I come up to him. When I take hold of his hand to adjust how he’s holding it, his eyes lock on mine like I’ve just become the only person on earth. That’s exactly how it feels. Nothing has or ever will compare to the intensity radiating from his eyes like starlight, and I’m bathing in it as I show him how to better grip the ball. “Like this,” I tell him, standing right next to him. He hasn’t said a word, staring back at me, locked in. “Feet just like this.” I give his foot a playful nudge. He adjusts, nearly falling over. All of our energy has shifted. The cocky guy in a baseball cap is traded for a nervous boy on his first-ever date, not unlike the tweens fumbling around us with no game, astounded that I’ve come so close to him, that I’m touching him. The look in his eyes, it gives me confidence to keep doing this, to stay close—even if I’m fairly sure none of my priceless bowling wisdom is sinking in. “You paying attention?” I tease him. “This is super-duper-duper important stuff, y’know.”
I’m still holding Austin’s hands with the ball.
He hasn’t pulled away.
Then he asks: “Anyone ever tell you you’re dangerous?”
I lift my eyebrows at him. His question comes so softly, it feels a thousand times more intimate than I think he intended.
Or maybe that’s exactly what he intended. “Dangerous?”
“Yeah.” He smirks. “Because if you weren’t helpin’ me hold up this heavy-ass ball right now, I might just drop it right on my foot with that disarming look you’re givin’ me right now.”
I lick my lips.
It’s more of a nervous tic than it is anything meaningful.
But it pulls his eyes right down to them. And I’ll be damned if he isn’t suddenly having some very different thoughts now. Other than how this bowling ball would feel if it actuallydiddrop on his foot. Thoughts that have everything to do with how he could ruin these lips of mine, were I to give even a hint of permission.
Standing this close to him, I’m tempted to give it.
“Wanna try now?” I ask him, and I am literally confused about what, exactly, I’m asking him to try.
He smiles, hesitates, then proves himself a gentleman once again by interpreting my question without innuendo, nodding at me before taking up the ball himself and lining up with the lane. I step back. He gives me one last glance, armed now with my advice, prepares, then launches his ball at the lane.
It pops off his fingers wrong, flying two lanes over. Two tween girls shoot him a look as his ball rockets down their gutter.
He tried.
I don’t even know what time it is when we finally spill out of the bowling alley, laughing at ourselves. He can’t stop attempting to describe the looks on those tween girls’ faces, cracking himself up worse each time he tries. I insist that I’m a better teacher than he is a student, and he doesn’t deny it. “Some kinds of greatness, you just can’t teach,” he reasons, then smiles at me under one of the parking lot lights. “You’re really good at knockin’ down balls.”
“Pins,” I correct him, drawing closer, “witha ball.”
He chuckles. And now it’s Austin licking his lips. My eyes pull to them with near inevitable desire. “What is it about you,” he says, his voice suddenly so much softer, “that always seems to get me so dang tongue-tied?”
Neither of us can say anything for a moment.
It’s obvious neither of us want this night to end.
“There’s, uh …” I dig my foot into the pavement as I push out the words. “… a movie. Late-night movies. Showing. At the …” I lift a hand and point off. “… down the street. Just a block over.”
“I will watch any movie with you,” he says with certainty.
The butterflies are back in full force.
They don’t calm, even when we leave our cars in the bowling alley parking lot (people do it all the time), and walk ablock (four, actually) to the movie theater. It’s way bigger than Spruce’s, with twelve screens and a big concession stand that, even at this hour, is still open and running with two popcorn machines. We weren’t planning on getting anything until the intoxicating aroma hits us both, making us regret not ordering at the very least a basket of fries or wings or something at the bowling alley, and we end up getting not only a fat tub of popcorn, but boxes of Sour Patch Kids and two Coke ICEEs. Whatever machine printed out our tickets at the front was running low on ink, so it’s either of our guesses what movie we’re seeing and what number theater to go to. I don’t care what’s up on the screen. Austin doesn’t either. We pick a random theater, walk in, find it’s in the middle of whatever movie, and just take a pair of seats in the back row.
“You gotta remind me to write a thank-you note,” I whisper.
He leans into me. “Huh? Thank-you note?”
“To Chase Holt,” I say back, then turn to look at him.
He’s so close. Threateningly close. Those eyes in the dark, how the distant glow of the silver screen sparkles in them like my only sign of life in an ocean of darkness, the beacon I embrace. His lips part as if to say something, but he doesn’t.
I elaborate. “He’s what brought us together.”
After a moment’s reflection, he smiles. “Right.”