“Well, I guess I’ll leave you to your game,” she says with a weak smile and without moving. Against the backdrop of the over-the-top, tacky, holiday-themed bowling décor and the now-cheery Christmas music blaring through the speakers, she resembles a human-sized stray cat on its last life.
“Okay,” I say, with a lift of my beer. “Cheers.”
She inches back into her space as Marv and I each take another turn.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her take a sip of her beer before picking up a ball and lobbing it down the lane; it goes so slowly I wonder if it might stop. Instead, it drops with a sadthunkinto the gutter, barely mustering the gumption to roll the rest of the way.
Her shoulders slump, along with the fuzzy black tail attached to her costume, and “Frosty the Snowman” plays over the speakers. When she starts crying—again—the cat ears give up their fight of staying on her head and fall to the floor.
Marv looks at me like I’m supposed to do something about this.
“You,” I snap in a whisper.
He holds up his palms, eyes wide likeno way in hell, dude.
I consider what to do, pressing my index finger and thumb to the center of my mustache then sliding them away from each other. Twice.
I take one reluctant step toward her. Then another.
Next to her, I clear my throat, ignoring every warning bell telling me this is the worst idea. I don’t want this kind of drama. I don’t wantanydrama. It’s the whole reason I’m here with Marv.
And yet, despite all that, I can’t let a woman in a catsuit one day post-divorce cry to the tune of too-early Christmas carols.
“You know,” I say, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans as we watch her pins reset down the lane. “It’s ridiculous in a world where ‘Thriller’ exists, ‘Frosty’ is playing on Halloween.”
She blinks her watery gaze to me. To my antler-covered hat. My mustache—thank you for noticing. At my red-and-white striped bowling shirt, her eyes linger on the embroidery spelling out The Holiday Club.
“It’s rude, really,” she says with an almost smile. “Don’t they know it makes unassuming women everywhere turn into blubbering idiots?”
I rock on my heels. “Happens all the time.”
She laughs fully, wiping her eyes with her hands—her once whiskers now unrecognizable—then looks at my shirt again. “I’m sorry for interrupting your game. You a team?”
“A club,” I say with a grin. She looks at me with big wet blue eyes; I take a step back. To be nice: “You want to join us?”
“Whoa,” Marv barks, pouncing to a stand. “We do not know this woman, Jay.”
I pin him with a look. It’s one day, one game; we can both handle that.
I think.
“Fine,” he grumbles at me. To her: “You wearing a wire?”
Here we go.
“Uh.” Her brows pinch as she sniffs again. “No ... ?”
“Don’t mind him,” I tell her, rubbing a hand along my jaw. “Marv spends too much time on the dark web.”
Marv grunts and she nods slowly, taking him in.
I know what she’s thinking because it’s the same thing I thought when I met him just over five years ago. He was sitting at the bar drinking a pilsner, complaining how the holidays are a time the government takes advantage of large gatherings to steal information. Between his radical ideals, patchy beard, and shirt tucked into sweatpants paired with sandals and socks, I thought he was nuts.
I still do.
But less than a week later when the normal Halloween festivities of trick-or-treating followed by a Santa welcoming and tree lighting for the town dubbed Christmas Village USA took place—where I would no doubt be annoyed by the crowd and tired of questions about my marital status, life choices, and overall living situation—Marv and I went bowling and The Holiday Club was born.
“You’re a-a club?” She looks from Marv to me. “A bowling club?”
