Austentatious

How I remembered Brett amid the fog of infatuation and the haze of lust, I had no idea, but I did, just barely. “Meeting,” I countered, trying to look apologetic as we slowly made our way back to the parking lot.

“Fair enough. How about dinner and a film downtown tomorrow night?”

“Are you by any chance referring to a South by Southwest film screening?” I asked.

“I am.”

“Do you already have tickets?” I asked him, fully aware that they could sell out quickly.

“I have been known to occasionally plan ahead,” Sean informed me with a superior smile. “Shall I pick you up at work?”

We were standing between my sensible little car and his dangerous-looking motorcycle. “How about I meet you,” I countered, eyeing the shiny bike.

He smirked; clearly I was an open book. But judging from the way his body began leaning toward mine, he didn’t plan to challenge me. His hand tightened on mine, mine tensed in his, and I braced myself for the thrill of yet another kiss.

It shuddered slowly through me, leaving me limp with appreciation and sighing at its end. This kiss was way more dangerous than the others, probably because he’d clued in to the fact that I was, ever so cautiously, caving. I couldn’t seem to help myself—around Sean it was like I was no longer “master of my domain.” Figuratively speaking.

Fairy Jane was no doubt smirking to herself over the burgeoning success of her twisted little matchmaking scheme. I didn’t think anyone could argue that I wasn’t taking the romance at least somewhat seriously. Take tomorrow, for example: lunch with one guy, dinner with another. I was seriously in over my head.

12 In which agreements are reached

Stopped at a light on Fifth Street, I realized I should probably head straight home, make myself some hot chocolate, and hunker down with my magical journal and its logic-defying key. I should be curious and eager to do some sleuthing—and I was. But right now, I didn’t want to read about Fairy Jane’s interference in other people’s lives—I wanted to deal with her meddling into mine. I needed some girl talk, and not the kind I was used to getting from next door.

Glancing at the clock on the dash—quarter after ten—I was pretty confident Beck was still up, either studying or defying the engineering stereotype in some way or another. I reached for the phone. She answered on the first ring.

“Beck! Hey, it’s Nicola.”

“Thank God! I left you a message hours ago, after I got your spazzed-out message, and I can only assume you have a very good reason for blowing me off?” The implication was obvious. “I’m ready to forgive. So anytime you’re ready ...”

I grinned, then bit the inside of my mouth. “Oh, I’m just calling to check in, see how your classes are going,” I lied.

There was a beat of silence on her end of the line, and I could hear funky music from unidentifiable instruments. My imagination ran wild, and I pictured an apartment with lots of jewel-toned floor pillows and dark wood, the air swirling with smoky incense. My nose wrinkled up a little.

“O-kay,” she said. “Things are good. I aced two exams this week—Control Systems and Lasers. Is that enough foreplay? Ready to get to the good stuff?”

“What?” It came out half-shocked, half-amused.

“I’m guessing you called with something more interesting than the day-to-day dramas in the College of Engineering, so as your very devoted mentee, let me just give you permission to gloss over my less-than-exciting life.”

My smile widened as I took a moment to revel in my life’s recent juiciness.

“Okay then. Way to go on the exams,” I said, trying to legitimatize our mentor / mentee relationship just slightly.

“Thank you. Now spill it. Or do you want a face-to-face? Because I’m totally up for it if you are. I’m actually a little burned out on studying, particularly while Talitha is trying her—well, belly, I suppose—at belly dancing. With all those little coins clinking and fabrics shimmying, it’s unbelievably distracting.”

“I’ll bet. Well, if you’re positive it wouldn’t be interrupting something more important, then in-person would be great.”

“Awesome. It’s Glow Bowl night at the Texas Union.”

My eyebrows came together in uncertainty. “Glow Bowl night?”

“Come on! It’s the perfect place to gossip—no one will overhear a thing.”

Somehow I found myself agreeing to that, and ten minutes later, I was descending underground, into the din. Between the music (that rock / rap combo stuff), the crack of pool balls, the smack of bowling pins, and the animated conversation, I felt confident my secrets would stay with me. Beck would be lucky to pick up the general gist.

It was just now occurring to me that I wasn’t exactly dressed for bowling. I didn’t even have a pair of socks. Eyeing the line of worn bowling shoes getting sprayed with aerosol deodorant on the counter, I suppressed a shudder.

When I noticed Beck waving from a lane to my far right, I tried not to react. While it had recently become somewhat socially acceptable, I would never be caught out in pajamas—particularly the sock monkey variety— paired with a thermal tee and a ski vest. Although I had to admit, with her hair cocked out in twin ponytails, the pink streaking through, she looked cute and enviably comfortable. Like she belonged down here. Me? Not so much. News flash from the UT Student Union ...

Beck hopped up to greet me with a giddy look in her eyes and a mischievous smile curling her high-gloss lips, and I relaxed a little. Giving me a quickie shoulder massage, she turned me toward the lanes and gestured up at the video screen suspended above. Apparently we’d be playing incognito as “Mentor” and “Mentee.” I couldn’t wait to see which of us was which.

“Go get your shoes,” she yelled in my ear, “and come right back here. I’ll find us some balls.” She wiggled her eyebrows and turned with ponytails flying.

I figured it was going to be virtually impossible for me to tell her about my date in this obnoxious environment. While one of us was on deck, swinging a nine-pound ball in a dangerous arc, the other really should stay out of the way. And I wasn’t about to shout the whole thing at twenty paces. It should definitely be interesting.

As I was sliding my stockinged feet into a pair of slightly moist leather bowling shoes, Beck walked up cradling a neon orange ball, its three holes turned toward me. “This work for you?”

Fitting my fingers into the holes, I nodded, and she half rolled/half dumped it into my hands.

“You’re just a tad overdressed for bowling.” She shook her head dismissively. “Don’t worry—nobody cares.” Stepping closer and widening her eyes with a very gratifying urgency, she prompted, “Take it from Sunday brunch.”

“Now?” I glanced around uncertainly, concerned that someone might be waiting for the lane, ready to step up and complain if we were caught squandering precious Glow Bowl minutes.

“He’s up,” she said, indicating the six-footer in loose-fitting madras in the lane to our left.

I tried to shake off the Punk’d vibe and just go with it. This was less of a girl talk and more of a drive-by. But what did I know? Maybe this was how it was done now. I took a deep breath, ready for launch, just as Beck held up her hand. ‘Hold that thought. Your turn.”

Evidently I was bowling as “Mentor” this evening.

I turned to face the clutch of ten pins at the far end of our lane. Stepping up, trying to resist the thoughts of Sean that persisted in tickling my concentration, I strode forward with measured steps, swung the ball back, and let fly.

Gutter ball.