Boomerang Read online

  That is one screwed-up family, but I got along with them okay.

  “Well, tell him he can call anytime,” I say.

  “He’ll probably ask you to golf with him.”

  “That’d be great. I’d love to school him again.”

  “He’ll keep inviting you until he wins.”

  “Then we’re going to be playing a lot of rounds.”

  Alison’s smile fades and her long fingers flatten on the table. “You bring out the best in people, Ethan.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. And I can’t take this non-Alison character any longer. I have to call her out. “You’re pretty different, you know that?”

  She shakes her head. “No . . . I’m not. Only with you, Ethan, believe me. I guess I have nothing to lose and everything to gain.” She straightens her back in a familiar gesture. It reminds me of all the times I’ve heard her mother harp on her for slouching even when she wasn’t. “And I mean what I said,” she continues. “About you. I think that’s why I held onto you so long.”

  “Because I was your life coach?”

  “No. Because you were my life preserver.”

  I’m emotionally beat up by the time Alison drops me off at work. I need time to think, to process, but as the elevator rises to the seventeenth floor, my numbness wears off and I remember how Alison happened. Mia’s words at the restaurant last night come back to me.

  Cookie sent a text. . .

  I take off like a horse out of the blocks as soon as the elevator doors open, barreling through the lobby, down the hall and straight into Cookie’s office.

  I find her sitting at her desk, signing a stack of documents with a sleek silver pen as Paolo watches on.

  “What the hell are you trying to pull, Cookie?”

  My entire body pulses with anger.

  The silver pen stops, and Cookie looks up. “Excuse me?”

  “I know what you did. If you didn’t like Mia and me going around you to Adam about the booth, fine. But that was a low way of fighting back.”

  Cookie rises from her desk in slow motion, her eyes the same color as the pen clutched in her hand.

  “Mr. Vance,” she says, sounding more professional than I’ve ever heard her. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Come on . . . Are you trying to tell me what happened was a coincidence? Don’t pile on the BS now.”

  Paolo has turned pale at her side. For an instant, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. That maybe some crazy glitch happened, where my original date canceled and the Boomerang algorithms kicked in and reassigned my ex to fill the gap.

  But there’s no way that happened. This shit did not happen organically. Cookie was pissed about Boothgate and found her perfect weapon in Alison. She’s probably been planning it for weeks.

  “O-kay,” Cookie says, in a forced chipper voice. “No more piling on the BS. Understood, Mr. Vance. Oh! Speaking of coincidences, it’s simply perfect that you’re here because I had something I wanted to tell you. About the show? Your booth budget has been reduced. Effective immediately. That’s all me, not Adam—God forbid I BS you anymore. You’ll have to eliminate your precious video game from your plan. Now get out before you upset me, you irrational little peon.” She drops back into her chair and starts signing again.

  Before I do something really stupid, I force myself to leave.

  I knew it. This is war.

  Word spreads around the office at lightning speed. No one says anything to me, but I can feel that everyone’s heard. Whenever anyone comes by the kitchen, there isn’t the usual chatter. They just grab coffee in silence and go.

  Mia is quiet too. She keeps her focus on her work, barely sparing me a glance. As the hours drag by, I get the impression I’ve disappointed her somehow, and that’s the part that sucks the most. Her checking in on me last night was the only thing that kept me from losing my mind. Just knowing she was thinking of me, even if it was just for a small part of her night, made a difference.

  Now I feel like a villain in her eyes and in this office—exactly the opposite of what I’ve been working toward. I’ve given my best to this company, and I know I’m doing good work. It’s unbelievable that one below-the-belt attack by Cookie could screw up everything.

  Three months ago I had all this forward momentum. College graduation. Dreams of landing this great job and paying down loans before moving on to law school. Now I’m somehow doing this backward slide and I can’t find a way to pull myself out of it.

  I don’t realize it’s noon until Mia stands and grabs her purse. “Can I take you to lunch?”

  “Sure,” I say, before I can think about it.

  We walk to the garage and climb into her car in awkward silence.

