Do You Take This Man (79)

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AFTER EIGHT FRAMES, it was clear no one was going to be scouting us for a bowling league. He was up to throw, and I watched him size up the pins, letting myself drink in his bent form as the ball careened smoothly into the gutter. He clapped his hands together the same way he did after every frame, like a disappointed punctuation mark. “How are we both so bad at this?”

“Speak for yourself,” I said, gently pushing his shoulder as we passed in the lane.

“Oh, your forty-three speaks for you just fine.”

I glanced over my shoulder and narrowed my eyes. I really didn’t enjoy others seeing me not succeed at something, but this felt so low-stakes, I couldn’t bring myself to hold the scowl. Lear wasn’t someone I worried over seeing me not at my best. “I wasn’t sure it could be heard over your thirty-seven.”

Lear was leaning against the score console, arms crossed, revealing his forearms under the rolled sleeves of the button-up. He looked so good when he leaned like that, the muscles along his torso stretched. He smiled at my gibe, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. I’d had more fun than I’d thought I would. When he smiled, I smiled back—it was automatic, and it was genuine. Even when I turned to the lane and lined up my shot, I was smiling. My God. Lear makes me smile.

I rolled my shoulders, uncomfortable with the realization, and stepped forward to launch my ball down the lane. I waited for it to veer into the gutter, but it stayed center.

“You’re gonna get a strike,” Lear called out from behind me.

“Yeah, right.” Still the ball kept going down the center line. “No way.”

“You’re gonna get a strike!” Lear was on his feet and behind me.

The ball struck the middle pin, and the others toppled, all save one. “C’mon,” I hissed, moving my hands to the right as if I could create enough wind to move it.

“C’mon,” Lear said near my ear. “Fall over.”

Through our sheer force of will, or maybe just physics, the pin toppled, and I threw my arms in the air, but before I could spin, Lear’s arms were around me, lifting me, pulling me close, and he smelled like soap and beer. His voice was light and happy and so close. “I can’t believe you did it!”

He set me down but didn’t move his hands, and I took in his goofy grin, his eyes soft on mine. The feeling I’d had in the diner of wanting to kiss him came back to me.

“Never seen two grown-ass adults so excited about a strike before,” an old guy a couple lanes over called out in a good-natured tone. His group of four had been well into a game when we arrived.

Lear and I pulled apart like we’d been caught. “She’s never gotten one before,” Lear called back.

I smacked his stomach with the back of my hand. “Like you have,” I said, returning to the chair by the scoring computer.

“A smart man lets his woman win,” the guy pontificated, shining a spot on his ball. “Especially when she’s as pretty as her.”

His buddy called over his shoulder, “A smart man finds a woman who lets him win!”

An older woman who was maybe his wife playfully smacked him on the back of the head. “Like you ever got the best of me.”

I smiled at their banter, this group of strangers probably in their seventies.

The first man didn’t look at his friends but spoke over his shoulder. “Don’t be like that, Sherry. You know he ain’t a smart man!” He nodded toward the two of us again. “Just some advice from those of us who have been around awhile.”

Lear laughed and moved closer to me, standing right next to me so I could feel the puffs of his breath over my ear. “We’ll keep it in mind.”

I turned to catch Lear’s gaze and smiled at his easy expression. “Don’t act like you have the option to let me win.”

He squeezed my hand before taking his turn. “Yeah, yeah.” Lear sent the ball hurtling down the lane, managing to take out three pins. “Now all I need is a spare.”

I sat back and relaxed, letting his hope linger for a moment and checking out the way his muscles rippled under his T-shirt. “Keep your fingers crossed.”

“My dad used to say that all the time. Fingers crossed.” Lear kept his eyes trained on the ball return, and I studied the lines of his jaw. “I know it’s a common phrase—everyone says it.” He dipped his long fingers into the holes and smiled to himself, turning back to the lanes, shaking his head. “Don’t know what made me think of that.”

He glanced at the pins, then back at me. Lear didn’t talk about his parents, or he never had with me. All I knew was they’d died when he was a teenager. I’d been struck when he talked about never wanting to leave his family, how that was the worst thing he could imagine doing, how it physically pained him to have to walk away.

He launched the ball, and it took out most of the pins but left a few standing. He strode back toward me with a shrug. “Guess it didn’t work.”

“I don’t know.” I stood to take my turn but paused, letting him slide past me to sit. I settled my palm on his cheek, patting his stubbled face. “That’s the best shot you’ve had all game.”

He laughed, and I couldn’t tell if he actually leaned into my touch or I imagined it. “You’re probably right.”