“I know I probably say it too much, but you should smile more often, Zoe.” One of his fingers touches the corner of my mouth, but before I can say anything, he pulls it away and shows me excess foam from my latte. “Because, you’re lovely when you do.”
Not because he’s telling me I’m beautiful or anything, but I love this guy. Seriously, flat-out adore him. Fate has nothing to do with me and Will, and I like it that way. Even still, I can’t dismiss the guilty twinge that plucks through me whenever he calls me Zoe. But then, Will Dane doesn’t know me by any other name than Zoe White, which is the worst alias ever. Four months ago, when I fled everything I knew and who I was, it wasn’t like my brain was firing on all cylinders. I have a slew of paperwork I created for myself with various pseudonyms, but when it came time to fill out the job application for the Moose, I ended up using the one that sounds too much like my real name. I was terrified that if I chose one of the others, I might never get used to acknowledging people when they spoke to me. Zoe White seemed doable after nearly twenty years of being Chloe Lilywhite.
“I’m working on it,” I say, despite knowing it’ll take a miracle for what he wants to happen.
A miracle or giving up. Due to heavy stakes, and more importantly, the well being of those I love most in all the worlds, I’d rather attempt a miracle.
He loops an arm around my shoulders and walks me out to where his truck is parked in the back; Paul stays behind to finish locking up, saying he’ll meet us in twenty. I fiddle with the heat once we’re on the road, turning it up full blast. “Do we have to go bowling tonight?”
There’s that laughter of his again. I pray I can get a contact high from it. “If we don’t, Frieda will concoct some kind of story about how we ran off to get married.”
My heart constricts painfully, but I manage to keep my face calm. “Why does she have such a hard time accepting our friendship?”
He reaches over and pats my knee. “Because she’s Frieda.”
Another moment I wish I could laugh. A tiny exhale escapes me, which is the closest I’ve gotten in awhile; I revel in the simplicity of this release. Leaning back into the heated leather seats of his truck, I stare at the sign Will taped on the dashboard a couple of weeks ago as a joke, when Ginny kept complaining she never got to ride shotgun anymore. Zoe’s spot. Not for sale.
He flips through the radio stations until he finds a country song he likes. “Stay over tonight?”
Relief fills me up. It’s exactly what I hoped he’d ask, even though I’ve been the one stubborn about moving in already. “OK.”
His lopsided grin flashes at me as he sings along to the song playing. I join in, and the urge to laugh has never been so strong in months. We sound ridiculous—neither of us are naturally talented singers. But together? We take awful to a whole new level, and it’s glorious.
Will is my drug of choice nowadays. I’m utterly addicted.
Ginny has pitchers of soda and beer already waiting for us, plus a stack of plastic cups. She’s also got enough chili cheese fries to feed a small army. “Zooooeee!” I’m tackled into a hug. “Tonight’s the night! I just know it!”
Poor, hopeful yet deluded girl. Ginny Swanson is the eternal optimist of this group, ever smiling, ever bubbly, kind of ditzy, yet in possession of the biggest heart I’ve ever come across. I can’t help but always feel grateful for meeting her; had I not, I never would’ve gotten the job I did. Having this job, meeting these people, is what saves me every single day from throwing the towel in.
I sit down and shuck my shoes off. “Gin, the day I get a strike is the day I win the lottery.”
“Could happen.” Paul reaches across me to grab a cheese covered fry. He somehow miraculously beat us to the bowling alley. “You just have to play.”
Frieda Carthage slaps at my hands the moment I grab one of my rental shoes. “Put that gross thing down.” She smiles, her lips blood red against pale skin, a perfect cross between her namesake and a vampire. “We got you a gift, girlfriend.”
Ginny bounces up and down, clapping her hands. Maybe I did win the lottery after all.
Will slides into the plastic seat next to me, slinging an arm around the back of my chair as Frieda pulls a box out from underneath the scoring table.
“For you,” she says. It’s wrapped in newsprint, tied with twine, but rather than looking shoddy, it comes across as retro and kitschy. It’s a true talent of hers. “From all of us.”
I take my time unwrapping it, which elicits a number of groans and laughs from my friends. Inside is a pair of my very own bowling shoes: lavender with bright turquoise stripes. On the backs, in glittery rhinestones, are matching Zs, no doubt products of Frieda’s latest arts and crafts stage to bedazzle nearly everything she owns.
Like I said, kitsch.