7 Days and 7 Nights (11 page)

He sliced open his own parchment but didn't lift his fork. “I didn't cheat on you, Livvy. It's not cheating if there's no commitment.”

“Ahhh, we're going for the
technical
definition of fidelity. I guess I've been remembering it wrong all these years.”

“You were barely out of college. Neither of us was ready to make a commitment.”

“No. One of us wasn't ready. The other never had a chance to express her opinion.”

He tasted the rice and fish, but no longer felt like savoring the meal. It struck him that they'd never had this conversation, and he wasn't wild about having it now. Olivia had gotten too close, and he'd moved on. End of story— except for the eight years he'd spent trying to erase her memory. For the first time, he allowed himself to wonder how long it had taken her to forget about him. “Olivia, you were a baby. You needed to go back to school and get your doctorate, not hang out in Chicago with the likes of me.”

“So you said. Repeatedly. And evidently it wasn't just me you didn't want to commit to.”

He saw some emotion he couldn't identify sweep over her face and watched her shake it off.

“But why are you still doing the hit-and-run thing, Matt? What is it about real intimacy that frightens you so?”

“I do believe you're getting ready to try and analyze me.”

She took another sip of wine and ate for a few minutes in silence. When she spoke, it was with an intentional lightness. “Hey, we've got eons of time ahead of us. If you're ready to seek help, I'm available.” She scooped up a last morsel of fish with her fork and turned an impudent smile on him. “If you keep cooking, I'll waive my hourly fee. That's a real bargain when you consider I get two hundred an hour for private consultation.”

“Right. So you're going to, what, peel me like an onion and expose all my innermost feelings to our listening audience in exchange for three square meals a day?”

“Gee, when you put it like that, I can hardly wait to get started.”

Matt stood and carried his plate to the kitchen, and Olivia followed suit. Together they piled dirty pots, pans, and dishes in the sink while he rummaged in the cabinet underneath for cleaning supplies. “I'm stunned by the generosity of your offer, Olivia. I don't know why I didn't think of it myself.”

He tossed the rubber gloves at her and spun her around to face the mound of dirty dishware. “But this is the only expertise I need from you at the moment.”

12

Chinkapin Lanes roared on Wednesday nights. Packed to capacity for the weekly Couples League, the fifties-era bowling alley shook with sound in a way its more modern competitors did not. Balls thundered down wooden lanes, pins crashed madly against each other, and music blared from an antiquated audio system that actually shook, rattled, and rolled. Despite the din, or perhaps because of it, men and women let their hair down at the Chinkapin. It was said there were Wednesday-night teams that had outlasted many marriages.

This Wednesday was the first in more than three years that Dawg Rollins arrived at Chinkapin Couples League alone. He'd missed driving over with JoBeth, missed her droll recap of her day at the diner, and her interest in the details of his. He'd come early as usual, had placed the usual beer and pizza order, and stowed his bowling bag under the seat, but it just didn't feel like Wednesday night without JoBeth at his side.

If she'd arrived with him, JoBeth would already be making funny comments about who was hitting on whom and sharing odd news stories she'd found in the newspaper. Instead, Dawg chatted quietly with the captain of the other team while he waited for the rest of his team to arrive. And while he chatted he wondered how JoBeth's day had gone and whether she'd caught herself wondering about his.

“Hey, Paul. Hey, Emmylou.”

“Hey, handsome.” Emmylou gave him a wink and a hug and added what looked like a whole new wiggle to her walk. While he and Paul watched, she turned her back on them and bent from the waist to retrieve her ball from her bag. Dawg found himself holding his breath as her flowered capris stretched even tighter across her lush backside, testing the limits of fabric science and treating them both to an awesome floral display.

“Kinda makes a guy wish he was a bumblebee, doesn't it?” Paul's gaze never wavered from Emmylou's flowercovered rear end.

“I can see how the idea of pollination might pop up,” Dawg replied.

“Of course, some of us are free to think about the birds and the bees all we like.” Paul thumped himself on the chest and turned sympathetic eyes on Dawg. “Others of us would just be asking for trouble.”

“Is that right?”

“You keep eyeing Emmylou's backside that way and JoBeth's gonna end up on death row for murder one. And I'm not sure which one of you she'll blow away first.”

Dawg rubbed his jaw. “JoBeth does tend to get a bit jealous, doesn't she?”

“I think that's kind of like saying the
Titanic
ran into an ice cube.” Paul set his ball down on the ball return and fished his shoes out of his bag. “That woman does not like to see anyone else's hands on you.” His gaze narrowed. “You have an awfully strange look on your face, Dawg. I hope you're not getting ready to do anything too stupid.”

“Me? Do something stupid?”

Paul glanced around the alley and his brow furrowed. “Say, where is JoBeth?”

“She decided to drive herself tonight. She'll be along any minute.” He avoided Paul's gaze and busied himself with retying his bowling shoe.

