We stroll up to the desk. “This is Monty Langston,” I say. “He owns the place.”
Trevor reaches his right arm across the counter. “Nice to meet you.”
“Meetme?” Monty laughs. “Boy, I’ve known you since your daddy brought you in for junior bowling league when you could barely see over this here counter.”
Monty is old—mid-eighties, I’d say—so I give him a pass at remembering what Trevor has gone through. “Monty, Trevor was injured when he was a doctor in the military. To him, he’s just meeting you for the first time.”
“Aaaaaah, yes. I remember now. What is it the reporter called you? Amnesia Doctor?”
Trevor scoffs at the title. “Yeah, that’s me. Can we get a lane?” His words come out a bit rough, like he’s uncomfortable with that moniker and the attention it’s bringing.
“Ava! Trevor! Over here.”
I spin around to see Maddie and Tag. “The lane next to them, please, Monty.”
He hits a button and the lights on the lane light up. “Shoe sizes?”
We tell him and then we’re off.
Tag and Trevor fall into easy conversation as we lace up our shoes. Then Tag excuses himself and comes back a few minutes later with a pitcher of beer and four plastic cups.
Maddie doesn’t miss my reaction. And it’s obvious she’s kept my secret from her husband. She sits next to me when Trevor picks out his ball. “Still haven’t told him?”
I shake my head guiltily.
“I’ll take sips from yours. Nobody will notice.”
I lean against her and squeeze her shoulder in thanks.
“Ladies first,” Trevor says, sitting and entering our names into the scoreboard.
I pick out an eight pound ball, suddenly realizing this could be similar in weight to the baby when it comes. I cradle it in my arms for just a second, hoping and praying that when I tell Trevor, he tries to be as understanding with me as I’ve been with him.
I completely miss all the pins on both tries. In my defense, it’s been a long time since I’ve done this.
Trevor picks up his much heavier ball with his left hand, confidently strides to the line, and proceeds to knock down all but the left corner pin.
My jaw drops. “But you’re right-handed.”
He lifts up and wiggles both hands. “One of the benefits of being a surgeon. We have to pretty much be ambidextrous to do the job well.” He gazes off into the distance, deep in thought. “At least I think so.”
“Dang, bro,” Tag says. “You did that with your non-dominant hand?”
“Just got the cast off last week. I don’t need to risk re-breaking the arm by twisting it awkwardly.”
“So not fair,” I pout. “I didn’t even hit one pin.”
He waggles a brow. “Care to make a wager, considering I’m playing with a handicap?”
“Handicap my behind.” I roll my eyes.
He walks up to me, tucks a stray hair behind my ear, and gives my butt a soft squeeze. “You didn’t ask what we’d be wagering. And it might just have everything to do with that delectable behind.”
I have to keep from biting my lip, because who knows whatthat’lldo to him. I just brush him off as if his little game hasn’t affected me in the least.
He smirks arrogantly before swiftly knocking down the last pin for a spare, then crooks his finger at me, beckoning me to join him.
I get my ball and walk up to him.
