Bowling Dreams & Cheap Wine

Chapter 24

6 Weeks Later

The morning of the winter performance, I'm up earlier than the man sleeping next to me. I turn and face Raj, he's been sleeping over more. His eyes are closed, his long black lashes are against his skin. The guy could sleep through a fire truck going up and down the street. He hogs the pillows and sometimes he talks in his sleep. "I need you to push," and "vacuum pump," and something about the "birth canal" are reoccurring conversations. I only wake him up when he starts to reference the placenta.

Weak, gray light peaks through the edge of my blinds. I look over at Raj again, the shirt hugging his muscles, his face smashed into the pillow. So much has changed since he dropped his fake girlfriend and showed up at the tournament. Makes me think that I should have had a fake boyfriend to make him work for me, at least for a few days.

The doctor schedule keeps him away and the winter performance has put extensive demands on my time, but when we're in the same room and we steal a night or a morning, the time goes by so fast. It's never enough.

We're just...fitting into each other's lives like there was always room for the other person.

I want to wake him up because I can, because I know where it will lead and everything that requires shaving maintenance is taken care of. Getting older means more prep work, more letting go, but also still wanting to be sexy. To be desired. And I feel that, with Raj. 

I have so much to do. Get to the arena early. The day will be long. The costume changes, the music, the nerve-wracking moments during the performance. This is my last time running the performance as I have been transitioning into the new director role of the youth outreach, a position that officially begins after the new year. Funny how just when I hold on tight for things not to change, they do anyway, and the possibilities opened up in front of me. 

Quietly, I sit up quietly and get out of bed. The sling is no longer necessary and the stitches are out of my arm, though I have a battle scar.

Before I make coffee, I go into Daphne's bathroom where I have my Smart Faces Beauty Mirror. I bought it from an online party a few weeks ago. I can talk to it like an Alexa, but the mirror tells me what's going on with my complexion. She does everything from check pigmentation to hydration levels to fine lines and dark spots. I nicknamed her Bubbles. I have no idea why. It was the first name that popped into my head. "Good morning, Bubbles."

The mirror lights up. The analysis begins.

I grimace. "Not looking so good today, huh Bubbles?"

"I don't understand," Bubbles says in her British AI voice. "Do you want me to check for red spots?"

"No. Please. No."

"Do you need a pick-me-up?" Bubbles asks.

I have entered positive sayings and support that she can tell me to soften the shock of bad news about my face. "No."

"Do you want me to check for new wrinkles?" Bubbles says.

I'm starting to have buyer's remorse.

My fingers press the button, turning off the voice feature. I use the mirror with its special lighting features to assess the problem areas, which is—everywhere and turn off the entire thing. Maybe for $55 I should have bought the air fryer to go with the Instant Pot.

Coffee will reset my priorities.

Once the caffeine is safe in my hands and I'm settled on the couch. I check the HOA community page. The elections for a new president is coming up and Carson is running against me. I scoff at his recent campaign tactics promising to get approval for a neighborhood garage sale. Because we're in the downtown it's illegal to sell stuff. One only has to leave a bike out front or a box of clothes or sometimes your groceries and it's gone in ten. I am going to remind him that's not a promise he can keep.