“Have I mentioned how sorry I am that I screwed things up so bad with Dorie?”

Dawg sighed. “Not in the last two minutes.”

“Good. I mean, I'm glad JoBeth brought Emmylou in so we could field a team and all, but I sure would like to be bowling with Dorie again.” He dropped his voice. “I miss the shit out of her.”

“Yeah?” Dawg had no intention of telling his friend how badly he'd screwed up his own relationship. And he didn't intend to give up on JoBeth Namey just yet, either.

Paul's words ricocheted around his brain.

“Yeah.” Paul drummed nervous fingers on the table and then mercifully changed the topic. “You ordered the beer yet?”

“It's on the way.”

“Well, thank God for that.” They both watched Emmylou's backside rotate over to the other alley, where she stopped to talk to a member of the opposing team. “I had a hell of a day.”

Dawg dragged his thoughts from Emmylou's rear end and its place in his plans. Paul was an electrician whose clientele included residents of the more affluent suburbs in north Fulton County. “What happened?”

“You remember that customer I told you about up in Alpharetta?”

“The one that keeps coming to the door in a see-through nightie?”

“That's the one.” Paul slid onto the banquette across from Dawg and leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Today I go out there about 10 A.M. to install recessed lighting in the basement.”

“And?”

“And she's not only wearing the see-through nightie, but she insists on going up the ladder to show me where to put the fixtures.” He paused dramatically. “She didn't have a stitch on underneath.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. I thought I was going to swallow my tongue.”

“Shame on you, Paul Willard.”

Both of their heads jerked up at the sound of JoBeth's voice. Paul turned three shades of red, and Dawg suspected he looked just as guilty.

“Lord, JoBeth, you could give a guy a heart attack sneaking up on him that way.”

“I'm surprised you didn't have one earlier, P.W., ogling your customer that way.” She wagged a finger at the two of them. “And the poor woman unable to afford underwear . . .”

Paul hooted with laughter while Dawg watched JoBeth remove her ball from her bowling bag with the same clean, economical movements she applied to everything she did. He kept his tone purposefully light, like hers, as he responded. “Maybe you should offer her a discount so she can buy some before your next visit.”

“Or maybe Paul should stop swallowing his tongue and take some sort of action.” JoBeth's tone was still light, but it was clear they were no longer talking about Paul's customer.

Dawg looked down at JoBeth just as she looked up at him. They stood still, gazes locked, while Paul's swung back and forth between them. “Yeah, JoBeth, sure. And what if I decide to be this woman's boy toy? How would you feel about that?”

JoBeth didn't turn around. She just kept staring right into Dawg's eyes.

“Right. Well. It looks like the beer's here,” Paul continued.

He got no response.

“And the other team's about ready to start.”

Neither Dawg nor JoBeth moved a muscle.

“Fine. I'll, uh, go coach Emmylou a bit. I don't think she's ever been up against Todd's bunch before.” Paul backed away from them slowly, a puzzled frown on his face.

“You really think Paul should be jumping some strange woman's bones?” Dawg asked.

“No. But he's a free agent, and it's obviously what the woman wants. For some reason she's just not coming out and saying so.”

“Unlike you.”

“I've always been direct. When did it start bothering you?”

Dawg shrugged. He was in no mood to rehash her ultimatum, but he was ready to demonstrate her plan's fatal flaw. “So what exactly do you see happening now?”

“Well, I guess we both get out there and meet new people.”

“Okay.” Dawg shrugged again, careful to keep his expression casual.

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I'm ready to get started, if you are.” He didn't allow himself to smile at her stunned expression. Instead, he aimed an obvious glance at Emmylou's backside and let his gaze run up the blonde's body to linger on her breasts. Then he turned back to JoBeth, who seemed to be grinding her teeth. “There's no time like the present.”

By the middle of the second game, JoBeth couldn't decide which irritated her more—the way Emmylou managed to shake and wiggle her incredibly large behind at every opportunity, or the fact that Dawg obviously relished the show.

If Dawg had always been aware of Emmylou's way-too-obvious charms, he'd been smart enough to hide it. Until tonight. Now he appeared to be president of the Emmylou fan club and kept shouting things like, “Nice frame, Em. Try to release it like I showed you.”

Midway through the first game, Dawg had started coaching Emmylou. During a break in play, with the whole damn alley looking on, he'd pulled her backside to his front and led her through the approach and release of the ball—not once but several times. Neither the hands-on demonstration nor the verbal coaching appeared to be doing much for Emmylou's game, but it was having a decided effect on JoBeth's.

During the third or fourth frame, she'd begun picturing Emmylou's face on the headpin. Now, every time she got up to bowl, she tried to knock the woman's block off. Her last two turns had been strikes, and she couldn't seem to bowl anything less than a spare.

Beyond annoyed, JoBeth waited for Emmylou to finish her turn. It took the big-haired blonde two tries to knock down five pins, but you'd have thought she'd just won a spot on the pro tour the way Dawg was grinning at her.

