“Sorry, I can’t help it,” I admit.

  “You got a crush or something?” He takes another big bite, but stares at me through his chewing, as if that’s an easy question to answer. Besides, I’m pretty sure he knows the history there. I’ve known him as long as I’ve known Lucas, longer maybe.

  “It’s complicated,” I say.

  “Yeah, I figured. He does this same weird shit you do when I’m with him,” he says, finishing the last bite of his second dog. Meanwhile, I have one and a half left. He takes a long drink of his soda while I stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate.

  “What?” he asks, when he finally looks at me again.

  “What same weird shit?” I ask.

  I’m jittery all of a sudden.

  “You know, he stares at you to make sure you’re not having too much fun over here while he’s over there, pretending he’s not really looking at you, or if he is then it’s because you irritate him or whatever.” He sours his mouth and rolls his eyes. “I don’t get you guys.”

  “I was gone for a full year. I wasn’t around to stare at.” I brush him off. I pick at my hotdog, pretty sure I won’t be able to eat the second one.

  “Yeah, but like at your house on weekends, or if you were somewhere we were, his attention wandered off a little. He hated me calling him on it, which of course, ya know, means I basically watch him like a hawk so I can needle him about any glance he gives your way.” He breathes out a laugh, lifting a shoulder in a braggart kind of way.

  “What a friend,” I deadpan.

  “A real gentleman,” he corrects, with a wink. He reaches toward my lap and points at the still-wrapped dog. “You gonna eat that?”

  I lift both hands and puff out my cheeks. He grabs it and devours it in four bites.

  “So, Eight Lanes,” he says. “That’s what I was asking you about before, when you were off in your la la fairy crush land.”

  I close my eyes and shake my head, dismissing that term.

  “I know, I know . . . it’s complicated,” he says, reaching over to my box and stealing a few fries.

  “Yes, I work at Eight Lanes,” I say, pivoting the topic away from Lucas.

  “Think you can get me a job there?” His hand creeps over to swipe a few more of my fries, but this time I swat his knuckles.

  “Ow!” He plays it up a little, shaking his hand.

  I try to imagine my work shift with Tory hanging around, and even though I think the bosses would hate him, he would be fun to have around, and we are hiring.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I say, not making promises.

  Tory brushes salt from his hands and gathers up the trash into the Two-fers bag, tossing it out his window and into the trash about twenty feet away. I clutch my container of fries to my chest and continue to pick at them as he shifts gears and slowly pulls out. Always my own worst enemy, I spend these moments studying Lucas, half hoping to catch him in the act of looking back. I don’t really expect to, but then, just before I look away, our eyes meet. I don’t know why I care so much. And I can’t believe he really does. But there’s a visceral pain that comes with this brief exchange. I taste it. And for whatever reason, it hurts like hell.

  Chapter Ten

  Somehow, I manage to get through one Friday with no game and no party . My best friend has the flu. Even dog tired and burning up, she still tries to rally. But when she can’t get through a sentence without hacking up a lung, her mom puts her foot down. Abby has a pretty big commercial to film in a couple weeks. Right now, she sounds like a chain smoker.

  Lola and Naomi don’t have the same pull over me that Abby does. Besides that, I picked up the Friday shift since I hadn’t worked at the bowling alley during my first week of school. I need the cash. I’m going to need to save about two thousand dollars to pay for the first year at County College, which at this point is pretty much my dream school.

  I thought I would enjoy my old routine—ear pods in, Best of Bowie on repeat, all the free popcorn I want. Yet, all I can think about is the score, where Lola and Naomi are sitting without me, and whether or not Lucas’s dad is standing for the entire game. I give in about midway through my shift and follow the score on the high school sports app on my phone.

  That’s a lie. I don’t care about the score. I care about Lucas’s performance. I find myself rooting for him, waiting for small updates on passing yards and completions when we have the ball.

