Off Book

8. Jade

8

JADE

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind . . .” Act I, Scene II

“Remind me why we’re going bowling on a Monday night?” Jessie asks, trailing behind me and Mac as we stride confidently into the Bowlerama.

“Because it was my turn to choose a roommate activity this month, and I chose bowling,” Mac says with a sweet smile. He looks over his shoulder at Jessie. “Plus, Monday just happened to be the best night for all of us to do Roommate Night.”

“I love any reason to play with balls,” I say, and I watch as Jessie’s face turns the color of a tomato.

“Oh my god, Jade,” she says.

“Sorry, did you forget to bring pearls to clutch at?”

I open the door to the old building, and Mac and Jessie head into the bowling alley.

The grumble and clack of bowling balls rolling down lanes and crashing into pins is the first thing I notice, along with the classic smell of a bowling alley. They all somehow smell the same. Is it the grease they put on the lanes? The spray they use on the shoes? “Unidentified Bowling Alley Smell” sounds like a bad candle, but within seconds, it’s mingled with the smell of popcorn and hot dogs, and it all fades into the background.

The building is a little tired, but they’ve attempted to modernize the inside. The carpets are black, with a neon confetti-looking design. I’m sure it glows after 11 p.m. on Saturday nights during their “glow-’n’-bowl” event—the one advertised on a large banner outside the building. The lanes look new—or clean at least—and the screens above each lane are definitely new.

But there aren’t a lot of lanes in use right now. In fact, the whole place is looking pretty empty, except for a small crowd of people around a middle lane, clapping then smiling and pointing as if there’s some kind of bowling celebrity here.

“What’s going on here?” Jessie asks no one in particular. She pauses at the edge of the crowd, standing on her toes, trying to see above or around the crowd of people. I walk past her to the shoe counter and give my shoe size to the older gentleman working.

When I turn to speak to Mac and Jessie, they’re both at the edge of the crowd, watching too, but they can’t seem to hear me. The distinct sound of a ball rolling down the lane fills the space, followed by a loud crash of pins. There’s a collective yell and clapping as the screen blinks “STRIKE.”

“What’s all that?” I ask as the man hands me my shoes.

“Our top bowler is here practicing,” he grunts out, and I join the crowd standing by Jessie to see what the hubbub is all about.

The top bowler has his back to me, and he’s leaning over, so I can’t see much but his outfit. He’s dressed in all black: T-shirt, jeans, and bowling shoes that look more like matte dress shoes, all in black. In fact, the two bowling balls waiting to be used are also black, and the one that comes through the ball return . . . black.

“Guess this guy has a really distinct style, huh?” I mutter to Jessie.

He’s tall and lean, and his frame looks really familiar, but I don’t know any professional bowlers. The guy straightens and wipes a black cloth over the bowling ball, then sets the cloth on the stand behind him with the keyboard pad. A hush falls over the crowd as he steps up on the lane and takes his position. I can see his profile now, and I just about choke on my own spit when I realize who it is.

“Ian!” I say into the dead silence of the bowling alley, just as he’s stepping forward to bowl.

If it is Ian, he ignores me and finishes the throw, his arm a perfect arc of grace and sport. He whips his head around to look at me the second the ball leaves his hand.

It is Ian.

“Jade?”

The ball makes contact, but instead of a strike, he’s only knocked down nine pins. I sort of feel bad for distracting him.

The crowd crumbles, and I’m pretty sure a few people shoot me dirty looks.

Ian walks toward me, confusion and surprise playing out in the furrow of his brow. “Hey,” he says and stops short in front of me. He looks like he might hug me for a second, but he seems to think too hard about it and stops himself.

“Hi?” I don’t make the move to hug him—I’m still trying to process that he’s here at the Bowlerama on a Monday night, and also that he’s the same guy the shoe man just said is their top bowler, and that Ian looks kind of cool in this all-black getup, and that maybe watching him bowl like that was kind of hot?

Jessie elbows me, but before I can introduce them, Mac holds his hand out.

“Hi. Mac. We haven’t properly met.”

The two shake hands and exchange “nice to meet you” pleasantries.

