Emma and Luke Are Totally Together Page 4

  I know it’s silly to be embarrassed about saying my shoe size. It’s not like people can’t see my feet. But it’s always been something I’ve been sensitive about. Whenever I have to say my shoe size aloud, I get a flashback of my friends in fourth grade laughing their heads off.

  “Nine and a half,” I mumble. “But sometimes I’m a ten. Which is why I should go with you. To try on both sizes.”

  “They don’t have half sizes,” says Paige, loudly, as she bends over to touch her tiny, unfairly dainty feet. “You have to size up.”

  Luke disappears to get our shoes. Paige transitions into stretching out her hamstrings. Martin busies himself with fixing my name up on the screen.

  “So,” I say. “Um, how long have you two been together?”

  “Me and Martin?” says Paige. “Oh, we go way back.”

  “Way back,” says Martin, giving Paige a suggestive smile.

  “Ah,” I say.

  Martin leans back in his chair. “How about The High Rollers?”

  “Sorry?” I say.

  “For our team name.”

  “I think it would be fun if we combined all of our initials,” says Paige. “Does that spell anything?”

  “Sorry, babe. I don’t think that will work,” says Martin. “Emma? Any suggestions?”

  “Not yet,” I say.

  While they continue to debate potential team names, I excuse myself to pick out a bowling ball. Over at the rack, I dawdle, testing out ball after ball. I run my hands over them, picking one up and then another, giving each a ridiculous amount of consideration. When Luke walks past with our shoes, I call him over.

  “Want to make a run for it?” I ask.

  He frowns at me. “I just got our shoes. By the way, they didn’t have your size. I had to get you a men’s size eight instead.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I say. “Okay. We need to go. Let’s say that I’m coming down with something.”

  “They’re just shoes, Emma.”

  “It’s not just that. It’s…” I glance over my shoulder at Paige. “It’s her.”

  “Come on. It won’t be that bad.”

  I grumble. “Famous last words.”

  “You’re saying that bowling with Paige is going to kill you? A tad dramatic, don’t you think?”

  I grab the disinfectant-reeking bowling shoes from his hands. “Fine. Give me those.”

  We rejoin the group just in time to see Paige pull a bowling ball out of her own personal carrying case. Of course she would have her own bowling ball. As she runs a cloth over the high-gloss surface, the polish catches a ray of light and glares in my eyes.

  Martin stands up from the console, all eight million feet of him unfolding.

  “All right,” he says, lifting a massive ball from the return. “Wish me luck.”

  As Martin bowls and gets a spare, a feeling of dread starts to creep into my stomach. Paige goes next, knocking down eight out of the ten pins. Then Lucinda goes, then Beau, who each knock down a decent amount, too. By the time it’s Luke’s turn, I actually do start to feel sick.

  Am I really the only one in the group who’s bad at this?

  “I can’t believe how good those kids are,” says Lucinda, and I snap out of my misery for a few seconds to follow her gaze over to the lane next to us, which is filled with what looks like a bunch of seven-year-olds. Right after she says it, one of them throws a spare.

  “Wow, yeah,” I say.

  “They’re so adorable,” says Lucinda.

  One of the kids emits an earsplitting scream. I wince and touch my ear. I turn and watch as Luke knocks down one of his remaining three pins, shakes his head, and then nods at me. “You’re up, Armstrong. Show us what you’ve got.”

  When I say I’m bad at bowling, I’m not exaggerating. Actually, scratch that. I am awful. There’s just something about bowling that brings out all the awkwardness and inability in me.

  Reluctantly, I approach the ball return. I eye the little lemon yellow ball that I selected from the rack. Maybe this time will be different. Things can inexplicably change, right?

  I slide my fingers into its holes, pick it up. It feels like it’s the exact right weight. Okay. I’ve got this. We can do this, little lemon yellow bowling ball. I’ll do my part and release you; you just have to knock down the pins. Deal?

  I approach the lane. My feet slide in my ill-fitting shoes. I try to channel the bowlers who have worn the shoes before me—surely there had to be one master among them.

