Naomi walks between us toward the bowling lane.
“Boring,” I say. I take another sip, trying to drown this mix of nervousness and anticipation and competitiveness and meltiness in beer.
“Twenty?”
I roll my eyes. I’m starting to feel the beer, but it’s in my hand, and drinking it is a nervous tic I can’t stop.
“Let’s hear your idea, then,” he says.
I turn my legs toward him, leaning sideways against the back of the chair. Lydia and Kevin are chatting about something while Naomi bowls, studiously ignoring us. It’s probably for the best.
I think about it. Money is fine, but if this is going to be interesting, it needs to be something else. I take a few more sips of beer and ponder.
“Coffee,” I finally say.
“How is that different from money?”
“Because the loser brings the winner coffee every morning for a month,” I say.
I like the thought of having a coffee manservant. Even though I’m not particularly bad at mornings, making coffee always feels a little bit too hard if you haven’t already had coffee first. It’s a caffeine catch-22.
“Every morning, or every work day morning?” he asks, considering.
With horror, I imagine opening the front door to my trailer in my pajamas and finding Eli standing on my tiny front porch, coffee in hand, at seven on a Sunday morning.
Or, knowing Eli, he’d purposefully come even earlier. He’d probably bring me coffee at five a.m. on my days off, just to annoy me.
And Eli — a man who looks hot while testing out bowling balls — absolutely does not need to see me in my pajamas at five in the morning.
“Just work days,” I say. “I’m a benevolent bowling dictator.”
“All right, Tulane,” he says, leaning forward, holding out his hand. “You got yourself a deal. Daily coffee. One month.”
I reach out and take his hand: warm, dry, strong. I squeeze a little too hard and he squeezes right back, just like the last time we shook hands.
“Cream, no sugar,” I say.
That sparkle lights up his eyes again, my hand still in his, and it sends a quick rush of I-don’t-know-what through me.
“I’ll take mine black,” he says, the hint of a smile flashing in his eyes.Chapter SeventeenEliIf I didn’t know Violet, I’d think she’s hustling me.
The turn after our agreement, she gets a strike, then a spare. I still win by five points, but it’s closer than I thought it would be.
After that, she offers double or nothing. Two months of coffee to the winner, from the loser.
I accept, exactly like she knows I will.
She wins the next round. By seven points. Somehow, the promise of having something to win makes her twice as good at bowling as she was before.
That’s when Kevin, Lydia, and Naomi leave, but Violet and I barely notice, being way too involved in our bowling bet.
I offer Violet triple or nothing.
Free coffee all summer long for the winner. Hand-delivered fresh every morning, three months of coffee servitude dependent on the outcome of this final bowling match.
She accepts.
I’ve never bowled harder. I’ve never bowled with particular intensity before, to be honest — I like winning, but the last time I was here was years ago with my brothers Seth and Caleb. I don’t even remember who won.
But now, bowling against Violet, I’m out for blood. Every pin she knocks down stings. Every one of her gutter balls is a victory.
Whenever I get a strike I howl with glee and pump both fists in the air, like I’ve just won the Olympics.
We’re starting to get weird looks from the other lanes.
I don’t even let myself get distracted by watching her ass as she bowls, even though it’s right there. Even though I have nothing else to do on her turns, I make myself focus somewhere else.
No distractions.
No surprises.
Just victory.
Well, mostly no distractions. I do look a few times, because Violet’s ass is unfairly spectacular, even when bowling, and especially in jeans.
When we get to the final round of the game, Ken’s Bowl-o-rama is closing. The lights are already off over the other lanes, they’re vacuuming the lobby, and the guy behind the concession stand is scraping gunk out of the popcorn machine.
We’re tied.
It might be the highest-stakes, most stressful moment of my life.
By this point in the game, we’re barely talking, only competing. I’m completely focused on the matter at hand, and Violet is as well, only moving to occasionally sip from her plastic cup of beer.
I declined to drink anything. I don’t need alcohol stealing this victory from me.
It’s my turn, the last frame of the game. I stand from the uncomfortable plastic seat. I grab the bright orange bowling ball I’ve declared lucky.
I linger at the mouth of the lane, collecting every ounce of bowling savvy I’ve got.
Fly straight. Fly true.
I bring the ball up in front of myself.