Page 64 of The Love Losers

“You’re less than two years older than her.”

“Which is why I don’t want to play a teenager game,Anthony.”

“You know who knows how to have fun?” Rosie asks, looking back even though she leaves her hand on my leg, her fingers moving slightly. Maybe she means the gesture to be comforting, but it’s driving me crazy. It’s like each nerve ending she’s touching is sending messages straight to my dick. “Teenagers. When was the last time you let yourself have fun the way teenagers do? We forget how to, when we get older. Today, we’re going to remember. That’s going to be our Christmas present to ourselves.”

“I’d prefer jewelry.”

“Jewelry can be lost or go out of style, but memories leave the kind of imprint that lasts forever,” Rosie says brightly.

I’m sure she only half believes what she’s saying—at least as far as paintball is concerned—but she’s animated in a way that makes everything she says brim with possibility. It makes me want to press her up against a wall. To suck in some of her light. And it also shakes my trust in her, because it’s so hard to tell what’s real, and I have trouble trusting anything I want this much…

“She has a point there, Nina,” Wilson says with a laugh. “I want to do this, babe. Let’s make some memories. We can be on the same team.”

“The two couples against each other,” Rosie says with a wide grin. “The winner buys lunch.”

“Well, it seems I’ve been outvoted,” Nina says primly, giving way, or at least giving the appearance of it. I’m guessing she’s given up on this battle only because she thinks she might still win the war. Although what she sees as the prize is a guess I don’t care to make.

“Fantastic,” I say, getting out of the car. I have half a mind to stalk off, maybe check out the jerky store and find out whatall the fuss is about desiccated meat. But I don’t. It’s as if I’m tethered to Rosie.

Everyone piles out and as we make our way toward the brightly lit indoor paintball course, Rosie slides her arm through mine. I’m still pissed at her, at the situation, at theworld, but I let her.

Nina and Wilson follow us at a distance, arguing in intense, carrying whispers.

“Is this where you planned on bringing me?” I ask Rosie in a softer undertone. “Or is it a special treat for Nina?”

“Both,” she says, before adding in a conspiratorial voice, “I know you didn’t want them to come, but don’t you think it’s a little coincidental that they’re here today? It could be one of them, running that website. Nina’s made it pretty clear she doesn’t want you to get married to someone else. We have to make sure they’re not behind this.”

“By torturing them with paint until they confess? I admire your commitment to the bit, but I’m not convinced it’ll work.”

She steps onto the curb in front of the storefront. The window is covered in stickers that look like exploding balls of paint. An exhausted exhalation gusts out of me. I’m in the uncomfortable position of agreeing with Nina.

“When you push people out of their comfort zone, interesting things can happen,” Rosie says, giving me an arch expression, as if she knows exactly what’s going on in my head.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” I observe. “Is being alone with me out of your comfort zone right now?”

She takes my hand, her eyes peering into mine. “You underestimate my ability to avoid people. If I were trying to avoid you, you’d know. Now, let’s buy tickets for everyone so they can’t make their excuses.”

I doubt it’s the whole story, but I’m still relieved.

Deeply relieved.

I hold her gaze and nod, lifting her hand for a kiss across her knuckles.

Then we go in and get tickets for an hour of hell from the zitty teenager at the desk. The only nod to the approaching holidays is a pint-sized tinsel tree sitting on his desk, next to a dreidel that looks like it’s seen better decades.

A few minutes later, Nina and Wilson come in, and we all bear the indignity of putting on the smelly, scratchy coveralls. Then come the safety goggles and the paintball guns with their shoulder slings, paintballs, paint grenades, and…

“Are you ready for war?” Rosie asks with a grin.

It takes lessthan five minutes for Rosie to nab Nina with a purple paintball—a colorful burst over her heart. We’d already set rules: a hit to the heart is an automatic out.

Nina screams at the top of her lungs as if she’s been murdered, and Wilson shouts, “I’ll avenge you, bunny,” and hurls a paint grenade in our direction.

His aim is off, but I feel some of the pink spray land in my hair. Adrenaline coursing through me, I grab Rosie and dive behind a huge inflatable triangle covered in advertisements for some sugar-water drink, landing with my body covering hers, our paintball guns hanging from the shoulder straps.

Nina calls out Wilson’s name, but he waves to her. “Get off the field, sweetheart! Go get some hot chocolate at the concessions stand. My treat.”

From the stricken look on Nina’s face, he might as well have just told her to go fuck herself. Actually, this may well be Wilson’s way of saying exactly that.

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