“You kinda got a thing for C names,” he mumbles, almost as if he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
“Huh. I guess I do. Clara, Calina, you.”
“Me?!”
“Uh, yeah, weirdo. You’re my best friend. Name starts with C.”
“Oh.” He laughs. “Duh.” His neck pinkens, and he chews on the inside of his cheek, avoiding eye contact. I’ve never seen him look shier than he does right now, and it’s adorable.
A solidknock-knocksounds at the door before Aston appears. “Oh, hey, Crew. You guys ready to go? Knox is hangry as fuck and is about to chew his own arm off.”
“Yup. Let’s go.”
***
“That’s four fucking strikes in a row, bro. Are you some fucking bowling wizard or something?”
“Aww, green’s such a good color on you, Knox.” I laugh, taking a seat after, yes, getting my fourth strike in a row. Kicking everyone’s ass.
The sounds of balls crashing and pins scattering fill the air, muted slightly by the sound of the booming early 2000s hip hop they’re playing tonight, neon lights illuminating the room in a rainbow glow.
“Fuck off, Anderson.”
“You’re such a sore loser. Anyone ever told you that?”
If looks could kill, I’d be torched right here on the spot. We’ve been here for about an hour and a half now, and almost everyone is about three shots deep. I’m the DD tonight, per usual. I don’t mind, though. I’ve never been a big drinker.
Luca’s up next. He pads over to the pinsetter, grabs his hot pink ball, and walks up the waxed wooden lane. They didn’t have his shoe size tonight, so he’s wearing shoes two sizes too big. He looks like Goofy, and every time it’s his turn, we all can’t help but laugh.
Stepping up, he turns to all of us and scowls at our incessant giggles. Regaining his focus, he raises the ball in the air before winding it up behind him. When he lets it fly down the lane, it slides right to the gutter.
He promptly spins on his heel, making his way back to the uncomfortable plastic chairs. “Don’t you guys say a fucking word.”
Collective laughter breaks out, Luca shaking his head at us.
“Man, all of you suck tonight,” I say with a smirk. “Well, except Aston. Must be that Walker blood.”
“Shut the fuck up, bro,” Knox grumbles, rolling his eyes. “I’m getting another round of tequila. Who wants one? None for the sore winner.” He pins me with narrow eyes and a pointed finger.
“I’ll take another,” Crew says.
“Nah, I’m good,” Weston offers. “Gotta drive too.”
Branson raises his hand, a boyish grin on his face. “Me. Luca’s my DD tonight.”
“How the fuck did you manage that? Wasn’t he the DD last time, too?”
He casually shrugs. “Road head.”
My gaze collides with Crew’s right as Branson says that, and we both bust up laughing. Leave it to him to drop something like that, all casual.
Four more rounds of tequila and lime and two more hours later, I’m the winner. Aston is a close second. Everyone except Weston, Luca, and I are trashed andloud. The DJ, or whoever they have in charge of music here, switched to better music about an hour ago, and our boy band has been rocking out ever since.
Finger drums. Air guitars. Makeshift microphones.
They’re currently belting outWe Are The Championsby Queen, arm in arm, as we return our shoes. The employees thankfully look more amused than annoyed, but I’m happy once we finally make our way back out to the cars.
Branson and Luca rode together, Weston by himself, and I’m with the other three drunk fools. Hitting the road, Crew is sitting passenger, and he’s taken it upon himself to play DJ. We’re apparently keeping the 80’s rock theme going that we started at the bowling alley.