  “I’m not hungry,” I say. “So whatever you want is fine. I’m just along for the ride.”

  Mia’s hands come off the steering wheel. It’s dim in the underground garage, and I can only see the contours of her face, but I know this look of hers. A mixture of understanding and warmth. The tension lets out of my shoulders, and I realize that’s all I’ve wanted all morning. To see her look at me with that expression.

  “It’ll blow over, Ethan,” she says. “You know how Cookie is. But I’m sorry about the video game.”

  I make a mental note to strangle Paolo for being so accurate in his gossip spreading. “No need to be sorry. I’m still doing it.”

  “You’re . . . What?”

  “Cookie approved the funds for the game already. I’m not calling Zeke to cancel it.”

  Mia shifts so she’s facing me. She’s wearing a tight white dress that hugs her every curve, and I kinda want to thank her. Her hotness is a welcome distraction from all the life crap I’m dealing with.

  “Ethan, are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m sure. It feels like Cookie is—I don’t know—hazing me or something. Anyway, there’s no way I’m backing down.” I smile. “You should be celebrating. The job’s pretty much yours now, Curls. Congrats, winner.”

  Mia leans back against the headrest. “No . . . We’ll fix this, Ethan. I’ll help. I promise.”

  A weird emotion claws up my throat. My hands fist with how much I suddenly want to hold her. If I could just hold her right now, none of this would fucking matter to me. Not Alison or the goddamn video game that’s going to get me fired. Yeah. Holding her would “fix this,” and I have to bite the inside of my cheek not to ask her for that.

  I set the rules, after all. We’re coworkers. Coworkers don’t cuddle.

  So I play-punch her on the shoulder instead.

  “Hey,” I say. Time to lighten the freakin’ mood. “Want to go bowling with me and eleven nine-year-olds tomorrow night?”

  Chapter 35

  Mia

  Q: Are you the sporting type?

  No one should look this good in a pair of bowling shoes, but of course Ethan looks like a god. Like he should be in a loincloth, flinging a discus instead of hefting a sapphire-blue bowling ball and staring down the pins as though they’ve personally insulted his mother.

  The alley is neon-lit and retro. Every server looks like Rosie the Riveter or an escapee from a swing band. They circle with heaping platters of wings and bowling-pin-shaped beer glasses.

  I drift around for a bit, filming the couples there on dates, the single-girl bowling leagues checking out the single-guy bowling leagues. But time after time, my lens finds its way back to Ethan.

  All around him, a squirming battalion of nine-year-olds wrestle, knee-bounce on the fake leopard skin and vinyl benches, and generally create a moving cloud of pandemonium while Rhett tries unsuccessfully to marshal them into teams.

  “Come on, guys,” he says. “Let’s see a little discipline.”

  He’s already made the mistake of letting them enter their own names into the computer for scoring, which means that my bowling compadres have names like “DUCK LIPS” and “MR. BUTTS.”

  Ah, nine. Such a precious age.


  Ethan rises up on his toes, lunges forward a few steps, and fires a missile down the alley, practically shattering the pins. A strike. Of course.

  “Way to go, Coach!” says a husky kid with a white-blond faux hawk.

  Ethan swivels and grins. Jerking a thumb at the pins, he says, “You’re up, Butts.” Which of course makes the kids hysterical.

  For now, it’s just Ethan, Rhett, the kids, and me. Most of the kids, that is. I don’t see Raylene’s son or Raylene yet.

  I need to head out early to make one of Skyler’s concerts, but I have to tell Ethan that I’m the one who switched the Boomerang date. The guilt is chewing away at me, and I’ve already spent three whole days watching Ethan commit professional suicide without being able to cough up the words.

  I take a deep breath. Then two more. Then give myself a pep talk along the lines of “Mia, don’t be such a chicken,” and then I part the sea of sticky boys, most of whom smell like fried food and ozone.

  I can totally see why Ethan loves what he does. They’re awkward and hilarious and think calling someone a “Pooptart” is the funniest thing ever. Which it kind of is, especially when a tall Asian kid changes Rhett’s name on the computer to just that.

