Page 87 of Sexting My Best Friend's Brothers
“You're buffering,” I correct her. “You're spinning, waiting for a connection.”
She laughs, a wet, shaky sound. “You used my tagline against me.”
“It’s a good tagline.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out a token.
“Play again,” I say. “Two players. But not taking turns.”
“What?”
“Split flipper,” I clarify. “I take the left. You take the right. We play the same ball.”
She looks at the machine, then at me. “That requires a lot of coordination.”
“It requires trust,” I say. “And timing.”
She hesitates. Then she steps up to the machine. She places her right hand on the button.
“Okay,” she says. “But if we lose, it’s your fault.”
I step up beside her. I place my left hand on the button. My body brushes against hers. Her hip bumps my thigh. The familiar scent of jasmine rises from her skin, mixing with the sharp chemical smell of the arcade.
I launch the ball.
For the next ten minutes, we don’t speak. We just react.
The ball flies. She hits it. I hit it. We fall into a rhythm. It is chaotic at first—we miss shots, we get in each other’s way—but then, something clicks. We synchronize.
I set up the shot, she takes it. She traps the ball, I fire it up the ramp.
Our bodies move together, swaying with the machine. Her shoulder presses into my chest. My arm brushes hers.
It is the most intimate thing I have done in months.
We hit the jackpot. The machine screams.
“Yes!” she shouts, grabbing my arm.
The ball drains. Game over.
We stand there, breathing hard, flushed with adrenaline.
She looks at me. Her eyes are shining.
“We make a good team,” she says.
“We do.”
I look at the high score. We didn’t beat A.B., but we came close.
“I’ll drive you home,” I say. “It’s late.”
She hesitates, looking toward the exit. “I drove here. I just got my car back from the shop yesterday.”
“Leave it in the lot,” I say. “It is secure, and your cognitive function is depleted. You are too tired to drive.”
Her smile fades slightly, returning to the heavy reality of the night. “Okay.”