  We win, and Lucas threw for almost three hundred fifty yards. I’m satisfied. I catch myself smiling as I wipe down the shoe rental counter at the end of my shift. I drive home in a roundabout way, finally giving in and driving by the damn field. The lights are still on, and the forty-two to ten score is still up on the board to show off our blowout. The stands are completely empty.

  But not the parking lot.

  One black Nissan truck. I turn off my lights and pull to the side of the road for a minute, maybe two. Lucas’s lights are on, and his truck faces to the side, so I have a decent view of the cab. He’s alone. No glow of a phone light, no Ava. He’s merely a profile from this distance, but there are nuances to his movements.

  He’s slouched down enough that his head rests on his headrest, his eyes looking up, or maybe closed in thought. His palm runs down his face a few times, seconds apart. I leave just after he leans forward and presses his forehead to the steering wheel. I recognize when someone feels defeated and lost. Even as we stand now, I can’t sit here and watch it. I think about it though, all the way until I can’t keep my eyes open at 4 a.m.

  I wake up this morning and pledge to clear my mind of all things Lucas. I blow that promise when all the seniors on the football team come barreling into the alley. I run to fix stray pins and clean the ball return gears, a job I really don’t need to do; I run back there to hide. And now . . . I’m stuck.

  It’s amazing the clout people give to seventeen and eighteen-year-old dudes simply because they can throw balls and run into people while wearing pads. Morty, the guy who owns this joint, just brought their table a pitcher of beer and a full pizza. I bet he doesn’t bring that when the marching band kids come in for the midnight bowl.

  Hypocrite.

  It’s a bit of a tight squeeze back here, so I find a spot between lanes five and six, wedged between the pinsetters. A few of us eat our lunches back here because the Wi-Fi is pretty good in this area and you can stream Netflix on your phone without buffering. I finished the first season of The Office back here during my first month on the job.

  I’m not streaming anything now, though. I’m too caught up in the show happening at the other end of the lanes. They’re loud, typical jockheads making crass jokes and picking each other up just to prove they can. We’re a little slow this morning, but a few of the families have moved to lanes on the other end just to gain some space. Morty should probably turn the music up, too.

  While most of the guys pace around racks looking for balls, Lucas and Tory enter names on the screen. Lucas is wearing his hoodie pulled over his head, his mouth a hard line and face full of shadows. I wonder if it’s leftover frustration from whatever feelings he was trying to process last night after the game. I read the highlights when I got home, thinking maybe I missed something when I was following on my phone, but no—his game was impeccable. Maybe his father didn’t think so.

  His father.

  I keep coming back to it.

  My phone buzzes in my back pocket, so I stand to pull it out, balancing carefully in the small space so I don’t bump into any of the machinery. It’s a text from a number I don’t recognize.

  We can see you, FYI

  I scrunch my face and glance to either side. Nobody is back here, which means whoever is texting me is out there.

  Tory?

  It takes less than a breath for my phone to buzz in my palm.

  No shit.

  I laugh silently and lean out to peek through the back of the pinsetter to where the boys are, about three alleys over. I hold my palm out close to my body when I spot him standing behind Lucas, who is still focused on the screen. He holds his hand out the same way then looks at his phone and begins typing again.

  There’s a mirror.

  Brow drawn in, I blink at his text a few times, now settled back in my safe spot. My eyes scan to both sides again while I mentally draw the schematics of this place and think about the sound pads on the walls, the bright lights and disco colors. And then it hits me. I lean my head back slowly, lifting my chin until my gaze finds itself reflected right back at me, upside down.

  Motherfuck.

  I punch out a laugh and contemplate how many times I’ve sat back here, oblivious to the fact anyone with a little curiosity could watch the flip-side version of me doing lord knows what. I’m pretty sure I’ve picked my nose once or twice, just a little. I know I’ve pulled out a wedgie or adjusted bras. The more I study my reflection, the more I realize all of the details you can see—like the way even a modest shirt like my Eight Lanes uniform is unbuttoned just enough for a view. I think about the senior league made up of mostly sixty-five-plus men who comes in on Sundays and always tries to “tip” me, and cringe.

