No.
Absolutely not.
I look at Marv; he shrugs.
I grab the ball for my next turn and look at her. I hate how sad she looks. Hate that I even care.
“Fine.”
I pull my arm back, and she squeals as I swing it forward. The ball slips from my hand and slams into the gutter without hitting a single pin as I mutter a swear.
“Marv, Jay, I’m Hollis Hartwell. Officially.” She’s beaming as she thrusts her hand out to Marv. “Newest member of The Holiday Club.”
Marv looks at her hand with a disgusted frown. “No touching.”
Her eyes widen and hand drops. “Right. Sorry.”
“You like hot peppers?” Marv asks, digging into his pocket. She presses her lips into a tight line as he pulls out a little plastic bag of peppers. “Over 100,000 on the Scoville scale.”
Her chin pulls back slightly as she eyes the bag. “I’m good.”
Marv harrumphs, plucks one out, and drops it into his beer then pockets the rest before taking his next turn.
“Marv’s into conspiracy theories,” I explain as she watches him.
“The hot peppers?” she asks with raised eyebrows.
I laugh over the rim of my beer. “Into those too.”
She studies him intensely. “I see.”
Marv gets two strikes in the tenth frame to win the game, pumping both fists into the air with a gloating, “Cheating can’t save the sheep.”
I laugh, resetting the computer for the next game and add Hollis’s name. Whether or not she’ll show up at the next club meeting, I have no clue, but she’s here, clearly going through something, and it’s Christmas. Even with my unorthodox approach to the season, I have a heart.
I’ll let her bowl. Let her have this day and this win that she seems to need for the next forty-five minutes.
Hollis, to her credit, doesn’t cry anymore. She also doesn’t shut up. She tells us about each of her four kids—repeatedly—and shows us more photos of them on her phone than I’ve seen of my six nieces and nephews combined. I know the oldest, Owen, plays soccer, the youngest, Jack, is in kindergarten and likes dinosaurs, and the middle two are girls, Ava and Millie, and like painting fingernails and Lisa Frank—whoever that is—which thrills Hollis because she loved Lisa Frank when she was their age. Her ex-husband is a doctor named Ryan and couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.
She’s animated, the worst bowler I’ve ever met, and charming as hell. Her ridiculous stance on traditions unnervesme, yet when she pauses from talking, I’m anxious to hear what she’ll say next.
When we’re done, we stand under the lights of the parking lot. Marv next to his spray-painted box truck, Hollis in her catsuit next to her minivan, and me next to my SUV.
“How do we know what to do at the next meetup?” she asks, pulling her keys out of her purse.
I slide my phone out of my pocket. “You give me your number, and I’ll send you a text.”
Without batting an eye, she takes my phone out of my hands and enters her information, cute smile on her face when she hands it back to me, pausing slightly. Our eyes meet for a split second, the slightest hint of pink splashing across her cheeks before she looks away.
“Thank you for letting me tag along,” she says politely. “And I’m sorry about the cat costume and all the crying.”
Marv and I just nod, watching as she hurries into her minivan, tail swishing behind her as she goes. I’m not much of a phone guy, but if I were, I’d call her, right now as she’s driving away, just to hear what she’d have to say. If she wasn’t just crying and carrying on about her ex-husband, I’d probably ask her to go out to dinner with me.
Tonight.
“Think she’ll show?” Marv asks as she disappears down the road.
I look at him with a wry smile. “Crazy ones always do, Marv.”