“Thatta way, Emmylou. I swear you're a natural,” he shouted.

With a triumphant smile on her face, Emmylou stepped off the alley and brushed past JoBeth. Like a country-fried Marilyn Monroe, she led with her bust and let her flower-covered fanny jut out behind as she made her way toward Dawg.

JoBeth looked down at her hands. She flexed them for just a moment, imagining the feel of them wrapped around Dawg's twenty-inch neck. She looked up to meet his knowing gaze and decided she'd settle for another strawberry rhubarb pie—as long as it had a small-caliber pistol baked inside.

At the score table, Emmylou draped herself over Dawg, turning sideways to sandwich his left shoulder between her doughy breasts like a ham caught between two slices of rye.

“How was that, Dawgie?” The woman's voice had gone Marilyn too, all breathy and suggestive.

JoBeth wanted to puke.

“Perfect, Em. Your game is definitely improving.” Dawg let his hand slip down to cup Emmylou's backside—the one JoBeth wanted to kick to kingdom come. Emmylou basked in Dawg's attention like a kitten in the sun and carefully avoided meeting JoBeth's eyes.

And then Paul—thank God for Paul—was stepping up behind her and turning her gently back around to face the lane. “I think this is where I'm supposed to tell you something moving and important, like ‘Let's win this one for the gipper,' or ‘Don't let him jerk your chain,' but all I can think of is ‘Knock the shit out of those pins, JoBeth.' That man is not seriously interested in replacing you with that blonde blow-up doll.”

JoBeth nodded her head, gritted her teeth, and focused on the pins. In her mind's eye she drew a picture of Dawg and Emmylou huddled together on the headpin, his big hand on her big ass.

It was the tenth frame. If she knocked all the pins down with her first ball, she stood a good chance of breaking 200. Even a spare could get her there.

JoBeth shut out everything around her. She brought the ball down as she made her approach, and when she reached the line, she let it fly. The ball spun madly down the center of the lane and crashed into the center pin. Pins exploded off the floor, bashed into each other, and fell down. When everything went still, only the ten pin remained standing.

“Wow, JoBeth. You are looking good, girl. Go on and pick that sucker off.” A glance at her teammates showed Paul practically dancing with excitement, while Dawg continued to play the ham to Emmylou's rye.

“Hey, JoBeth. You sure are on fire!” Todd Miller, the captain of the other team, waggled his eyebrows at her, but Dawg's hand still rested on Emmylou's rump.

“Don't mess with my concentration, now, Todd. That ten pin needs to go.” JoBeth kept her tone light and her smile bright, but her whole face hurt. The strain of forcing her mouth muscles upward when they wanted to turn downward and maybe even let out a whimper, was beginning to tell. She could feel the weight of tears forming and blinked her eyelids against them.

JoBeth brought the ball up to her chest, paused for a moment, and then went up on the balls of her feet. With her gaze riveted on the remaining pin, she stepped out with her right foot and swung the ball down into its backward arc. After three quick approach steps, JoBeth swung her arm forward and released the ball. There was a hush on both lanes as the ball made an initial hook to the right, skirted up the edge of the gutter, and then began to veer left. It came within a hair's breadth of the pin, and she heard a collective gasp as the pin rocked precariously in place. For what seemed like an eternity.

“Shit.” JoBeth stared at the lone pin in disbelief as it stood by itself, swaying in her ball's breeze, taunting her. It just stood there, too stubborn to fall down, until, at long last, the mechanical arm dropped down and swept it out of sight.

Conversation resumed as Paul stepped up and clapped her on the shoulder. “A hundred and ninety five is nothing to sneer at, you know. Do you want me to go beat up Dawg for you?”

She'd come so close she could almost taste it. Just as she'd come so close with Dawg.
“Close,”
her father used to say,
“but no cigar.”

She gave Paul a small smile and shook her head. “Thanks, but if I let you do that now, I won't have anything to look forward to.”

JoBeth left the alley and walked over to the table.

“You almost got it, JoBeth.” Emmylou's voice had lost some of its Marilyn sound, and she looked a little nervous.

Dawg met her gaze and held it. “You're bowling real well tonight.”

“Thanks. You're playing a pretty good game yourself.”

He shrugged, the motion sending his ham shoulder sliding up and down between Emmylou's slabs of rye. “You set the rules. I'm just following them.”

“So I see.” What was there to say, really?
Unhand that
bimbo or I'll
. . . what? She'd already put a pie in the man's face. Should she humiliate herself further by staging a catfight in the middle of the bowling alley?

Telling Dawg to go out and find somebody to have fun with was one thing—watching him do it was quite another. The fact that he'd chosen Emmylou to flaunt in her face made things immeasurably worse. The slow burn that had kept her going all evening turned into cold, clammy dread. “I'm going to go to the ladies' room. I'll be back before the final game, but I think you'd better find a replacement for next week.”