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Harlow grabs her lime-green ball and steps up to the lane. She holds the ball up, her tongue sticking out slightly between her lips as she concentrates. She swings her arm back and lets the ball fly.
Right.
Down.
The.
Middle.
“Oh, game on,” Meredith yells, when Harlow gets a strike.
Harlow turns around and faces us, taking a bow.
She reaches the table and Spencer holds both his hands up to her for a high five. I swear her cheeks flush, but then her hair falls forward, hiding her face, and I can’t be sure.
We finish the first game, Spencer winning, of course, with Harlow coming in second, and order some food.
When the order comes up, Spencer carries the two trays over to our table.
I sip at my Sprite I got from the vending machine as Spencer passes the food around.
I take a hot dog, squirting ketchup and mustard on it.
Before the transplant, a hot dog was a big no-no. I mean, hot dogs aren’t good for anyone, but sometimes you just want a damn hot dog. I always had to avoid them, but today’s my birthday, I’m post-transplant, and I’m going to enjoy one as well as crisp bowling alley fries. I’ve always loved their fries here. I don’t know if it’s necessarily that they’re good or they just fill me with a feeling of nostalgia.
We eat our food happily, talking and laughing. Spencer fits easily into our little group, almost like he’s always been here.
Sadness stays in his eyes, but he starts to smile more, and I can tell it’s genuine. It makes me feel good that he seems to be enjoying himself somewhat. I know I haven’t been there for him like I should. Maybe it’s selfish of me, but it’s been too hard knowing the kidney I got is more than likely T.J’s. It seems wrong, almost gross, to comfort Spencer right now with that knowledge.
We finish eating and Spencer gets rid of
our trash before we set up another game.
This time we divide into teams, Meredith and Harlow versus Spencer and me.
This ought to be interesting.
Meredith goes first, slinging her ball like she’s performing shot put, very badly, might I add, for the Olympics.
“What was that?” I tease her as her ball flies straight into the gutter.
She shrugs. “Bowling is not my sport.”
“Nothing is your sport,” I remind her.
“True,” she concedes, waiting for the ball to come back.
When it does, she grabs it and cradles it in both hands as she steps up to the lane.
She spreads her legs and swings the ball in both hands before releasing it. It flies down the lane and knocks down all but two pins. She turns to us and curtseys.
I shake my head as we all clap.
It’s my turn next. I take a deep breath before grabbing my ball, concentrating.
“You got this, Willa,” Spencer cheers behind me.
I swing my arm back and let the ball fly.