  Ethan’s got one of the kids, this one with a light-brown buzz cut and huge ears, in a head lock and is giving direction to the blond kid—Mr. Butts. “Stand back. Keep your shoulders square to the foul line. When you swing the ball forward, release it about two seconds before it’s parallel to the floor. Got it?”

  “We’ll see,” says the kid dubiously.

  Ethan releases the other kid—Buzz Cut—and fishes in his pocket for a couple of dollars. “Shit.”

  “Coach Vance!”

  “Sorry, shoot.” He looks up at me, frowning. “Can you chip in a few bucks? I want to get them some pizza or something.”

  I practically throw two twenties at the kid, overjoyed to put something back into the good karma column, even though it’s a pretty meager offering.

  “Cool! Can I keep the change?” asks Buzz Cut as he starts off toward the food counter.

  Ethan nudges him in the backside with his black bowling shoe. “Don’t be a smart guy. Get a couple—one plain, one pepperoni. And some lemonades or something.” He points at another kid. “Tyler, go with him. I’m putting you in charge of bringing Ms. Galliano her change. Got it?”

  Ms. Galliano makes me think of my aunt or some other mature person who isn’t standing around waiting for an opportunity to confess to doing the dumbest, most impulsive thing ever.

  The kid gives me a shy look and nods, though he seems to be rendered speechless.

  “Tyler,” Ethan adds, exasperated. “Go with him means, you know, actually go with him.”

  “Right,” says Tyler and promptly trips up the two carpeted steps to the main floor of the alley. Even with the neon amber tingeing his skin, I see his deep splotchy blush as he scrambles to his feet and hurries away.

  “Hey, Tyler, get me a beer, will you?” says one of the other kids, and he and his buddies fall over themselves laughing.

  Ethan smiles. “Who knew that taking them off the soccer field would make them lose their minds?”

  With the sound of pins crashing all around us, we watch two kids go up side-by-side in neighboring lanes and await their turns to bowl. Each follows Ethan’s directions, squaring his body, bouncing gently on the pads of his feet. Politely waiting for those nearby to take their turns.

  I’m going to lose my mind if I don’t do this thing.

  Clearing my throat, I say, “Hey, Ethan—”

  But the kid on the left swings his arm back, and the ball flies out of his hand, crashing into the throng of nine-year-olds goofing around over the ball return.

  One of the kids screams, “My foot” and topples over, knocking another ball out of the hands of the kid nearby. That ball rolls away, toward a family with three little girls who scream when they see its slow advance, like it’s a freight train bearing down on them.

  We split like seven and ten pins, me to rescue the ball before it gently nudges the tiny foot of a five-year-old girl and Ethan to conduct triage on the Gordian knot of writhing boys.

  The dad of the other family scoops up the ball and hands it to me with a smile, then wisely shuffles his girls off to sit on the bench farthest from us.

  “Thanks.” I return to help restore a bit of order though anyone looking at my life at the moment could tell you this is not my area of expertise.

  Ethan sets the one kid—Milo—down on a bench and kneels in front of him to untie his shoe. “Okay, buddy,” he says. “I’m just going to take a look at your foot and see if anything’s broken, okay?”

  Milo nods, and Buzz Cut, who’s returned from his pizza-ordering mission—plops down to hang over his friend’s shoulder and watch.

  “Oh, Gawd, what happened now?” asks a voice from behind us. I look up to see Raylene hovering over us, her red hair teased to super mall heights. She wears a white denim wrap dress and stiletto heels that are most certainly not lane-approved.

  “Hey, Parker,” Milo says, and some of the other boys murmur their greetings as well. I can see right away that they’re being gentle with him in that surprising way kids sometimes have of being protective where it would be easy to be rough.

  Parker eases out from behind his mom to approach the injured party. “What happened?”

  And then Rhett comes up, chest puffed out strangely and, I swear, an extra button unbuttoned on his skin-tight bowling shirt. His scarily angular face is all softness now though, and his eyes sparkle in a way that I’ve only seen when he’s scored a soccer goal or fired someone.

