Page 77 of From Now On

Hopefully, he’s forgotten about my comment last night—along with the range of other ways I’ve embarrassed myself in front of him recently—and some streak of me acting calm, cool, and collected around him is about to begin.

Given that I have a complete lack of coordination when it comes to anything athletic, I kind of doubt it.

The middle-aged man behind the counter—wearing a yellow polyester shirt withFrankstitched on the front pocket—looks understandably thrilled to have some customers.

“Where are ya folks visiting from?” Frank asks around the toothpick sticking out one corner of his mouth.

“Somerville,” Conor answers.

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s in Washington,” Harlow adds.

“I’ve heard of Seattle.”

Harlow shrugs. “Sure, close enough.”

“Write down your shoe sizes here.” Frank flips over one of the flyers advertising the Bowl-a-Rama’s hours and shoves it across the counter along with a dull pencil. We take turns writing. “How many lanes?”

Conor and Harlow exchange a look.

“Boys versus girls?” she says.

“Just one lane,” Conor tells Frank.

He frowns before typing something on the keyboard in front of him. Frank probably assumed we’d take up two lanes. Possibly three.

I was thinking the same. Hoping we’d be going at the same time, rather than sitting around and watching each other bowl.

What if I fall on my ass? Or don’t hit a single pin? Or?—

“Come on, ladies.” Harlow hooks one elbow with mine, grabbing Rylan with the other. “Time to strategize.”

She pulls us to lane six, the only one with a lit screen.

“What about our shoes?” I ask.

Not that I’m looking forward to putting on the ugly sneakers, but Frank seems like he’d be a stickler for rules.

“The boys will bring them over,” Rylan answers as she takes a seat on the right side of the lane.

Harlow sinks down next to her. I take the last chair.

“Okay.” Harlow claps her hands together. “Team name, guys. What are we thinking?”

“Pin Pals?” Rylan suggests.

“Ooh, that’s cute,” Harlow comments. “E?”

“Livin’ on a Spare?”

Harlow beams. “Damn. Look at you, coming through with the bowling lingo.”

“It was written on one of the posters behind the counter,” I admit.

Rylan laughs. “Still counts. It’s catchy.”

Harlow glances over one shoulder at the huddle of Hunter, Aidan, and Conor waiting for Frank to grab our shoes. “I guarantee the boys are going to come up with something dirty.”

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