“Jessie, right?” Ian clarifies, and Jessie nods with a big, dorky smile on her face.

Why is she acting like she’s meeting a celebrity right now?

“That was so awesome,” Jessie says as if she’s meeting an Olympian, not a local bowling amateur.

“You guys here for a game?” Ian asks, playing it cool with Jessie’s fangirling. He’s only betrayed by the corners of his lips twitching up into a smile.

“Yeah, but we don’t wanna bother you,” I say. “I hear you’re the top bowler, and us plebeians wouldn’t want to interrupt your . . . practicing? For . . . the big tournament?” I say, and Ian laughs.

He’s got a kind of joy I haven’t seen on him before. His eyes are bright; his face is practically glowing. He’s never looked like this in rehearsal or while running lines.

It’s . . . really attractive.

“I’m here every Monday for my league, and then I usually stay and practice a bit. You guys should join me—please. Game’s on me.” He turns to Jessie and Mac. “Go get your shoes, tell Stu you’re with me.”

They smile and nod and do as they’re told.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Ian asks, the ghost of a smile still lingering on his lips.

“Who are you, and where is Ian Davidson?”

He shrugs, but it’s smug.

I nod to his bag. “That looks big enough for a body.”

When Ian laughs, his smile takes over his face in a way I’ve never seen. It’s pure delight distilled into the most braces-perfect smile. How am I just now noticing how nice of a smile he has?

“Maybe that is where I keep my bodies. Bowling is just my cover.”

“Bowling is way too nerdy to be a cover. This was not on my ‘Ian’ bingo card, I’ll tell you that,” I say and take a seat to change my shoes.

“You should not be surprised to find out I’m this much of a nerd,” he says and sits near me, leaving a seat between us.

“There are different brands of nerd. I had you pinned as a nerd for sure, but not this brand. I thought you were more like video-game, build-my-computer-from-scratch nerd. Or, like, a Dungeons and Dragons nerd. I never would have guessed bowling nerd, but now that I think about it . . .” I pause my efforts of putting on the borrowed shoes and pretend to really study him. “I can see it.”

“I’ll have you know that in bowling circles, I’m actually very cool,” he says, leaning back and crossing his arms.

“I saw the crowd!” I say as I lace up my left shoe. “You’re the baddest bitch this Bowlerama has ever seen.”

Ian’s smile grows somehow, and he points to a space behind me. I swivel in my chair to see what he’s pointing at. It’s a large bulletin board with a much smaller whiteboard in the center.

LEADERBOARD

1. Ian Davidson

2. Gordon Wyngaert

3. Tom Harlan

4. Fred Diesen

I raise my eyebrows at him, and I’m about to make another comment, but Mac and Jessie join us. Mac sits between me and Ian, and Jessie sits on the other side of me. They start to remove their shoes.

“So, Jade didn’t tell us her scene partner was a local celebrity,” Mac says.

“I had no idea,” I say.

Ian shakes his head, but that childlike delight lingers in his smile. “I’ve been on the bowling league here since freshman year. They just know me.”

“Oh, but the leaderboard,” I say and point behind me.

Ian rolls his eyes with a smile, obviously regretting bragging to me about his status here.

Jessie and Mac turn to look and then turn back, eyebrows raised, obviously impressed.

“Exactly how long have you been bowling?” Jessie asks.

Ian shrugs. “My dad and I went when I was young. It’s one of the things he and I did without my sisters. I have three older sisters,” he says for Jessie and Mac’s sake. “It turned out to be the only sport I was actually good at.”

“Did you compete?” Mac asks.

“Some,” Ian says.

“And did you win?” I ask.

“Some.”

“You know you can brag on yourself,” Jessie says as Ian heads to the keyboard to punch in our names.

He shrugs, and a red splotch appears on his neck.

This guy has more humility than I’ve ever seen in a theater kid, and definitely more than your average college kid. This is, I’m realizing, part of what makes him so enjoyable to be around. His ego doesn’t take up half the room. I’m guessing if we went to his childhood home, there would be a case packed with bowling trophies.

