“No,” I whine as I rush over to the tipped-up pan on the ground. “No, Pickles. Stop.”
He whines with me and then tears are in my eyes as I carefully pick up the pan of cinnamon rolls. My perfect, homemade, hand-rolled cinnamon rolls. I sit on the kitchen floor with my towel around me, hold the pan of messed-up cinnamon rolls in my lap. Pickles lays next to me, staring at the spot where the icing has coated the tiled floor.
Bowling.
I’m going to go bowling.
Somehow, I manage to pull myself up from the floor. I place the tray of cinnamon rolls over the sink, which gives me room to make sure the pies are as stable as possible on the countertop. I’ll have to remake them tonight, but for now I have to get out of this place. I have to get somewhere where it’s easier to breathe. Easier to think. Easier to exist.
That safe place has always been bowling for me.
With a change of clothing and some love given to Pickles, I grab my things and head out the door. I hear Pickles whining behind me and it breaks my heart to leave him behind.
“I’ll be back soon, buddy,” I whisper as I lock the apartment door behind me.
The drive to the bowling alley is a bit of a blur. I manage to make it, though. Thankfully, there’s a parking space pretty close to the entrance, which means I can make a quick exit if things get weird.
The smell of the alley greets me when I walk in, and I inhale deeply. I don’t care if it’s the smell of old shoes, pitchers filled with beer, and pizza that’s a bit too burnt. It smells like safety and good memories, and my shoulders relax. There’s a twinge of something else in the air, though. Something weirdly familiar.
The distinct smell of freshly cut grass, honey, and something uniquely citrusy.
“Daddy! Daddy! I told you it’s her! It’s Miss Lia! Can she bowl with us, pleeeease?”
And when I turn toward the sound, I see Amber waving at me from one of the lanes.
With her father beaming from ear to ear right beside her.
Eli
Ismell her the second she walks in.
Syrupy brown sugar and cinnamon, twinged with something that makes my chest ache. She’s standing near the shoe counter, her halo of blonde hair illuminated by the fluorescent lighting. Her arms are loosely folded across her middle, her gaze drifting like she’s waiting for something to go wrong.
Has something already gone wrong?
It’s been a few days since me and the guys dropped her off at her new place. I knew she wasn’t happy with it. We all did.
The hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end. She steps up to the counter to order herself some shoes. She’s got that same look on her face that she had in Dr. Quinn’s office. Quiet. Contained. Trying her best not to take up much space.
“Miss Lia!” my daughter exclaims.
Amber makes a beeline toward the woman. She takes off before I can say a word, her little ponytail swinging and her bowling shoes slipping all across the polished floor. Lia whips those magnificent green eyes in our direction, and then I see it.
Something has most definitely happened to upset her.
I make my way after Amber just as Lia crouches down to greet my daughter. She meets Amber at eye level, and my chest tightens at how natural it all looks.
“Keep it together,” I murmur to myself.
“Well, hello there, Miss Amber,” Lia says.
“We’re bowling!” my daughter announces as I walk up behind her. “Daddy said I can use the ramp again. The ball makes my arms hurt sometimes, and then I can’t get it to go straight.”
Lia raises her arm and flexes it playfully. “Gotta keep up that strength. These bowling balls are no joke.”
“You’re telling me,” my daughter says with a scoff. “So, are you gonna come bowl with us, Miss Lia? There’s lots of space where we are.”
“What size, miss?” the bowling attendant behind the counter asks.
