Page 39 of Resisting my Roommate

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ABBEY

Jude pulls into a seemingly forgotten parking lot, the faded lines and cracks in the pavement marking its age and neglect. I stare in disbelief and confusion at the neon OPEN sign flickering over the door of a rundown concrete building.

When he asked me if I wanted to do something, this was not what I had in mind. I figured we’d grab a drink at one of the bars around town. Maybe even go hang out in the brewhouse. But here we are, about to walk into a bowling alley straight out ofThe Big Lebowski.

“We’re going bowling?” I remark, my voice laced with surprise.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I just…” I shake my head. “I didn’t take you for a bowler.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he says with a sly wink before unbuckling his seatbelt and stepping out of the truck.

“I guess so,” I murmur as I follow suit.

My surprise only grows when he grabs a bag from the back of his truck — one that looks alarmingly like it holds a bowling ball.

“Is that what I think it is?” I lean closer to him and drop my voice. “Do you have your own bowling ball?”

“And if I do?” He arches a brow in challenge.

“Then this night just got even more interesting.”

He places his hand on my lower back and leads me inside, my mind still trying to process the idea of serious and mercurial Jude being a regular bowler with his own custom ball.

As we step through the doors, a wave of nostalgia hits me — the smell of fried food, the faint sound of pins crashing in the distance, and the blinking lights of an ancient arcade. There was once a time I had a relatively normal childhood. Ahappychildhood. Until my grandmother died, leaving my mother to raise me. After that, nothing in my life was happy.

“Jude,” a balding man greets with a small nod as we approach a counter where rows and rows of bowling shoes are neatly arranged in cubbies. “Want your usual lane?”

“If it’s available.”

“Sure is.”

“Can I get a pair of shoes for Abbey?”

“Of course.” He shifts his attention to me. “What size?”

“Eight, please.”

He retrieves a pair from one of the cubbies and places them on the counter.

“Thanks, Mike,” Jude says as I grab them, then steers me farther inside. It doesn’t escape my notice that he didn’t ask for a pair of shoes for himself, making me think he has his own.

“Usual lane?” I question.

“I just like being out of the way when I bowl.”

As he leads me down the row of lanes, I scan my surroundings, taking it all in, this place that appears to be somewhere Jude frequents.

And that’s when I see it. A large framed photo hangs on the wall over the bar, depicting a group of men dressed in the same shirt, a trophy displayed prominently in front of them.

In the middle stands Jude, tall and proud.

It’s not even a younger version of him, either. By the looks of it, this is recent, a suspicion I confirm when I notice the year on the trophy.

I freeze, staring at the picture like I’ve just discovered a new species.

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