  I bring the ball to my chest. Then I take three little steps, swinging the ball back, and—just before my toe goes over the foul line—I heave my arm forward and send the ball down the lane. It lands with a thud on the floor, then goes spinning toward its destination.

  And then it veers. And veers. And into the gutter it goes.

  “Tough luck,” says Martin.

  “You should’ve stretched,” Paige says, cracking her neck.

  “It happens to all of us,” Lucinda says.

  I turn and slump down into my seat. In the next lane over, the kids can’t stop giggling.

  Five frames later—after four more frames that make it seem like I’m trying to miss the bowling pins on purpose—Luke finally offers to help. Apparently five frames is the maximum number that he can take watching me make an utter fool of myself.

  I pick up my traitorous lemon yellow ball and take my stance at the end of the lane. Luke, standing beside me now, shakes his head and tells me to hold the ball to my side.

  “What do you mean? Like this?”

  “No. More like this.” He reaches out and moves my arms into what is apparently the correct position. “Then, when you swing your arm back, it’ll go in a straight line, instead of a curve around your body.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Now, when you drop your arm back down,” he says, “remember that you’re letting gravity do the work. You’re not throwing the ball. You’re releasing it. Think of your arm as a ramp.”

  Everything Luke is saying makes perfect sense. It’s so obvious, actually. Why has no one ever taught me this before?

  “Show me your swing,” he says.

  I pull my arm back.

  “You’re still curving. Your arm should go back more like this.” This time, Luke guides my arm up into the arc, his hands gently but firmly guiding my own. I can’t help but tense up. It’s weird, him being so close to me like this. And it’s really weird, his hands on mine. His bicep is almost touching me. Who knew that Luke had muscles?

  “God, you’re tense,” he says. “Try to loosen up. It’ll help. Now keep your eye on one of the arrows on the lane. Aim for that, not the pins.”

  “I’ve got it,” I say, yanking my arm out of his grasp. “Thanks.”

  Luke steps away, and I center myself. I keep the ball to my side. I pick out an arrow on the lane, take a few steps forward as I draw back the ball, then swing my arm forward and let the ball roll out of my hand.

  The ball rolls. It goes straight down the lane. It’s not going that fast, but it’s going straight. And as we all watch, it keeps going. And going. And then I…I roll a…strike.

  Paige tackles me with a hug. “Emma! You superstar!” she shouts. I’m so stunned that I don’t even care that she’s practically strangling me.

  After Paige lets go, Martin gives me a high five—a high five that leaves my palm stinging. Lucinda and Beau give me hearty congratulations right after.

  I look at Luke. “Thanks, dude,” I say.

  “It was all you,” he says.

  “Your gutterball girlfriend just got a strike, Luke!” says Paige. “Jeez. Give her a kiss or something!”

  I see Luke’s face freeze. Mine freezes, too. No, I tell him with my eyes. You are not allowed to kiss me. But we can’t just brush it off, either. Paige, freakin’ Paige, she’s standing there with her hands over her heart, waiting for us to embrace.

  Luke laughs. Awkwardly. He steps toward me and wraps his arms around me, giving me a
squeeze as he says, “Good job, um, babe.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I am so uncomfortable, our bodies pressed together like this. I am so uncomfortable, I want to die.

  Luke finally lets go. Thank God. I stare down at my shoes, sure that my face is bright red.

  “Break for snacks?” Luke suggests.

  “Yes,” I say quickly. “Snacks sound good.”

  The six of us crowd into a big, slightly sticky booth in the dining area up above the lanes. We’ve ordered a bunch of stuff and put it all into the middle of the table like a smorgasbord: fish and chips, nachos, chicken tenders, and beers all around. For crappy bowling alley food, it’s actually not that bad.

  “This is fun, right?” says Lucinda. “It’s really nice being able to hang out like this outside of the office.” Then she grins at Luke and me and says, “Also, I just have to say. I’m so glad you two are together now. I always thought you would make a cute couple.”

  My stomach flips over. “You did, huh?” I say.

  “Oh, definitely,” says Lucinda. “I’m not alone in feeling that way, either.”