  Are you hiding or on break?

  I consider going with the harmless little lie, then I fall into my usual pattern.

  I’m hiding. Don’t laugh.

  It’s too late, though, because I already hear him bellowing. I twist to look around the pinsetter again and this time, I’m met with four sets of eyes—both D’Angelo twins, some big guy who I think is named Kade, and Lucas. Three smiles and one mouth that is completely void of being human.

  My body is hot, and I’m pretty sure a bead of sweat just dripped down my spine. My neck is hot; even with my hair pulled back into a knot, I’m cooking. They keep this place freezing, so I know it’s just me.

  Tory invites me to join them with a huge gesture, as if I’m somewhere on the other side of a field. I swallow and Lucas turns to look at his friend; his shoulders visibly slumping. I type a quick message to Tory.

  Pretty sure I’m only half invited.

  I stare at him while he reads, noting the way his body shakes in amusement. He doesn’t bother to text back this time, instead cupping his mouth with one hand. I brace myself for it about a half-second before the sound comes out.

  “Maybe Mabee would like to come say hi to her friends!” His hand slowly falls away, and a smug-ass grin covers his face. My joints turn to Jell-O.

  Friends.

  I’m pretty sure I only have one friend over there. I definitely have one enemy.

  I can’t stay here, though. Even faking work on one of the ball returns would look like an excuse. Plus, now that I know everyone can see me, I might not ever break back here again. I shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and relent, ducking under one of the frames and stepping onto the space between the far lanes. I know better than to look away from my feet, but my ego gets the best of me and I glance up, just for a second, to see whether Lucas is watching me. That’s when I fall.

  Bowling lane wax is not to be trifled with. One misstep sends my left foot two feet to the left, my arms flailing to find balance while my right foot struggles to hold on. It’s useless to fight it, but I decide to give in too late. My legs jut out too far in front of my body and I’m airborne for what feels like a full minute, though I’m sure it’s only a blink. The wind leaves my lungs as soon as I slam to the wood, but that’s not what hurts the most. My head falls back onto the sharp corner of the gutter, and actual stars form around my vision like bright fireworks flashing in front of my face.

  “June!”

  My name sounds as if it’s being shouted through a tunnel. I’m not sure whether the echo is in my head or in the room. The gasping sounds coming from my own mouth seem so foreign, and my head is ringing. The thunderous sound of running feet rushes my way, and in my daze, I expect to see ten guys rushing to my aid. My head falls to the right and my eyes struggle to stay open.

  I have a fucking concussion. I know I do.

  My vision is super fuzzy, and fading in and out. What appears to be three pair of legs sliding my direction settles into one pair by the time the person they belong to is at my side.

  “June, careful. Don’t move.”

  Ignoring the advice, I roll to my side, but only because I think I might vomit.

  “You can’t carry her on that. You’ll slip, too!”

  That voice is distinct. It’s Morty, worried about all of the damn accident claim forms he’ll have to fill out. Whomever he’s yelling at doesn’t seem to be listening because hands slide under my ribs and my right hip . On instinct, I reach up with my right arm and grab on to the shoulder of my life raft. It’s only when my face is flat against the soft cotton of the hoodie that I recognize who is lifting me against his chest.

  I breathe in Lucas’s scent, the mix of his mom’s lavender fabric softener and the wood and cinnamon of his cologne. He shifts his arms as he moves his legs under his body to stand, and I cling harder, not wanting to fall again. We rise easily, his arms and chest muscles flexing to maintain balance and hold me up.

  “I can walk,” I utter.

  “Shhh,” he responds quickly.

  My view is of his jawline, the tendon on his neck defined from stress. His feet give way with his tiny steps, and he pauses.

  “This shit is slippery,” he shouts to his friends.

  We have a carpet we roll out when things like this happen, not that they happen often. It’s happened twice since I’ve worked here, and both times were drunk league bowlers who rushed the lane, pissed off about the ten pin not falling. I’m sure Morty is rushing to get the rug now, but Lucas keeps moving us forward.

