Page 63 of The Love Losers

Should I put them down for the chicken or the fish?

I got whiplash, once, when my father chased a yellow light and caught a truck. I just got it again, this time because Rosie James basically proposed to me and then turned around and invited my ex-fiancée and former friend to spend the afternoon with us so she could avoid being alone with me. And I can’t even ask her a damn thing about it because they’re in the car with us, Wilson nattering on about his favorite type of cheese as if anyone in this car, or the great state of North Carolina, gives a flying fuck.

It feels like I was floating on air, but someone decided to yank me back down and remind me gravity exists.

Texting with my mother didn’t exactly help.

Sighing, I return my phone to my pocket and rub my temples. I can still feel Rosie on my lips, my hands. Her sweet strawberry taste is in my mouth, probably because of that gum she chews. The need to be alone with her so we can figure out what’s happening is overwhelming.

“Now, provolone,” Wilson is saying, his voice like a blow to the brain. “Provolone is an underrated cheese. The flavor is understated—”

“Oh, for the love of God, Wilson,” Nina snaps. “No one wants to know what you learned in your cheeses of the world class.”

“You said it sounded interesting,” Wilson says, his voice wounded.

“It is,” Rosie insists, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. “Everyone loves cheese. You know…provolone’s my favorite cheese. It goes with everything.”

I give her a sidelong glance, taking in her angelic face—the perfectly innocent look in her big blue eyes.

Does she mean it, or is she just messing with Nina? If she is, she’s doing it with a straight face…

My mood plummets a little further just before Rosie takes a hard left turn—much too hard—into the parking lot of a shopping plaza with several different store fronts. It’s a scuzzy-looking place, with a store that advertises second-hand hot tubs and another that appears to sell nothing but jerky.

“I don’t see a paint and wine place,” Nina says sharply, giving Rosie a wide-eyed look as if she thinks she’s about to be mugged and left stranded at a strip mall.

“Because we’re not going to one,” Rosie tells us with a flourish. She unbuckles and turns in her seat so she’s facing all of us, although she doesn’t meet my eyes. She hasn’t for a while now.

Panic digs in.

She must regret telling them we’re engaged.

Or, worse, she got what she wanted and now she doesn’t want anything to do with me.

That thought starts to mushroom, the way bad thoughts like to, as Rosie waves her hand out the windshield. There’s a brightly lit sign saying:Balls of Fire: Indoor Paintball Course. “We’re going to have some fun.”

“Paintball?” Nina says with an affronted gasp. “I’m wearingVersace.”

“Oh, not to worry.” Rosie smiles back at her. “They give you jumpsuits to cover your clothes. I looked it up online because I was worried about getting paint on my sequins. They’re from Target.”

“Communaljumpsuits?”

I shake my head, a headache closing in on me. “What’s the big deal? You used to go bowling with your friends all the time. You had aclub.”

But that was before she knew I was rich.

Everything changed after that.

She quit her bowling club. She also stopped answering her friends’ calls—dropping them as easily as if they were a magazine subscription she’d stopped wanting.

“You did?” Wilson asks in disbelief. “Why do you never—”

“I outgrew bowling,” Nina says. “And paintball. Paintball is something only teenagers play.” She gives Rosie a pointed look. “I suppose that wasn’t so long ago for—”

“She’s twenty-eight,” I snap.

“Withverygood skin,” Rosie says, placing her palm on my thigh as if she knows I want to leave and is trying to pin me in place. “Don’t worry, Nina. We’ll get you there too.”

“Twenty-eight is stillveryyoung,” Nina says. “A more mature woman—”

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