Page 239 of What We Become

“You have until tomorrow.”

“I have time,” he repeats, staring across the green like the answer might be waiting at the other end.

“Ring bearer,” Micah says. “We still need to talk about the ring bearer.”

“Mars,” I say immediately.

“You want the bait dog in a tutu carrying our wedding rings?” Holden asks.

“I want my new sister—your soon-to-be sister-in-law—in a tutu carrying our wedding rings down the aisle. Gloria is officiating, so it only makes sense. It’s called reclamation. It’s thematic. It’s iconic. Sage will love it.”

“She’s a dog,” Holden says.

“Mars is OUR dog. Who was trained by a psychopath to lure our almost wife into a death trap, sure. But that wasn’t her fault. And now she wears a bow and sleeps on our bed when we puppy-sit. That’s a fucking arc, Holden. That’s character development.”

Micah covers his mouth. His shoulders shake.

Eli tips his head back and stares at the night sky. “I teach five-year-olds and this is still the most unhinged conversation I’ve had today.”

“Knox?” I ask. “Verdict?”

Knox steps onto the mat and sends his bowl curling toward the jack. “Get the dog a tutu.”

I point at him. “I already got one. And I forgive you for the shart comment earlier. Love you, big guy!”

Holden drops his head into his hands.

The night stretches. The pitchers empty and refill. With one end left, Knox and Micah are tied on three points. I’ve edged past Eli with two, and the look he gives me could curdle milk.

“This means I eat her out before you,” I inform him.

“The stakes were a joke.”

“The stakes were a binding verbal contract witnessed by five men and a scorecard.”

“It’s a game, Milo.”

“Eli, are you really going to dishonor the brotherhood vows in this manner? The night before our wedding?”

“I’m going to go down on our wife whenever she wants. I don’t need a bowling score to give me permission.”

“That’s the spirit, Mr. Ward. But also, I’m still going before you.”

Holden laughs. Micah shakes his head, then sends his last bowl curling neatly toward the jack. It stops close enough to make Knox put his beer down.

That gets everyone’s attention.

Knox steps onto the mat with the last bowl of the night. Bends. Releases.

It slips inside Micah’s and stops.

We all walk down to look. Micah crouches with the measure while Knox stands over him, hands in his pockets, apparently unaware that suspense is supposed to involve facial movement.

“Knox,” Micah says, straightening. “By half an inch.”

I add the final tally.

Four to Knox. Three to Micah. Two to me. One to Eli.