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“Okay, so you want one that isn’t too light, because it won’t knock down as many pins, but not so heavy that you’re dragging it,” Ian says as we peruse the options of brightly colored bowling balls.
“Yeah, you wouldn’t want your balls to drag on the ground,” I say, and Ian snorts. I pick up a pink one that says “11,” but it’s too light.
“Here—try this,” Ian says, hanging me a galaxy purple one. There’s a “12” on it, and it feels right.
“Damn, you’re like a professional matchmaker,” I say, carrying it back to our bowling lane.
Ian helps Jessie and Mac find the right weight for them, and when we’re all back to the lane, Mac picks up his ball and gets the game started. He hits five on the first go, and while he’s waiting for his ball, Ian approaches him and starts to chat. Jessie and I sit in the chairs behind the lanes.
“All right, I admit, I didn’t think he was much to look at when I first saw him, but he’s growing on me,” Jessie says quietly.
“Yeah, he kinda does that,” I say, unsettled at how true her words ring for me. Spending nearly every day with him last week helping him memorize his lines was more fun than I thought it would be. I thought Ian would be kind of a stick in the mud, but he’s surprisingly funny and down to earth.
“Are you, like, into him?” Jessie asks, her eyes wide with curiosity and excitement.
“Nah,” I say quickly. “Not— Like, no. He’s like . . . I mean, he’s cute, sure. But he’s, like . . . so not my type, you know?”
I’m not sure I sound that convincing, and I’m also not sure why it feels like I have to convince anyone in the first place.
“If I remember correctly,” Jessie says, “your type is—and I’m directly quoting you here—‘anything that breathes.’ I remember this discussion because you made a point to include mermaids and fae, and you excluded animals entirely unless, quote, ‘They are shifters,’ end quote. Oh, and me. You always tell me I’m not your type.”
“Babe, you’re up,” Mac says as he approaches Jessie, hands out to help her up. She takes them, and he sneaks a quick kiss, which leaves her blushing as she heads for the ball return.
Ian stays up there and Jessie asks him for some tips. He points to the arrows on the ground and gestures about something. I can’t hear over the general din of the room.
“So you and Ian are . . .?” Mac asks.
“Scene partners,” I say.
“And . . .?”
“Friends.”
“And . . .?” He’s got a sly smile on his face. He leans in, taunting me like an older brother might.
I swipe my leg at him, but he’s too far for me to make contact. I make a show of rolling my eyes when I stand up, prepping for my turn.
Jessie takes her second turn, but she’s left with two pins before the bowling arm clears them for my turn. She holds up her hand for a high-five as she passes me, and I slap her hand and then slap her butt. She yelps and jumps a little.
“You’ll get ’em next time, tiger,” I say and pick up my galaxy-colored bowling ball.
I take absolutely no care in trying to find footing or alignment and just walk to the line and launch the ball. It rolls into the gutter halfway down the lane, and I turn around and grimace at Ian, who’s smirking with his arms crossed.
“Do you want a pointer or two?”
I crack each of my knuckles as I wait for my ball. I knew I wasn’t good at bowling, and I don’t really like being bad at things, but in my mind, no one is good at bowling.
Except, apparently, Ian is good at bowling.
“Yeah, okay. I helped you with your lines, you can help me with my game.”
Ian steps up and takes my ball as it comes up through the machine. He stands next to me, showing me how to stand, how to hold the ball, and walks me through the steps and the aiming. He goes through the motions and then hands the ball to me.
“Okay, just do . . . like, just do a rehearsal. Don’t really throw it. And once you have the motion down, then you can throw,” he says.
I do what he did, copying as best I can, and rehearse throwing the ball before I actually do. I wait for his nod of approval after my last practice swing.
“Throw the baaaaalllll,” Mac taunts. Jessie playfully slaps his arm.