  “Just a soldier down on the field of combat,” he booms, and Raylene laughs with all the teeth going, and it’s clear these two are going to end up together sooner rather than later, which makes me happy, relieved, and curious to know whether they’ll destroy small villages in the heat of their lovemaking.

  Ethan moves the kid’s foot around and squeezes a few toes. “Nothing broken,” he says. Then he slips the bowling shoe back on and gives it a pat. “But this foot’s a whole size larger now.”

  Milo grins and slides off the bench. “I’m gonna change my name to Big Foot!” he exclaims and rushes over to the computer.

  Ethan looks after him, a sweet smile on his face, and then turns to me. “Crisis averted,” he says, as he rises.

  One of them, anyway.

  “Hey, can I grab you for just a second?” I ask. “Before everyone else comes?”

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “Just . . .” God, I’m going to look like such a jerk. Fitting enough, I guess, since I am actually a jerk for doing what I did. I suck in another couple of breaths and wave him over a few steps away from everyone, moving us closer to the crane machine and the tiny arcade near the front door.

  He keeps looking back at the kids. “I can’t go too far.”

  “I know,” I tell him. “This’ll only take a second anyway. I just feel like I need to—”

  But his eyes move away from me, and something unreadable passes over his face. “Uh, hold on,” he tells me and starts away.

  “Wait, Ethan.”

  “One sec, I’ll be right there. Keep an eye on them, okay?”

  He hurries away, and my stomach tumbles when I see the reason why.

  Apparently Alison has come to bowl too.

  Chapter 36

  Ethan

  Q: Box of chocolates or bag of chips?

  I’m jogging over to Alison when it hits me: of all the dumb ideas I’ve ever had, bowling with my soccer team, my ex-girlfriend, and Mia definitely wins the prize.

  It’s going to be a hell of a night.

  “Hey, Alison. You’re here.” I lean over the pink baker’s box in her hands to give her a hug. “What’s this?”

  “Just a little surprise I had made for the team.” She opens it and does a little flourish with her hand. “Ta-dah.”

  More than a dozen cupcakes
are packed inside, white frosting crisscrossed with chocolate lines to make them look like soccer balls. Only one at the center is different and my mouth starts watering the second I see it. Chocolate hazelnut turtle cupcake. My favorite.

  The gesture is vintage Alison, so I’m not surprised. She’s always been one for giving, sometimes extravagant things. In the past there was always a trace of desperation to her generosity, like I was a skittish animal that might vanish into the mist without a steady diet of custom Nikes and designer shirts and expensive dinners out. But these cupcakes feel different. I see it in her eyes. She doesn’t expect anything back except my gratitude, which she has.

  “These look great. Thanks.” I nod to the boys. They’ve formed a line behind the foul line, all except Cameron, who’s swinging a bowling ball back and forth, about to toss it through a tunnel formed by ten pairs of spread legs. Somebody’s going to get hurt again, maybe castrated, but thankfully Rhett stops Cameron just in time. “If it’s okay with you, let’s hold onto these until the end, otherwise they could go atomic.”

  “I think that’s wise,” Alison says, her eyes going wide at my team’s antics.

  “Okay.” I hesitate for a second. When she texted me this afternoon asking if we could talk again, I figured we could do it here: a nice, loud public place that’s about as unsuitable for heart-to-hearts as you can get. I’m fine with talking again, surprisingly, but I have zero interest in putting myself in any situation with her that feels remotely intimate. That shit’s never going to happen again. Ever. But I didn’t think this through very well. With the team here, I won’t be able to talk to her for another hour. “I’m tied up for a bit, but—”

  “It’s okay, Ethan. Go ahead,” she says, waving me away. “I’ll grab a drink and hang out until you’re free.”

  “Okay.” Once again she’s unrecognizable to me. This girl is a hundred times more easygoing than the one I dated. I’m half expecting her to unzip her skin like a Scooby Doo cartoon.