Page 14 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

“Sure thing. How many games?”

Gordon looks at me. “You pick,” he grunts.

“Two,” I say quickly. One seems like I’m rushing. Three might drag. Two is perfect.

I hope.

“All right. Lane eleven. Have fun! Don’t forget that if you bowl above 220, you get a free dessert at the snack bar.”

“Ooh, snack bar,” I say with the total lack of thought that seems to occur whenever Gordon is around.

“Come on.” Gordon carries his shoes in one hand and the receipt for the games in the other. I didn’t even offer to pay.

“I’ll pay for my own shoes and one of the games,” I say quickly, reaching for the cute mini purse that’s slung over my shoulder.

“No. It’s a date. I pay.”

“That’s old-fashioned.”

“I’m older than you.”

“How old?”

“Thirty-two.”

“That’s not old enough to be in the ‘man pays for everything’ generation,” I argue, even though my parents have raised me to one-hundred percent expect that the man does pay for everything, that he should open your doors, and walk on the outside of the sidewalk so they can shield me from runaway cars and splashing puddles.

Then you get married, and everyone works their collective butts off to make sure the kids can go to Harvard if they want.

“What do you want?” Gordon asks.

I bounce into his arm, which is like granite, and look up, surprised. I somehow missed that we’re in front of the snack bar now. “Um. Just a soda is fine,” I say.

Another grunt. “Two sodas, two soft pretzels, two cheese fries, and one milkshake. What flavor?”

“Chocolate,” I gasp, which again, not what I meant to say. “I can’t eat all that!” I hiss.

“Yes, you can. You were going on a cruise. They have all-day, all-night buffets. This is a tiny drop compared to that.” Gordon pays in cash before I can even protest again.

Maybe stop protesting? What kind of a date are you being right now? Difficult, that’s what. You said you would be amazing company.

You should be, especially because now you know he’s lonely. You’re lonely, too.

But this... This feels awkward, but it's the least lonely I’ve been in months.

“Thank you. You’re spoiling me.” I smile up at him.

Another slow, hard-earned half-smile that threatens to dissolve me into a puddle. “Good.”

Something is wildly wrong with this entire situation.

I blame Sunderland. I shouldn’t be here, with her. She’s... Cute. And sweet. She talks too much, trips over her words, and it’s all with such an air of sincerity and sweetness that it makes me hurt inside.

I’ve never spent time with someone like her. Don’t get me wrong, the guys at the firehouse are great people, but we usually don’t talk much. Well. I don’t. I listen. And when they talk, it’s about sports, their kids, their cars, their non-volunteer jobs, and their wives—sometimes. A lot of the time, we’re studying new safety information, too, plus we’re working. They might all be sweet, goofy, lovable people—but it’s not aimed at me. I don’t get to see it.

I sure as hell never saw it growing up, and I don’t know what to make of it now.

Except to know I like it.