“Okay.”
“I asked him to come bowling on Sunday at Strike Zone. With all of you if that’s okay?”
“That’s great,” Bob said and grinned at me.
“I cannot wait to meet him!” Arnaud added.
And Taft smiled and nodded.
I think it’s okay.
Strike Zone wason Mount Read Boulevard. It had nineteen lanes, which I knew because I’d been there on Walker’s birthday two seasons ago. Nineteen was a number I couldn’t stop thinking about for the rest of that night because it was prime and there was no reason a building should have a prime number of bowling lanes. Mathematically, it suggested the architect had run out of room. I’ve checked since. There had been a twentiethlane until 2007, when it was lost during a structural retrofit that removed a load-bearing column. Now there are nineteen.
Nineteen. Still prime. Still wrong.
Bob was my ride for the night, and he parked in row two of the lot. Then we met the rest of the art guys at the front, under the buzzing red sign. Dane wasn’t there yet, so I had time to prepare.
“Are we just standing in the cold?” Taft said. “Or?—”
“Inside,” Walker said and herded us.
Everyone else got their shoes. I had my own because the thought of wearing a stranger’s shoes was a big no. The shoe rental kid had a face I recognized from the Rochester Tech newspaper. His name tag said EVAN. He gave Sable a careful, professional look that I appreciated. I told him that she was working. He nodded like someone who had once read about service animals and remembered the rules.
“I booked lane fourteen,” I said.
“Yep, all yours,” he said, and I thanked him.
I’d suggested fourteen because it had a wheelchair-accessible ramp at the foul line, which I’d requested when booking because my logistical plan for bowling with a hyperextended MCL involved zero strides on my right leg. The plan was: I would set the ball at the top of the ramp. I would aim from a fixed standing position with the crutch braced against my hip, then let physics do the rest. The ramp gave a release velocity of approximately 9.8 feet per second from the top of the slide, which was on the slow end of recreational bowling but acceptable, given that Strike Zone’s lanes were oiled at a house pattern that forgave low ball speed by holding the line longer. I’d looked it up on a forum.
Dane came in, stamping snow off his boots, wearing a black coat I hadn’t seen before, his cheeks pink, his hair pushed back, and his hands in his pockets. Sable’s tail came up the second she saw him, and when he saw me, he smiled.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
“Sorry, traffic on?—”
“You’re four minutes earlier than your text estimated. You’re not late.” I felt heat rise in my face, and I bit my lip. Some people didn’t like when I assumed what they were going to say, not that it ever stopped me.
“Okay then,” he said with a grin. “I’m not late.” Then he turned to the others. “Hi. Dane Rourke.”
Walker stepped up first, which was the captain part of him moving, and put out a hand. “Walker.”
“Thanks for letting me crash the game.”
“Happy to have you,” Cap said.
Taft came next. He did the eyebrow. Dane was an inch shorter than Taft. Taft stuck his hand out anyway and said, “Taft.”
“Hey.”
“Finn,” Finn said, easing past Taft to introduce himself. “Walker’s partner.”
“Yeah, you are,” Walker said low enough that I almost missed it, but not quite. Finn grinned at him over his shoulder.
Arnaud said, “Arnaud Beaulieu. Nice to meet you, mon ami,” and shook Dane’s hand with both of his hands.
Bob shook hands. “Bob,” he said, and pivoted away.
