Page 34 of Play the Last Track
“I cannot believe you are one of those pineapple on pizza people,” he murmurs, shaking his head. I stare at him, then I look at the pizzas. This time, more closely. Sure enough, the one closest to me is covered in cheese and sauce, with peppers and mushrooms, ham and sausage, and … pineapple.
“You remembered,” I mutter.
“Well, yeah.” He takes a piece of the other pizza, which looks as though it has just about every type of meat there is on it. “Hard to forget when you committed a food crime every time you asked if they did pineapple while we were there.”
I laugh, picking up a piece and taking a bite. The cheese bubbles in my mouth, and I groan. “This is good.”
Flynn just shakes his head at me before taking a bite of his slice. We eat in silence, letting the atmosphere infiltrate the bubble we seem to have created over the last hour or so of gameplay. The sounds of bowling balls rolling down the laneway, the crash of the pins, the cheers of the victorious as they celebrate their points are accompanied by a generous range of music playing above us in thespeakers. It’s a Saturday night, so the lanes are lit up and there are strobe lights of all different colors lighting up the area. It’s kind of a vibe.
When I hear Whitney Houston’s ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’come over the speakers, I squeal and start bobbing my head to the music.
“I love this song,” I tell Flynn between bites. I take another sip of my soda and move in my seat. “Whitney is my mom’s favorite singer. We used to dance around the kitchen, blasting her music while we cooked.”
“You’re into music, huh?” Flynn turns to me, his pizza half gone now. He stretches his arms over the back of the small plastic seats. I am hyper aware of how close his hand is to my arm, and when I feel his fingers lightly brush over my skin, I have to suppress a shiver.
“I love music.” I sigh, nodding. “It just … it helps define my mood.”
“The guitar in your bedroom,” he states, now drawing gentle patterns with his fingers against my arm. I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it.
I raise a brow. “What about it?”
“Do you ever use it? I’ve never heard you play.”
“I—uh,” I say, cringing a little. “I used to. Not as much anymore.”
“Why not?”
For a moment, I think about confiding in Flynn about Grant. I think about how freeing it might feel to tell someone what actually went down with him and how my eyes were opened to all the things Grant forced me to change about myself. I think about how therapeutic it might be to confess the real reason we broke up that very last time.
I stop myself, though.
I got his number. Flynn Reed’s actual number. I’m so going to fuck him.
The words sound distant and far away, but it’s a clear memory, no matter how quiet. Flynn Reed is a playboy. I can’t forget, even when he makes me feel like I should. Even when he opens car doors and makes me laugh, and looks like he will devour me if I give in and let him kiss me again for real.
“I just … stopped.” I shrug and take another bite of my pizza.
“Why?” he asks again.
“I don’t know. I just did.”
“Well, you should consider taking it back up.” Flynn takes one of the napkins sitting next to the pizza plates and wipes his hands. “You’re probably just as good at playing guitar as you are at ten pin bowling.”
I laugh and shake my head, cleaning off my own hands and standing again. “This is a fluke. The last time I came to one of these places, I was probably still in high school, and I remember sucking so bad, my friends asked me to just skip my turn.”
“That’s fucked up.” Flynn shakes his head, a smirk toying at his lips.
“I’m glad I’ve made a comeback,” I say as I pick up one of the balls and get ready to hurl it down the lane. I glance over my shoulder, giving Flynn my best smile. “Just in time to kick your ass.”
***
I’m in theBoston Timesgossip column.
Me. Katie Murphy. Local Boston girl who grew up stealing the column from my dad’s newspaper every other week,inthe damn column.
I am almost positive that the spread is completely thanks to Hollie, but that didn’t stop me from squealing and running out to buy a copy when Ivy texted me a picture of it. Pictures of Flynn and me covered the column. A small write-up accompanied it, but it was just speculation about who I was and where we met. Hollie fed them a story, and they ran it, and now I'm in the fuckingBoston Times.
I stand behind the bar, waiting for the last of the locals to filter out so we can lock up. The paper is open to the gossip column in front of me. The pictures are mostly from the game. There are a few of Flynn and Scott on the field before the game, warming up, a few of Ivy and me celebrating the touchdowns in the box, and, of course, there is a giant one of when Flynn kissed me. To my surprise, though, there’s an addition from Saturday night. The picture is grainy. It’s dark, and the only thing lighting our figures are the strobe lights, but it’s undeniably Flynn and me. We’re standing so close together, smiling and staring at one another. I’m laughing, and Flynn has his hand up, obviously in the middle of tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear.