  Seriously? People at work think Luke and I should be together? Did Lucinda take a survey or something? Is this a frequent topic of conversation?

  “If you two get married,” says Paige, “you should have the wedding at the office. Wouldn’t that be funny?”

  “Why would they want to have a funny wedding, Paige?” says Lucinda.

  “Well, they should at least incorporate work somehow,” says Paige.

  Oh, God. Next thing I know, she’s going to ask to be a bridesmaid.

  Furtively, I glance over at Luke. Unsurprisingly, he’s keeping it cool. He simply continues to munch on the communal french fries like everyone is talking about the weather.

  But everyone’s not talking about the weather. They’re talking about our hypothetical wedding.

  “When my cousin got married,” says Paige, “they had a live bagpiper play. It. Was. Amazing.”

  “We could probably get you the guy’s info if you want,” says Martin.

  Really? He’s in on this, too?

  Lucinda squints at my hair and says how pretty it would look up in curls.

  “Do you ever wear it like that, Emma?” she asks.

  I shake my head and shove a fry into my mouth. I desperately try to think of a way to change the subject. Should I say something about bowling? About the food? Maybe I should upturn the table? I size up the table. Would I even be strong enough to do that?

  Then, suddenly, I know what to say. Of course. Why didn’t I think of it sooner?

  “Lucinda,” I say, sitting up straighter in my seat, “Not to change the subject, but have you heard any good gossip lately?”

  Lucinda’s eyes drop from my hair. They take on a twinkle.

  I knew she couldn’t resist.

  “Actually, yes,” she says, and her voice lowers into a hush. “I heard that Sherrie is going to be leaving soon. And you know what that means.”

  “Going away party?” asks Paige, then double-dips a fry.

  Lucinda shoots her a look. “It means they’re going to need someone to step into her spot.”

  “She’s been there a long time, hasn’t she?” asks Beau.

  “Over a decade,” says Lucinda, leaning back in her seat. “You should apply for the position, Emma.”

  I almost laugh. Me? As a supervisor? No. No way. I wouldn’t be any good at managing people.

  “If anyone’s well-suited for it, that would be Luke,” I say.

  Luke chews thoughtfully on a nacho chip. “Yeah,” says Luke. “I would apply.”

  I experience a momentary flash of what it would be like if Luke was our manager. Forget about feeling weird about seeing Luke’s muscular arms. Luke being my manager would be weird.

  “Last fry,” announces Lucinda, pushing the little paper boat across the table toward us.

  “Go for it, Armstrong,” Luke says.

  * * *

  “Aren’t you glad we stuck it out?” asks Luke. We’re back in his car, headed home. It’s dark out now and the city feels different in that way that nighttime changes places. Crazily enough, I’m actually a little sad that bowling date night is over. As much as I wasn’t looking forward to the night, I did end up having fun. I didn’t throw any more strikes, but I didn’t throw any more gutter balls, either—a win in my book.

  “Can you believe that’s Paige’s boyfriend?” I say.

  Luke laughs. “No. Never in a million years.”

  “And when Lucinda said that thing about always having imagined us together?”

  “Yeah.”

  A second-too-long of silence passes between us.

  “Anyway,” I say. “Next time you go out on a date, you should totally take the girl bowling.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Come on! You have skills!” I drum my fingers on my thighs. “And that ‘correct your form’ stuff is the perfect excuse to get all cozy.”

  He gives me a strange look. “I was trying to help you.”

  “Oh, I know.” I clear my throat. “Do you think Sherrie is really leaving?”

  “Who knows,” he says. “If she did, though, you really wouldn’t apply?”

  I shrug. “I don’t think I’d be good at it.”

  “I think you would.”

  “Well, thanks. But I still think you would be better.”

  “Okay,” Luke says. “How about this? We’ll talk them into giving us both the job. We’ll be co-managers.”

  “Now that I could get behind.” I point out at the road. “Take a turn at the light.”

  “Seriously, though…don’t you have any higher aspirations?”

  “What, like being the CEO of my own gifting business? I can see it now: Emma’s Exotic Imports.”

