Page 22 of Redline Baby

I don't ask anything else.

I'm not ready for the version of this conversation where I have to explain my own shape, the one that used to fit somewhere and doesn't anymore, so I stand up instead, scooping my green ball off the rack.

"Okay, Zen bowling monk," I say. "Show me how it's done."

He does.

He steps up to the line without any ceremony, no practice swing, no little ritual, just a smooth release, four steps and a follow-through. The ball rolls dead center down the lane and takes out eight pins clean. The other two wobble but stay standing.

"Show-off," I say.

"That was restraint, actually." He collects his ball off the return without looking at the pins, already certain of the spare before he sets up for it. "You should see me when I'm trying."

"You're actually good at this," I say. "That's annoying."

He picks up the spare like it was never in doubt.

My own game is a disaster.

I bowl like I ride, too much commitment, not enough calculation, throwing my whole body into it like the pins personally wronged me. I put two balls in the gutter in a row and throw my hands up, disgusted, and Soren just watches me with an expression I can't quite name, somewhere between fond and amused.

"You're trying to muscle it down the lane instead of letting the lane do the work."

"I have no clue what any of this means. Some of us don't have your Zen bowling monk energy."

"Come here."

He says it simply, no ceremony, and holds a hand out for the ball I'm still cradling against my hip like it personally betrayed me.

I lift the ball from the return and step onto the approach.

Soren follows.

He steps in behind me, close, and reaches around to guide my hand back onto the ball, his fingers settling loosely over mine, adjusting my grip a fraction and rotating my hand slightly to the left.

"There," he says, close enough that I shiver. "You're gripping it like it's trying to escape. Let your fingers do less work. Let your arm swing. Don't force it."

His other hand comes up and wraps loosely around my wrist, steadying, not gripping, just there.

Warm.

Solid.

"Kit. Baby. Look at me."

The alley goes soft and far away, the way a room does right before you faint, sound dropping out from under everything except the words replaying somewhere behind my sternum.

Look at me.

I know this hand.

I know this exact weight and shape of being held from behind, guided instead of grabbed, someone bigger patiently walking my body through the correct motion because they trust that I'll get there if they just show me once, gently, without making me feel stupid for not already knowing.

Charles's hands are on both my wrists, and I've been trying to get to the door for ten minutes, and he keeps putting his body between me and the exit like that will fix anything.

"Kit. Baby. Look at me."

I don't.