I nod and smile, liking the idea. Bowling with Patrick. It sounds fun. Easy, low-key, we’ll have a few laughs, we’ll do something friendly. It’ll be the perfect second non-date. And it’ll help me get my mind off all the things that aren’t real. All the things that can’t possibly be real in any way, shape or form. All the things that I don’t know how to fit into my life.
“I’m brilliant,” Reeve says, moving to a sit-up bench. “Just admit it.”
“You’re the most brilliant one of all,” I say as Reeve curls up in a crunch. My phone buzzes. I reach into the pocket of my workout shorts, and for the briefest of seconds, I find myself hoping it’s a text about another private rehearsal. But it’s from Kat, and it’s a picture of a wedding gown she wants to try on this weekend.
I smile and write back. Can’t wait.
She’s going to look beautiful when she walks down the aisle to marry the only man she’s ever loved.
* * *
Patrick holds the green bowling ball in front of his chest, pausing on the polished wood floor. He bends, his arm swinging gracefully behind him, then in front of him as he shoots the ball down the lane.
Lifehouse plays loudly in the Port Authority bowling alley, a strange choice. I’d expected a bouncy Katy Perry tune, or even some hair metal from the 80s like Poison. But the guy who runs this place loves his alt pop music, so we’re treated to one of my favorite songs—“Broken.” I’m falling apart, I’m barely breathing mingles with the sound of arcade games and gutter balls, but I push away the sadness in the words, and focus instead on the beat, on the way the band sings of possibilities, of healing, of becoming whole again.
And on Patrick, as he watches the ball roll in a perfect straight line. Ten pins spill with a loud crash, rattling under the lane.
Patrick raises his arms high in the air, spins around and smiles widely.
“Strike!”
I shake my head, but I can’t mask how impressed I am. There’s nothing he can’t do well. Not only has he landed strikes and spares effortlessly in most frames, he’s a perfect gentleman. No grandstanding in the bowling alley for him. Just a few happy pumps of the fist with each frame.
“You are a rock star,” I say as I high five him. He’s a golden boy. He’s good at everything. And he’s literally the nicest guy I’ve ever met. He’s like sunshine, and I don’t think anything could ever get him down.
He waves off my compliment, as if it’s nothing. “Nah. I’m just having fun.”
I take my final turn, knocking down five pins.
I return to the scorekeeping table, and I know I’ve been defeated, but I don’t care because it’s been fun. How could it not be fun? Patrick’s not hot and cold. Patrick doesn’t make my brain hurt. Patrick doesn’t confuse me with all his mixed messages. It’s simple with him, and maybe that’s how this will be as we move forward after Crash The Moon—a steady, sturdy sort of thing.
No drama. No angst. No worrying.
We train our eyes on the TV screens, waiting for our final scores.
188 flashes across the black and white monitor under his name. Mine is much lower.
“You finished with a 102,” he says brightly, placing a hand on my back. “That’s a great score.”
“It was a good game.”
“We should get back now or Shannon and Milo will have our heads,” he says, and I flinch at the mention of our director’s name. They’re working with other chorus members, so we had two hours free at lunch and used that time to slip out to the nearby lanes. We leave the Port Authority and head the few blocks back to the theater.
“You know what would be cool?” Patrick muses as we turn into the alley that runs alongside the St. James. “If we did a movie together someday. I’ve got a few things I’m looking into, and it’d be fun to work on a film with you.”
“Um, yeah!”
“But I also think we need to find mini golf somewhere in Manhattan,” Patrick says as we reach the stage door.
“Randall’s Island,” I tell him, as he holds open the door for me. “There’s mini golf on Randall’s Island.”
“Then, Jill, that’s exactly what we’re going to do the next time we get together,” he declares as he bounds up the steps and into the hallway. I’m right behind him as we round the corner, but I freeze when I see Davis at the end of the hall, head down and enrapt in a conversation with Shannon who’s holding her clipboard and taking notes.
He doesn’t even see me, but an icy dread spreads through my bones, as if I’ve been caught. I’m ready to turn around, run, hide. Then I remind myself I did nothing wrong. There’s no reason I can’t hang out with my cast mate. No reason at all. So I tell myself to pick up my boots and put one foot in front of the other and walk on.
I keep pace next to Patrick, who’s musing about whether the mini golf range at Randall’s Island has one of those crazy, macabre clowns for the final hole, and I force a smile on my face, and then I even manage a laugh, because I’m sure I’ll feel as lighthearted as I possibly can while whacking a small white ball into a clown’s face.
The sound of Patrick’s voice carries in these cramped hallways, and it’s enough for Davis to look away from Shannon. He appraises the scene instantly—Patrick and I coming from outside, Patrick and I gone for two hours, Patrick and I chatting. His blue eyes turn dark and steely, and I can almost feel the anger radiating from him as we pass by. He’s like a high tension line, and his jaw is set hard, his eyes narrowed.