“Do you still compete?” I ask.

“Just when there’s a tournament with the league. I don’t solo-compete anymore.”

“Anymore,” I mouth to Jessie in a stage whisper, and she raises her eyebrows and gives me a “this guy contains multitudes” look.

“All right, order of the game is Mac, Jessie, Jade, and then me. Mac, are you ready to go?”

“I think we need to pick out balls,” Mac says and points to me and Jessie as if to confirm.

“I definitely need to pick out some balls,” I say more loudly than is socially appropriate, and Mac snort-laughs, closing his eyes and shaking his head. Jessie does the same but hides her face in her hands. Ian tries to fight a smile.

“We can’t take you anywhere,” Jessie says and drags me by the arm to one of the bowling ball stands located behind us.

“Wait—shouldn’t we ask the professional to help us pick out balls?” I say, escaping from Jessie’s grasp to clamp down on Ian’s arm and drag him over with us. He follows as willingly as one can when they’re being half-dragged.

“Okay, so you want one that isn’t too light, because it won’t knock down as many pins, but not so heavy that you’re dragging it,” Ian says as we peruse the options of brightly colored bowling balls.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t want your balls to drag on the ground,” I say, and Ian snorts. I pick up a pink one that says “11,” but it’s too light.

“Here—try this,” Ian says, hanging me a galaxy purple one. There’s a “12” on it, and it feels right.

“Damn, you’re like a professional matchmaker,” I say, carrying it back to our bowling lane.

Ian helps Jessie and Mac find the right weight for them, and when we’re all back to the lane, Mac picks up his ball and gets the game started. He hits five on the first go, and while he’s waiting for his ball, Ian approaches him and starts to chat. Jessie and I sit in the chairs behind the lanes.

“All right, I admit, I didn’t think he was much to look at when I first saw him, but he’s growing on me,” Jessie says quietly.

“Yeah, he kinda does that,” I say, unsettled at how true her words ring for me. Spending nearly every day with him last week helping him memorize his lines was more fun than I thought it would be. I thought Ian would be kind of a stick in the mud, but he’s surprisingly funny and down to earth.

“Are you, like, into him?” Jessie asks, her eyes wide with curiosity and excitement.

“Nah,” I say quickly. “Not— Like, no. He’s like . . . I mean, he’s cute, sure. But he’s, like . . . so not my type, you know?”

I’m not sure I sound that convincing, and I’m also not sure why it feels like I have to convince anyone in the first place.

“If I remember correctly,” Jessie says, “your type is—and I’m directly quoting you here—‘anything that breathes.’ I remember this discussion because you made a point to include mermaids and fae, and you excluded animals entirely unless, quote, ‘They are shifters,’ end quote. Oh, and me. You always tell me I’m not your type.”

“Babe, you’re up,” Mac says as he approaches Jessie, hands out to help her up. She takes them, and he sneaks a quick kiss, which leaves her blushing as she heads for the ball return.

Ian stays up there and Jessie asks him for some tips. He points to the arrows on the ground and gestures about something. I can’t hear over the general din of the room.

“So you and Ian are . . .?” Mac asks.

“Scene partners,” I say.

“And . . .?”

“Friends.”

“And . . .?” He’s got a sly smile on his face. He leans in, taunting me like an older brother might.

I swipe my leg at him, but he’s too far for me to make contact. I make a show of rolling my eyes when I stand up, prepping for my turn.

Jessie takes her second turn, but she’s left with two pins before the bowling arm clears them for my turn. She holds up her hand for a high-five as she passes me, and I slap her hand and then slap her butt. She yelps and jumps a little.

“You’ll get ’em next time, tiger,” I say and pick up my galaxy-colored bowling ball.

I take absolutely no care in trying to find footing or alignment and just walk to the line and launch the ball. It rolls into the gutter halfway down the lane, and I turn around and grimace at Ian, who’s smirking with his arms crossed.

“Do you want a pointer or two?”

I crack each of my knuckles as I wait for my ball. I knew I wasn’t good at bowling, and I don’t really like being bad at things, but in my mind, no one is good at bowling.

