Say When

Say When (8)

This chapter is for @Sharssss because she wrote me a message that made up for a crappy week xx

"Are you sure you're at the right place?" The man behind the counter asked.

Max's eyebrows pulled together and he looked down at his suit with a nervous expression. For a moment, my stomach dropped and I was sure he'd tell me that it was stupid and we should go find a nice place to eat, but then he looked up at me.

"You're right," he said, his eyes sparkling. "I knew we underdressed, Zoe, dammit!"

I fought the urge to smile and looked down at my beautiful dress in dismay. "You're right," I agreed. "I knew I should have worn the diamonds!"

The man behind the counter didn't look amused, but the corner of Max's lips twitched. He looked up at the man with a serious expression. "We'll have to apologize. Two pairs of shoes, please."

The man sighed and pulled off a pair of shoes in each size, leaving us to dissolve into laughter as we made our way over to an empty lane. I propped myself on the table and dumped my feet in Max's lap, forcing him to look at my (shaved!) legs while he tied my shoes.

"You know, you could have done it yourself," he griped. I smiled innocently at him. "And we also could have gone to a snotty French restaurant in converse, yet here we are at a shitty bowling alley in dress clothes. It's all about perception, Max."

"I heard that," the man behind the counter called, making me cringe as Max laughed. He stood, the clown shoes on his feet looking like ill-proportioned boats under his suit, and the corner of my lips twitched up. He raised an eyebrow suspiciously at me. "What?"

I shrugged. "Nothing."

"You're laughing at me," he accused, making me snicker as I nodded. He looked so out of place, sitting in the blue rusted metal chair in a suit that belonged on the red carpet, the fluorescent lights around the room shading his face with different colours. He was Max Belisle, the one who pretty much any straight teenage girl would sell their soul to kiss, the you-are-some-kind-of-serious-gorgeous that belonged on posters and TV screens, not real enough to touch.

Yet here we were.

"It's the suit, isn't it?" He asked, his eyes twinkling merrily. "I knew I should have worn grey!"

"I don't think so," I disagreed. Jet black Armani did wonders for anyone, but on Mr. Teen Model of the Year, he almost hurt to look at. Like looking at the sun burns out your eyeballs - yeah, that was Max in a suit. Corner-of-the-eye-glances were all that was safe, at risk of falling into hormonal, hysterical girlish giggles and/or blindness. All in all, I'd rather the latter. That, at least, he couldn't mock me for.

"I'm thinking it's the shoes," I tried to say with a straight face. I failed. Max made a big deal of rolling his eyes when I burst into giggles, one hand on his hip. "Here I am, wasting my night so your lie didn't fall through, and you're already making fun of me! It's been," he consulted his silver watch, "three and a half minutes!"

I grinned at him and got off of the table, plugging my name into the machine. A ball sputtered out with a groan that sounded like my father after Mexican night at the buffet and I scooped it up, staggering at its weight. "Like your night could get any better than this," I teased. "All you do at home is watch TV and yell at Oliver."

He shrugged and flashed me his million-watt, traffic-blinding smile. Straight on, full tilt, no sunglasses. I was certain my face heated up because it was going to explode from overload, not because of giggly hormones. "You're right. My favourite ginger, bowling, and funnel cake afterwards. Not a bad night."