“Who do you feel like being tonight? Erwin, Glenn, or Ash?”
“Erwin, obviously.” She swipes the hanger out of my hand and sheds her coat, leaving it in the back of my car and swapping her navy sweater for the red-and-blue striped button-up. “These are fantastic. Dave is going to love them.”
My thoughts exactly. We might not look like a team, but at least we look like bowlers. “Shall we take these for a test drive?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Meg stacks her feet onto the chair next to her, a plate of nachos balanced on her chest. “Hold up. Ratbag is still texting you?”
We have one more frame to bowl before Josh and all other negative subjects are no longer allowed. It’s something we used to do during our wine nights and the best way to end the evening on a high instead of going home more depressed thanwe arrived. Back then, we used to count glasses. Now we count frames.
We’ve already talked about Meg’s jerk of an ex, whose favorite pastime is gaslighting,andher parents’ desire for her to marry and produce babies with just about anyone they can find. Her mother fixed her up on four dates while she was back home, which is impressive considering she was only there for five days in total.
“Yup.” For some reason, Josh keeps texting and calling every other day. To be honest, I’m shocked he hasn’t driven out to where I live. Or maybe he has, and I just haven’t been home.
The new job has kept me pretty busy.
The chip crunches between her teeth, spilling crumbs back into the plastic container, thus the reason she puts it there. “What does he want?”
“To talk.”
“About what?”
“Hell if I know.” And I’ve no desire to find out. I grab the plain black bowling ball I’ve claimed as my own and make my way to the start of the lane. We’re only four frames in and already I’ve knocked down more pins than the entirety of our last game.
We haven’t even used the bumpers, either.
When we arrived, we found Dave behind the counter, having swapped his cigarette for a chewed-up blue ink pen. Our lane was free, and Sally dropped down two beers before we had even changed shoes.
I pull back and slide the ball down the center of the tiny arrows printed on the boards.
Come on.
Come onnn...
For some reason, my body leans to the right like the ball and I are connected and it’s going to listen to me instead of veering left and?—
Gutter ball.
Meg snorts when I head back, and I knock her feet to the ground so I can plop down next to her and steal a nacho.
She hands me the whole plate, swipes her hands down her jeans, and pushes to her feet with a groan. “Maybe they should call us the Unlucky Strikes.” She tugs her collar, referring to theLucky Strikesdecal emblazoned on the back of her shirt.
Mine only has a couple of bowling pins. I’m a little jealous, but the name tag is what won me over in the first place.
“Enough about my lack of skills and my problems. What’re you going to do about your ex?” An ex whose name I still don’t know. She’s referred to him as everything from the “devil himself” to “turd burger” but has yet to reveal any identifying detail beyond his many faults.
Meg snags her ball from the return like it’s on fire. “Oh! Would you look at that? The fifth frame. No more depressing talk.”
“You sneaky little…” She kept me talking this whole time about my own issues. “I’m onto you now. I’m coming for you next week, Meg Benson.”
She holds up her free hand as she backs toward the lane. “Promises, promises.”
Meg knocks down three pins, and my luck finally changes with a spare.
She taps her can against mine. “So, Head of Traffic Managers, huh? That’s exciting.”
“I still can’t believe it. Feels like I haven’t been there long enough to deserve a promotion.”