Except, apparently, Ian is good at bowling.

“Yeah, okay. I helped you with your lines, you can help me with my game.”

Ian steps up and takes my ball as it comes up through the machine. He stands next to me, showing me how to stand, how to hold the ball, and walks me through the steps and the aiming. He goes through the motions and then hands the ball to me.

“Okay, just do . . . like, just do a rehearsal. Don’t really throw it. And once you have the motion down, then you can throw,” he says.

I do what he did, copying as best I can, and rehearse throwing the ball before I actually do. I wait for his nod of approval after my last practice swing.

“Throw the baaaaalllll,” Mac taunts. Jessie playfully slaps his arm.

“Aren’t they cute together?” I ask Ian quietly while flipping off Mac.

“They are,” he says. “You’ll have to tell me the story of how they met.”

“Oh, you should let them tell you—it’s a good one. Can I bowl now?” I ask.

Ian gives me two thumbs-ups and gestures to the lane.

I do just like I practiced, but this time I release the ball. It glides all the way down to the pins, but I only knock out three.

I turn back to Ian and shrug.

“You’ll get ’em next time, tiger,” he says, and when his lips quirk up in a smile, my stomach tumbles like a gymnast doing a floor routine. Damn it, he is adorable.

Ian takes his turn and throws what looks like an effortless strike. Mac and Jessie cheer for him, and I boo, giving him two thumbs down.

“Maybe next time put a little effort into it,” I heckle him as he joins Jessie and me back at the seats.

Mac hops up for his turn.

Ian settles in next to Jessie and asks her how she and Mac met. She starts the story about the Halloween party from almost a year ago, where Mac, dressed as Shakespeare, danced with Jessie, dressed in all black with a cat-ear headband, at a frat party.

Mac chimes in when his turn is over and Jessie’s is up. He tells Ian about how Jessie had no idea she was dancing with him, but they didn’t just dance—they made out at that party. I talk about how Jessie went on a hunt for Sexy Shakespeare, as we nicknamed him, while Mac was trying to spend more time with Jessie, but Jessie had no interest in spending time with Mac because she didn’t like him.

“It’s not that I didn’t like him! I just thought he was, like . . . a know-it-all,” Jessie says at the end of her turn.

“That sounds familiar,” I say, raising my eyebrows at her.

She sticks her tongue out at me and makes a face.

I take my first turn with the ball, taking all of Ian’s advice, but my ball still only grazes and knocks over one pin. I turn back with my thumbs down.

“I just want you to know that I’m super good at a lot of things. A lot of different things,” I say to Ian as he approaches the ball return.

“Let me help you be good at this. May I?” He gestures to where I’m standing, and I shrug. “Grab your ball,” he instructs, and I resist the urge to make a joke. I take the ball from the return machine and stand where he’s pointing for me to stand.

He walks up to me and stands behind me. His scene-shop and Old Spice scent envelops me, distracting me for a second.

“Half a step back toward me,” he says, and I take a delayed step back.

“This first set of approach dots,” he says, pointing to the dots under my feet.

With my eyes, I follow where he’s pointing.

He points to another set of dots two steps ahead. “That’s the second set, and you can start there, but I’m going to teach you the way I like to do it.”

Something about the way he says the words, quiet enough that only I can hear him, makes me turn to look at him. Is he being suggestive, or am I just always horny? He’s got the softest smirk on his face, and I swear there’s mischief in his eyes. Whatever version of Ian this one is, it’s the opposite of the guy who was at my apartment a month ago, not really interested in hooking up with me. His words, his body language—it feels flirtatious. Or maybe I just need to get laid.

“So I know I just said most of this, but I’ll walk through it with you again. Here—put the ball down real fast.”

I let him remove the ball from my hand and set it back on the machine.

“May I touch you?”

He stands behind me, his voice soft in my ear, and I almost don’t hear him. My throat is too dry to conjure words, so I just nod, and he places one hand on my hip. He takes my hand in his, and we look down the lane as if my arm is the barrel of a gun while he explains the arrows and where I should aim the ball. He walks me through the steps, his chin brushing my shoulder occasionally. His breath caresses my ear, and my skin prickles with goosebumps. There’s a familiar stirring below my belly button.

