Taste (Scomiche)

Bowling

I fidgeted absentmindedly with my phone, flipping it back and forth between my hands, spinning it, trying to roll it across my fingers. It's a habit I'd developed, and usually presents itself when I'm thinking or worrying about something. I stared at the figures moving on the tv, not quite seeing them.
"What's up?" Scott's soft voice startled me, and I looked up to see him staring at me with a furrowed brow. I glanced away quickly, not wanting him to see the uncertainty in my eyes. "Um, nothing," I mumbled, trying to focus on the show we were watching- what were we watching? I couldn't remember, and Scott paused it before I could figure it out from the screen.
"Mitch, c'mon, it's something," Scott's voice was coaxing, trying to get me to spill. Was that a hat? Were those feathers? Is it supposed to be some fashion show? I squinted, trying to distract myself from the huge, adorable puppy eyes he was giving me.
A large hand came up to rub circles on my lower back, and I found myself leaning into my-
Um, my-
Screw it.
I took a deep breath, straightened my back, and looked Scott dead in the eye.
"Are we boyfriends?" My voice cracked slightly, and I heroically managed not to wince. He looked surprised, then confused, then his expression lifted into a loving smile.
"I sure hope so," his chuckle was beautiful, like music, like wind chimes. I burst out laughing, out of delight and relief and the simple fact that when Scott laughs, I laugh. As the laughter slowly began to die down, a small snort slipped out from my nose, and we dissolved into giggles once more.

Scott's giggles faded away and a new scene surrounded me. One of our local bowling alley.

"Scott, next game you have to let me get bumpers. I keep getting gutterballs!"
He laughed. "I know. That's exactly why we're not getting you bumpers!"
I nudged him playfully, and watched as he selected a bowling ball, took a stance- almost like a pitcher in a baseball game, and excellently rolled it down the lane.
The pins knocked down and a cartoon popped up on the screen with the scores, flashing "STRIKE" in huge, block letters, mocking me.
A feverish whine passed my lips. "Scoooooott."
He was laughing uncontrollably, apologizing between each fit he fell into. "That wasn't planned!"
"Give me the damn ball," I muttered, choosing the lightest ball of the options in front of me.
I decided how to stand, and bent down to throw it. Just as I was about to let it go, Scott's voice startled me.
"Mitch! Wait!"
I jumped and hugged the ball to my chest. Scott knew I was scared easily and yet he insisted on doing that.
Unintentionally, I snapped. "What?!"
"You're holding the ball wrong."
I brought the ball away from my chest and held it exactly like before, examining it. "What's wrong with it?"
"You have to put your fingers in the holes."
I turned my head to completely face him, wiggling my eyebrows. "Do I now?"
Scott cringed, taking a second to process the inappropriate joke. "God, Mitch! You're so dirty minded."
"I know," I giggled, ambling over to his seat. "Now, what do I do?"
He delicately took my fingers and directed which go where. Then he explained how to drop it correctly to make it go where I wanted. I admired the way he got so intense about something simple, just to make sure I'd understand it.
He sighed, sick of talking after elaborating on each aspect of how to bowl. "You got all that?"
I nodded gently, softening a little more at each sentence he spoke. "Yeah."
Scott eyed me curiously, the corners of his lips twisting into a smirk. "What?"
Shaking my head and spinning back to the wooden lane, I murmured, "Nothin'."
With all of Scott's tips, I managed to hit seven pins, and one on my second roll. He cheered, and bragged things like, "I told you so" and "Listen to your boyfriend once in a while, sheesh."
There was minimal talking between the next few turns, but we both quietly sang the lyrics to Halo when it came on the radio.
I watched as every muscle of Scott's body concentrated on throwing the ball just right. Every time he achieved a strike, he'd do an embarrassing happy dance, which consisted of three stomps, a clap, then jazz hands beginning above his head and shimmering down to his knees. He had forgotten it before with all the laughing, so he did it twice, attracting attention.
"I am on fire!" He exclaimed, making his way over to me.
The light on the tv flipped to my name on the ninth frame, signaling it was my turn. I stuck out my tongue at him as I stood, preparing myself for the roll ahead. But suddenly the lights dimmed and disco, multicolored, mini spotlights appeared, spanning the whole room. Scott's eyes gained excitement, but I witnessed them melt as Hallelujah began playing.
He grabbed my hand, ceasing my trek over to the rack of bowling balls, and spinning me. My chest leaped at the touch of him and the sudden decision to dance. He gracefully pulled me to him and clasped my other hand in his, moving me in a square. My feet tripped over each other, and I was constantly looking at them, attempting to move in rhythm.
Scott chuckled softly. "You're terrible at dancing."
"I know," I mouthed, nodding shamefully.
He dropped my hands and clung onto me like a hug instead, swaying us back and forth. The waltz was one thing, but slow dancing like this was another.
"Scott," I mumbled, my left cheek pressed to his chest. "People are staring." I saw the glances from each group of bowlers, and could hear the light murmurs. Some were kind, others were not.
"So?" Scott retorted, just as soft. He didn't seem to be paying any attention to the strangers, nor their opinions. He was focused on me, and only me.
My heart beat fast from embarrassment, but I was trying to think like Scott. Who cares what others think?
I succeeded for the most part, snuggling into his tight grasp on me. My eyelids fell down, and I breathed wistfully.
My heartbeat slowed, my mind completely drifting away from the fact people were staring. I was in my own little world, one where time stood still and only Scott and I existed.
With his strong arms embracing me, clutching me, never wanting to let me go, I felt safe. I felt protected.
For one of the first times in my sixteen years of my life, I felt at home.
As the last chorus of Hallelujah flowed from the speakers, I peeked my eyes open, keeping my head where it was. "Scott?"
Airily, in that way where I knew he was relaxed and utterly peaceful, he replied. "Mm?"
My courage was falling, and quick. It came out as more of a realization than a statement. "I think I'm in love with you."