Bowling Dreams & Cheap Wine

Chapter 2

Downtown Bowl is a place I meet my friends every Sunday night. We have a table for five at Lane 10. Signing up for the 10-week session means we get two free drinks and 10% off appetizers. There's also the chance to win the coveted Best Women in Bowling Tourney in which the winning team gets a full year of bowling for free plus unlimited mozzarella sticks.

My group of friends have already arrived and I get in line for bowling shoes. After the post-airplane shower and another go-round with my flat iron, I still have gas left in this beauty tank.

The manager of the alley and resident badass Paul hands me my shoes. "Here you go, Gwen. Good to see you back."

For whatever reason I have no socks to wear and wound up with a mismatched set my friends will most definitely notice. With bowling shoes in hand, I check out the scene on the other side of the alley.

Lane 3. Occupied by the Moms Under Forty & Friends (MUFFs). I am not being snide. They picked this name. They even wear matching earmuffs close to the holidays. 

Every Sunday, the MUFFs roll in with their supply of sanitizing wipes and homemade cupcakes celebrating someone's birthday. They don't wear makeup like it's a badge of honor and they all have topknots. HOWEVER. I can't trash talk. Not at all. They have snagged Best Women in Bowling tournament title for the last two years.

"Gwen?"

That voice gets my attention. 

"Nate?" My smile is pleasantly surprised. My heart gives off tiny flutters. I don't want to break it to him that this is ladies' only night.

"I thought that was you." His gaze slides down my leggings to my bowling shoes and inadvertently, the pink sock and the black one. "Trouble with laundry?"

Nervous laughter covers up my mortification. Nate seems like a guy whose socks are always matching. "More like trouble with life." I lean close to him, giving unasked advice. "It's not safe for a man here after 6:30." I gesture to the tables of women who spend 90% of their time complaining about their husbands and kids.

"Then I'll try not to make eye contact." His grin is only slight. Nate is a rare, handsome, fit breed of male species. No hair loss or beer belly on the horizon. No dad shirt on that bod, just dark jeans and a t-shirt that fits him perfectly.

"If you ever wondered why I'm out every Sunday night, it's not at my boyfriend's house. I don't even have a boyfriend." In case he's wondering. "Why are you here?"

"Noreen was at a friend's this afternoon." He waves and smiles at someone behind me. "This was halfway. Oh. Here she is now." He gives me a side-eyed glance. "Good to know you don't have a boyfriend."

My stomach flips and flips again. He just commented on the fact that I don't have a boyfriend. I turn and watch Noreen and another girl bounding over, unable to bring my flattered gaze to his. Did his off-handed comment mean more? I refocus on Noreen vaguely noticing the woman trailing behind her is grinning. Tara Greyson. Lane 3. MUFF. Petite blonde. Thick hair bouncing off her ample chest while I'm still waiting for my boobs to grow beyond a 34A.

"Nate, hi," she says like a purr. Like a sultry, gray-eyed cat up to no good.

"How were they?" he asks.

My mouth twists. Clearly I'm the spare tire in this conversation. Obviously there was a playdate situation going on. A scene I haven't been a part of for years.

Tara's smile is pretty and easy-going. "Are you kidding? I didn't even see them until I forced them to eat dinner. Noreen and Willow played nonstop." Her hand lands on his wrist.