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The first of many remixed or electronic songs comes on and I start bopping in my seat. Erin currently rolls her ball down the lane, a sad puppy expression on her face when she turns after only knocking one pin down. My hand comes up in a rock on gesture and I smile at her in encouragement. Her next ball yields seven more pins and she walks away with a smile.
“That’s my girl,” I holler. Her beaming smile is the best response and I put my hand up for a high five.
Frames are played and pitchers of beer and greasy pizza get ordered as laughter and goofiness ensue. For the next two hours, everything goes well. No testosterone battles. No bitching. It almost feels like old times.
Until one minor touch.
I grab my ball from the return, shift into the approach area and line my feet where I typically set them. Lifting the ball, I hold it steady and study the pins in front of me. When ready, I take a left-right-left, followed by a swing back and release as I swing forward. Normally, the ball would glide off my fingers and spin down the lane, the marble pattern hypnotizing on its path to the pins.
But that is not what happens.
What actually occurs is left-right-left, swing back, a smack to the leg and a twist of the ankle as the ball flies backward. It hurts like a son of a bitch and I cry out as I crumple to the floor.
Within seconds, Jonas is at my side, asking if I am okay. When I let him know I will be fine and I just need to sit a minute, he offers to help me up. Up to this point, everything is okay and I realize this because Gavin and Micah had walked off to get more beer.
The moment I stand upright, Jonas steadies me with both his hands resting on my shoulders, his eyes scrutinizing my face. “You sure you’re good?”
“Yeah. Thanks for helping me up.”
And that is when it happens. When the shit hits the fan.
Jonas brings his hand to my cheek, brushing his thumb along my cheekbone and down to my jaw. He tugs lightly on strands of my hair before swiping them behind my ear. The gesture is tender and sweet and is taken away the second Gavin is within eyeshot.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Gavin rages, his hands balled into fists at his sides.
“What’s your deal, man? She just hurt herself and I was helping,” Jonas charges back.
Gavin takes two steps closer. “I can see you helping. Keep your fucking hands to yourself, asshole.”
What the actual fuck?
“Gavin,” I soothe. “Jonas was helping me. I hit my leg with the ball and fell. He was making sure I was okay and helped me stand back up. You’d know that if you were here.” My voice transitions from soothing to bold to anger in a flash.
Who does he think he is? He has no hold over me. He has no right to step in and assume the role he is taking right now. That role was extinguished when he stopped calling and writing. That role was extinguished the day he abandoned me.
He steps up to me, looks me square in the eyes, ignoring the fact that Jonas is less than two feet away. His eyes bounce back and forth between mine as he searches my face for answers. Answers to questions he has been dying to ask me, but is scared to know the truth. If he wants the truth, he will need to man up and ask what he is so desperate to know.
“Please,” I beg then close my eyes. As much as I would like to continue staring into his mesmerizing eyes, I can’t focus when I do. I continue speaking with my vision shielded. My voice just above a whisper. “Please stop doing this. You can’t do this. You can’t come back after thirteen years and act as if nothing has changed. Everything has changed.”
“Look at me,” he whispers.
I pinch my eyes tighter a moment before opening them and refocusing on his face. His face is inches from mine, and it is both exhilarating and unnerving. In my periphery, I notice everyone has moved away from us. Even Jonas.
The music morphs to one song then another, and we stand in silence. His eyes hypnotize me more with each passing beat and I swear he is figuring out a way to imprint his soul onto mine. Little does he know, he already has.
And when his finger traces the line of my jaw, I stop breathing. My eyes close and I wish on every star I have ever seen in the night sky that he will kiss me. But he doesn’t.
He leans forward, his stubbled cheek lightly scrapes against mine, and whispers in my ear. “Not everything has changed. At least not for me.”
He doesn’t pull away from me. His warm, cotton-covered chest presses against mine and I feel the acceleration of his breathing—on my chest and at my ear. Calloused fingers traipse, with the slightest pressure, from my upper bicep down to my elbow and follow the lines of my forearm until he reaches the tips of my fingers. His fingers leave a trail of sparks everywhere he touches me and I can’t ignore the swirl of energy erupting in my body.
“Gavin…” Fuck, I can’t breathe. Can’t think.
His breath is hot on my ear. “I won’t come out and say it, but my feelings for you… if anything, they’ve only gotten stronger.”
No. No, no, no, no. He can’t do this. Not now. Not after all this time.
My brain jumbles into a fog of confusion. How can this be happening? It took me years to get over him. Years. To accept that he was never coming back. To accept I would never have the same connection with another person like I did him. Accept that I would exist among my friends and become some old cat lady.