If this is turning me on, I definitely need to get laid.

“Okay, so you’re going to take five steps, but you want to end right before the line.”

With his free hand, he presses against my lower back and walks beside me as I take five steps and stop at the line, just as he instructed.

“Okay, let’s do it again, but this time swing your arm back on step four, and forward on step five. Like this.”

He shows me again, going back to the dots and taking five steps, swinging his arm to mimic the motion of throwing the bowling ball.

I copy him, and he nods approvingly.

“Now, let’s do the same motion but with the ball.” He grabs my ball and gestures for me to come back to the dots. “Just do the five steps, throw your arm back at four and forward for five, but don’t let go of the ball.”

I do as he instructs, and when my arm swings forward, he yells, “Freeze!” It startles me, but I stand perfectly still.

He comes up behind me again. “Is it okay if I?—?”

“Yes,” I say. My arm starts to feel heavy from holding the bowling ball, and it sags a little.

He points down the lane, the inside of his shoulder against the outside of mine, his chest against my back, almost like—if we weren’t in a bowling alley—we’re spooning.

“See how my fingers line up with the arrows?”

I nod, knowing he can see the movement in his peripheral.

“That’s where you want the ball to go.” He lifts the bowling ball, still in my hand, and lines it up with the arrow. “You see?” he asks, and I hope he can’t feel the way my whole body is beating in time with the thump of my heart.

We both let the bowling ball drop back to my side.

“Ian,” I say before he moves away from me. “You know you don’t have to ask permission to touch me. I appreciate it, but it isn’t necessary.”

I’ve never been asked if I’m okay to be touched. Not in a sexual context, and not in a non-sexual context. All of my consensual experiences have been implied consent, and I’ve had more than a few encounters that were less than consensual—grazes, gropes, hands on places I didn’t want them. Nothing traumatizing or painful, but those touches stain like red wine on a white dress. Just because they weren’t damaging doesn’t mean I feel clean of them.

For Ian to ask permission to touch me, especially in a non-sexual way, might be one of the most intimate things I’ve experienced with another person.

And we’re in a fucking bowling alley.

He steps to the side to face me and makes eye contact so intense I have to force myself not to look away. The air between us tightens as if it’s holding its breath.

“It is necessary,” he says, and then he stands back and claps his hands a few times like a coach. Like that’s all he’s going to say about the matter and it’s not up for discussion.

“All right, you got this.” He points to me and then winks, and I do my best to attribute the butterflies in my stomach to getting this bowl, not because he just said one of the kindest things anyone has ever said to me and then winked at me, and all of it is making me feel some kind of way about this green bean.

This time when I go through the motions, following Ian’s instructions to a tee and releasing the ball, it rolls with a crash down the lane and right into the sweet spot of the pins that gets me a strike. I scream-squeal and jump up and down. Ian comes at me and I jump into his arms. Mac and Jessie holler for me, dancing and swinging their arms around in celebration. Ian screams, “HELL YEAH!” and I fist pump while he twirls me in a circle.

When he puts me back down, his arms linger around me for a second, and our eyes lock. The air around us releases—an exhale—but the moment ends when Mac and Jessie crash into us with a hug, and then the four of us are in a group hug that takes me too long to extricate myself from.

As we each take our turns celebrating strikes, spares, and everything in between with progressively weirder dancing, group hugs, and so much yelling that Stuart from the counter gives us dirty looks, it’s impossible to ignore how seamlessly Ian fits in with me, Jessie, and Mac. The green bean I met on day one in the theater was so quiet, reserved, and awkward that I would have never dropped him in with me and my friends and expected him to fit in this well. I didn’t expect much from him at all.

And maybe it’s because I had no expectations that he’s been able to surprise me like this. Maybe because I thought he was nothing special he’s been able to prove me wrong. Most people in my life have disappointed me, even when my expectations for them were on the floor. But watching Ian memorize all his lines, work his ass off to be off book, and seeing him come alive tonight?

It makes me glad I met him after all.