Vice laughed, and I found myself staring at him a little longer than I should have.
I liked seeing him like this. Relaxed. Laughing. There was always something serious sitting behind his eyes, even when he smiled, and I knew a lot of it had to do with Sam. Losing someone didn’t disappear because you went bowling for a few hours, and whatever his cousin had been involved in before he died was still hanging over Vice’s head.
Tonight, though, he seemed lighter, and I liked knowing I might have something to do with that.
“You good?” he asked.
I realized I was still looking at him and quickly reached for my drink. “Yeah.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes stayed on me for another second before he let it go, and I was grateful because I wasn’t sure I could explain what had been going through my mind without saying more than I was ready to admit.
The third game went slightly better, although not enough for me to actually win. I blamed the margaritas. Vice blamed my lack of skill, and by the time we left, I was still accusing him of somehow cheating.
“How the fuck you cheat at bowling?” he asked as we walked through the parking garage.
“I don’t know, but I’m sure you figured it out.”
“You lost three times.”
“You don’t have to keep saying it.”
“You keep accusing me of cheating.”
“Because you’re too happy about winning.”
Vice opened the passenger door and waited for me to climb inside. “You want me to be sad?”
“I want you to be humble.”
He laughed as he closed the door.
The ride back to my apartment was quiet. Music played low through the speakers while I rested my head against the seat and watched the city pass outside the window. Maybe it was the drinks or the fact that I’d spent the entire night laughing more than I had in months, but whatever it was, I felt good.
When Vice pulled into my building’s parking garage, I glanced over at him. “I had fun.”
“I know.”
I laughed. “You really have to stop saying that.”
“I just know you had fun… That’s all, and so did I.”
He parked near the elevator and turned off the truck. When he reached for his door, I didn’t bother telling him he didn’t have to walk me upstairs. I already knew he was going to, and honestly, I didn’t mind.
We rode the elevator up together, and the closer we got to my floor, the more aware I became of him standing close beside me. The two margaritas had worn off enough that I wasn’t drunk, but I was still relaxed and less inside my own head than usual.
When the doors opened, we walked toward my apartment, and I unlocked the door before turning around to face him. For a few seconds, neither one of us said anything.
Three nights ago, we’d stood almost exactly like this.
The only difference was that I knew what I wanted now.
“Thank you for tonight,” I said.
“You welcome.”
