Page 15 of Tell Me Again

I clear my throat. “The number thirteen ball next. That’s your easiest shot.”

“Huh?” He looks up at me, and god, those eyes. All the feelings I’d tried to shove down come rushing right back. My fucking heart can’t take it.

I clench my jaw and point to the table. “Number thirteen in the left corner pocket. Easy shot. Just don’t hit the table with the cue this time. I don’t think that trick works twice.”

He laughs. “Yeah, the number thirteen ball. I think you’re right,” he says, and then does this thing where he reaches up to rub the back of his neck with his free hand. And the muscles in his arm flex.

My mouth suddenly feels dry.

“Just, uh”—I cough lightly and shake my head—“don’t forget that your grip should be loose and relaxed. You’re holding the stick too tight.”

Shit. That sounded wrong.

Or maybe I’m just more on edge than I thought because it sends all the wrong messages to all the wrong body parts. Fuck. I push away from the wall and point to the table again.

“You gonna take your fucking shot or what?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah,” he says. “Sorry, I was, uh, distracted I guess.” His smile tightens, and he moves around the table to line up for the shot I suggested.

Dammit. I’m such an asshole sometimes. Not even friend material. Really.

“I’m gonna grab another beer. You still good with your Coke?”

“Yeah, thanks.” He doesn’t look up at me, and he leans over, sets himself up, and takes a perfect shot, knocking the number thirteen ball right into the pocket.

“Nice one.”

He tips his head in acknowledgement but still doesn’t look at me. Dammit if this just got even more awkward because of my big mouth. I turn and head over to the bar, trying to ignore the fact that I can feel his eyes on me now.

Of course Sarge is watching me too, that same stupid curious look on his face—fuck you, Sarge. He goes to pull another beer out for me, but I shake my head as I realize just how much of an asshole I really am.

We’re at a fucking bar. Josh’s dad is—or at least used to be—a violent alcoholic. And I just got all snippy with him while fucking waving a fucking beer around. Christ.

Sarge is giving me that other look now—that same one he gave Josh when he first came in.

I just shrug. “I’ve gotta drive home later, and I’m already feeling it. Better just give me a Coke too.”

A minute later, I’m heading back to the pool table, my Coke in hand, and Josh is taking his next shot. I set my drink down next to his and turn back to the table just in time to see him miss and somehow set me up for what looks like the last few shots I need to win the game.

“I really remember this game being a lot easier,” he says with a light laugh. “You must play a lot?”

“Eh, not too much anymore.” I round the table, sink the number one ball, and then glance back up at him. He’s leaning against the wall, watching the cue ball as it rolls to a stop. “I used to play more, though. Not much else to do around here. And it’s free.”

That makes him grin just a little, although it’s still strained. Dammit.

I mean, I’m just guessing. There could be about a hundred million reasons he’s quieter and tense now. Not necessarily the fact that I’m an ass. But it doesn’t feel great.

“Sarge used to get on my case about it, you know.” I move around the table again, lean over, and sink the number seven ball. “I’d come here and get all the free Coke I fucking wanted, play some rounds of pool, then drive people home when they’d had too much to drink.”

He glances over at my Coke and then back at me, and we do that thing again, just kinda lingering there. Finally, he smiles a bit and nods.

“Sorry, man, I—”

I shake my head and wave him off. After all, I’m the asshole here. And then I take another shot, sinking the number three ball.

“Eight ball, corner pocket.”

Easy shot. Game over.

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