  “You know what I mean.” Luke lets his fingers slide down the steering wheel. I glance at his arms. I momentarily think about them guiding mine, then shove the thought away. Luke asks, “When you were a kid, what did you say you wanted to be when you grew up?”

  I don’t answer right away. I look out the window, watch the passing houses. I’m trying to decide whether to tell the truth or offer up a white lie.

  Luke glances over at me. “Well? Doctor? Ballerina? Mathematician?”

  “A dog,” I say.

  “Um, what?”

  I sigh. “When I was little, and someone asked me that question, I’d tell them I wanted to be a dog. I think it’s because our neighbors had this great big Bernese Mountain Dog that I was obsessed with.”

  Silence fills the car. Several seconds of it pass. Then it’s pierced by Luke’s hearty laughter. And I start laughing along with him. Why I considered saying anything else beats me.

  When my eyes dry, we’ve reached the block my apartment building is on.

  “Thanks for driving,” I say.

  “No problem,” he says. “It’s what boyfriends do, right? Besides, now you owe me one.”

  I scoff. “Excuse me? You offered to drive. You practically insisted.”

  “Doesn’t mean you don’t owe me one.”

  “Right,” I say, and roll my eyes. “Goodnight.” But as I unbuckle my seat belt, there is also this weird little twinge of sadness that unexpectedly surges through me. Because I can’t help think about how if I did actually have a boyfriend, this is the kind of stuff that we would do. This is the way that I would come home at night, instead of already being in bed at this hour.

  Well, whatever. It is what it is.

  I get out of the car and start to walk away. Then I hear Luke call my name through the open window.

  I turn around. “Yeah?”

  “Let’s try not to dress alike tomorrow, huh?” he says.

  I smile. “I call dibs on blue.”

  5

  Everything feels slightly different at work the next day, although I can’t quite explain how. I guess it feels as if Luke and I have passed some kind of initiation ritual and can be accepted around
the office as a couple now. It especially feels like I’m a new member of a club when I walk by Lucinda’s desk and hear her telling our coworkers about what a blast we all had at Balmer Lanes.

  Then I notice that one of the people listening to Lucinda is Erin from Accounting, and I’m reminded that this whole thing is temporary and fake. I guess it’s good, though, that Erin is there to hear about yesterday evening. It’s exactly what Luke would want. I still don’t think Erin is right for Luke, but if that’s who he likes, that’s who he likes.

  When it doesn’t work out between the two of them, though, I’m so telling him that I told him so.

  I’m in the break room later that day when Paige comes in. She opens up the fridge, pulls out a carton of creamer with a note on it that reads DO NOT USE, and tips it into her coffee. Mid-pour, she glances up at me and smiles.

  “Did you try the bread yet?” she asks.

  “What?” I say.

  “The bread,” she says, nodding toward the counter. There’s a foil-wrapped loaf there that I hadn’t seen. As soon as I notice it, though, I immediately know that it’s one of Paige’s creations.

  “It’s ham and banana,” she says.

  “You know,” I say. “I think I’ll grab a slice later.”

  “It might be all gone by then. Take a piece now!”

  Carefully, I peel back the foil. The bread looks very…moist.

  “Wait,” says Paige. “Here’s a knife.”

  I cut off the thinnest piece possible, which is difficult, considering the chunks of ham strewn throughout the loaf. Paige grins at me eagerly, waiting for me to take a bite. And so I do. It’s…meaty. And fruity. And disconcertingly crunchy.

  I can’t chew it any longer. I swallow the glob of meaty-fruity-bread.

  “I’ve never had anything like it,” I say.

  Paige waits.

  “It’s good,” I force out.

  “Thanks,” says Paige, flashing me a grin. She takes a sip of her coffee. “So, that was fun last night, huh?”

  “It was.”

  “We should hang out again sometime.”

  Crap. I knew it was a bad idea to go bowling.

  Before I can reply, though, Paige says, “Are you free this Friday? There’s this new fusion place that Martin and I have been dying to go to. It’s French-Asian, I think? Or, wait. Maybe Mexican-Asian. I’ll need to look it up again. It’s something Asian. Do you like Japanese food, Emma?”