Shifting around in the hard plastic seat, I do my best to get comfortable as Julia—just Julia, no Jules or any other godforsaken (her words, not mine) nicknames for this woman—walks up to take her next turn.
The white sundress she’s wearing glows beneath the neon and black lights the bowling alley turned on at the start of cosmic bowling an hour ago.
Has it really been that long? We’re three frames into our second game, so…probably. Look at that—a new record for me. Quinn would be so proud.
And…
Shit!
That’s my problem right there—I shouldn’t be thinking about Quinn while out with another woman. I need to put my focus back where it belongs—on my date, not my love coach, or how cozy she looked, laughing and joking with our other roommates.
Julia brings both her arms forward, holding her pink ball just below face level for a beat. Her shoulders rise and fall with the same measured breath I’ve seen her take every time she shoots the ball. Finally ready, she takes two steps forward, her right arm going into her backswing, her right leg shooting out diagonally behind her.
The ten pins at the end of the lane burst apart in an explosive strike—her third in a row.
There’s zero fanfare when Julia returns. No shimmy of her shoulders or silly dance move to celebrate the turkey she just scored, and I don’t bother holding up a hand for a high five. The first time I did that, she looked at me like I’d lost my mind, but thankfully refrained from adding any comments about me being lame.
Instead, I wait for her to slide her hands behind her thighs and smooth down the back of her dress so she can slide daintily into the seat beside me.
“Did you know the reason it’s called a turkey is because turkeys were usually the prize for most bowling tournaments in the 1800s?” One of the random facts Quinn rattled off to me while hyping me up for tonight rolls off my tongue.
“Umm…” Julia blinks at me, and I hate how I notice that their brown hue isn’t as deep and rich as Quinn’s.
Shit, I’m doing it again.
“That’s interesting?” Something inside me deflates at how Julia phrases her response as a question instead of a statement. We connected fine through text, but the practical application leaves a lot to be desired.
The whirr and clatter of Julia’s ball returning from the automatic machine brings an end to the awkward moment, and I excuse myself to take my turn.
Standing at the end of the lane, I wish the only thing weighing on me was the weight of the fourteen-pound bowling ball cradled between my hands. This whole night has felt…off.
And honestly, I’m not sure why. A part of me wants to blame it on being distracted, and while, yes, I can admit that’s part of the problem, that’s not the crux of it. No, that’s…
Well, when I figure it out, I’ll let you know.
Hurling my ball down the lane, I successfully knock down eight of the ten pins.
Damn.
Of course, I end up with a split, and a 7-10 split, no less. Makes sense and fits with the current complicated theme of the night. It’s a tough shot, one of the hardest to pick up statistically, but a feat I know I’m capable of accomplishing.
Excited shouts draw my attention to the lanes next to ours as I wait for the machine to deliver the bright green ball I selected earlier. The large group, chest bumping, ass slapping, and laughing, reminds me so much of the scene I left behind at home.
The slippery soles of my rented shoes slide across the wooden floor as the feeling of being on the outside looking in washes over me. I wonder if my friends are sad I’m not there for our group’s impromptu reunion, or is my absence unnoticeable? I mean, Quinn is there. She’s the fun one and fits in with them better than I could ever hope to.
Retaking my position, the remaining two pins taunt me with their existence. Fuck me. Those goddamn cylindrical pins only serve as a visual reminder of the architect behind the evening’s festivities.
Quinn.
Quinn, who would be hurling all kinds of creative trash talk from behind me.
Quinn, who would be making a few questionable attempts to distract me from my shot. She wouldn’t give a single damn if anyone looked at her sideways for them either.
Quinn was bumping and playfully shoving Kev the same way she’s been doing to me for weeks as I was leaving earlier.
Fuck!
Why is it that last thought that has me squeezing my eyes shut until the lights flashing behind my lids could rival those reflecting in the high shine of the lanes?
Blowing out a breath, I ignore my constantly churning mind and stare down the “goalpost” setup of the revered 7-10 split. This is a challenge I can handle. Calculating where to aim and how much spin to put on the ball to pick up the spare feels far easier to figure out than this date itself.
I strike the 7 pin on the inside perfectly, the velocity enough to send it bouncing off the sidewall and rebounding out and across the deck into the 10.
There’s a roar of cheers, Oh shits and Did you see thats echoing over the thumping music from our lane neighbors.
Julia gives me a small smile, but that’s it.
There are no shouted woos.
She’s not jumping into my arms with an exuberant Did you see that?
She’s not bowing down to my accomplishment while following it up with a Now watch me do it better.
What does it say that the strangers next to us celebrated harder than my date?
More importantly…why am I comparing her to Quinn—again?
The rest of the night continues with more of the same. Julia wins the first two games, showing off her kingpin skills, with me squeaking out a win for our third.
Neither one of us says much as we wait to exchange our shoes at the rental counter, but an air of expectant tension builds between us.
I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to do next. I think I worried so much about getting a date to stay for the whole time that I neglected to consider what would happen after it was over.
Do I ask her on a second date right now? Do I even want another one with her?
Do I tell her I’ll text her?
Do I tell her I’ll call her?
Do I kiss her? Is kissing on a first date too forward?
The closer we get to the exit, the faster my heart starts to beat, until each pulse feels like it pulls my skin tighter to my bones. My palms are sweaty as I rub my tingling fingertips together. Sweat drips down my back as we weave through the parked cars in the lot, though it has nothing to do with the balmy early summer heat.
Julia points to a gray Toyota Corolla. “This is me.” She spins, putting her back to the driver’s side door.
As if this night hasn’t been awkward enough, I have to lean against the tan SUV in the next spot over to avoid crowding her. The vehicle’s driver obviously failed coloring in kindergarten given how poorly they stayed inside the white painted lines.
Julia fiddles with her keys, her gaze watching each rotation of the music note key chain around her finger.
Unsure what to do with my own hands, I shove them into my pockets, worrying the tar of the payment with the toe of my all-white Adidas. A discarded cigarette butt lies inches from my shoe, the filter flattened as if run over instead of just crushed beneath someone’s foot.
What would Quinn say if you told her you focused on someone’s garbage instead of your date?
For the first time tonight, the thought of Quinn doesn’t bring that pang of guilt. My subconscious is right. There’s no would about it—it’s a will. I’ll be lucky if I make it off the elevator before she pounces and asks for a play-by-play. She cheers at too many football games not to Monday morning quarterback the first “official” date she arranged for me.