  I stare at his chin, not wanting to look because things around the room are spinning. His chin is my true north. It’s the only thing not fucking moving.

  “Almost there,” he says, reassuring me.

  I flinch when his body lunges forward with two massive steps. His balance steadies, though. He tucks his chin to look down, and our gazes meet for a second. That void expression I’ve seen lately has been replaced with a more stoic one, and his eyes have a concerned tilt to them.

  “Tory, someone needs to drive her home, man. Get your car.”

  Lucas bends down and sets me in one of the plastic seats by the computer and ball return. My hand grips his sweatshirt as he slides me from his hold, and I end up tugging on the material at his waist. I think maybe he’s going to step away, put some distance between us. But when I tug, he crouches down next to me and keeps his hand at the base of my neck.

  “She’s your neighbor, Lucas. Get over yourself and drive her home,” Tory says. Lucas twists his head to look up at his friend, but I keep my focus on his chin and jaw. It’s firm, and I sense he’s not thrilled about getting a lecture.

  While their stare-off stretches into long seconds, a new wave of vertigo tackles my brain and I have to close my eyes to will it away. With his attention divided, Lucas’s help with my balance slips and as the stomach acid crawls up my throat, I lurch toward the floor. I fall from his grip and catch myself with my palms on the floor, but not before I throw up a little on my Eight Lanes shirt.

  Keys jingle as they soar through the air over my head, and Tory takes off in a sprint. Finn, the college dude who’s my assistant manager, has already rushed over with a bucket and mop, and the scent of Pine Sol assaults my nose. I cup my face as Lucas sweeps me back into his cradled arms and carries me through the front area and out the doors. I’d be mortified by all of this but I am in so much pain and so sick and dizzy that I don’t have room to consider anything else.

  Lucas’s truck rumbles to the curb, and we pause as Tory rushes from the driver’s side and opens the door so Lucas can set me inside. I fumble with the seat belt once he gets me into a sitting position, but his hand covers mine to stop me.

  “You’re not even close,” he says, taking over until I hear the click.

  He gently closes the passenger door, and I rest my head on the window as soon as it’s secure. I’m not totally sure when Lucas gets into the driver’s side, or when he pulls away from the bowling alley, but we’re suddenly about halfway between my work and my home, and I’m kinda freaked because I missed some stuff.

  “Hey, the tracks are coming up. I’ll try to take them slow, but you might wanna pull your head from the window,” he says. His voice is soft. I guess all our relationship required was a freaking traumatic brain injury for us to not be dicks to one another.

  I sit up just before his tires crawl over the rough road, but the slow rocking sensation makes my world spin again and I moan.

  “I think we need to get you looked at,” Lucas says, reaching across the seats and palming my shoulder to help center me. I roll my head and look at him with sleepy eyes. When he pulls up to the last stop sign before my house, he glances to his right and studies my gaze for a few long seconds. For the slightest moment, I feel fine.

  “You wait in the truck. I’ll run in and get your mom,” he says, gaze turning back to the road as he moves through the intersection. I reach up and press my palm against my own head, trying to work the thought inside to my mouth.

  “She’s not home.” I finally get the basics out for him.

  “Okay, well, I need your phone then so I can call her.”

  I nod slowly and reach around my body, feeling for my phone. My grip on it is poor when I get it out of my pocket, and I end up flinging it onto the floor in front of me.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. I start to bend forward to get it, but Lucas pulls to the side of the road and touches my shoulder again to get me to stop. Once near the curb a few houses away from where we live, he scoots to the center of the seat and bends down, his body basically covering my entire lap. Despite my whirling environment, I’m acutely aware of his nearness and touch. Somehow, I don’t fall over his back in a desperate hug. I want to, though, so my head must not be that far gone.

  He lifts himself upright with my phone in his palm, and taps my screen to bring up the keypad. I open my mouth, prepared to utter my password, but he just types it in—04080901. I stare at him until he presses the phone to his ear and looks my way.