Maybe forgot to do an encore at all. I barely noticed.” He smiles, lips catching whatever light escapes the front glass windows of the building. “It’s good to see you, T.”
I’ll be honest. I’m terrified. I don’t know why. I can’t seem to calm my nerves enough to steady my hands. I’m just figuring some magical calm will find me when we get inside, change our shoes, and become playful rivals on those glowing lanes.
But I don’t show a speck of that anxiety when I say, “It’s good to see you, too, Austin.”
His smile doesn’t go away.
Then we head inside.
It isn’t as much of a “less-populated hangout” as I remember. Last time I was here, I was probably still in high school. Blacklight Night has clearly gained traction, though the majority of what I’m seeing are teens and tween brats who seem more interested in role-playing as adults, awkwardly flirting, gossiping, and enjoying their freedom away from mommy anddaddy—which in so many ways is exactly what I’m doing that I can’t even properly make fun of them. The darkness seems to put us both at ease despite all the noise. We change shoes, take the lane at the far end near the side door exit, and pick our balls. I get a lime green one with a swirl of white that glows amazingly in the atmosphere. He gets a dull red one, but when it hits the light right, tiny hot pink specks appear.
He goes first. I’m gifted with the unexpected sight of Austin strutting up to the lane in those tight blue jeans. My eyes snap up to his face when he glances back at me and says, “Prepare to getsmoked.” He goes for the shot.
It gutters instantly.
On his second try, a single pin gets clipped by sheer luck.
When it’s my turn, all the pins scatter apart. “Strike,” I say, licking my finger and drawing a point in the air. “Prepare to get smoked, I believe you said?”
Austin just leans back in his bench, smirk twisting halfway up his face. “I’m rusty,” he growls before strutting up to show me what he’s really made of.
I prepare for greatness.
Two pins on the first go. Another gutter on the second.
He blames the weird lighting.
This playful trash-talking and competitive banter goes on the whole game. But what I don’t quite appreciate until four frames in is how comfortable it makes me. My fears have all melted away. This feels totally natural, bowling with him, like we do this every weekend. Our laughs come so much easier. I don’t judge what I say as much, just letting whatever fly out of my mouth (even if it’s another sick burn about his “super bowling skills” I can’t resist).
Then I grow bold enough to say, “Let me give you a pointer.”
The music is loud. He doesn’t quite catch it. “Give me what?”