Page 249 of ClickBack

“I’m looking around your basement when we get home.”

She takes her bag back and walks ahead of me. I get a picture of her by the racing games, looking over her shoulder because she has figured out I’m not beside her anymore. I keep it. Then I put my phone away and follow.

At the basketball machines she studies the scoreboard, presses her palm to a ball, and turns it beneath her hand.

“Same rules?” she asks.

“What rules did we have?”

“You lose graciously.”

“I’m about to disappoint you.”

She laughs, and I start the game.

The first ball comes back low and I reach too far for it. By the time I adjust, she has a lead. Giselle finds a rhythm quickly. Catch, shoot, hand already dropping for the next one. I stop watching her.

“There you go,” she says. “Concentrate.”

“You’re doing a lot of coaching for somebody who wants to beat me.”

“I want a worthwhile victory.”

The final buzzer catches me reaching for another ball. Mine rolls back down the ramp, and we both look up. I have her by three.

I take a photograph of the scoreboard.

“Really?” she asks.

“I’d like a record.”

“Of beating an accountant.”

“An undefeated accountant.”

“Previously undefeated.” She reaches for the game card. “Again.”

I hold it against my chest. “I’m retiring.”

She tries to take it, laughing when I turn away. I catch her around the middle and pull her back against me. She tips her face toward mine, and the argument ends with her hand at my cheek.

I could have asked her here, between these machines. I considered it. But somebody would have needed to stand ready to turn off the lights or bring something out, and then I would have been waiting on a cue instead of paying attention to her.

We get fries and drinks at a booth near the back. She takes the inside seat and moves her bag when I slide in beside her. There is salt on her finger. She wipes it off before reaching for her phone.

“Rae says you’re making fun of my grandson.”

“Your grandson looks like he’s about to ask for the principal.”

“He hates that picture.”

“I can tell.”

“I ordered two packages.”

I look at her. She reaches across me for the ketchup.

“It’s his first year at a new school. He can hate it from inside a frame.”