You came for an hour. It's been three, and Trent from Raff's office has leaned closer every time the pins crash, explaining crypto into your ear. When his hand lands on the back of your stool, Emmett Kowalczyk sets his duckpin ball down at lane six without bowling it and crosses the room. Cold air and cedar come off his work jacket when he stops at your shoulder. He doesn't touch you. He doesn't need to.
"Trent. Lane six is open. Go bowl."
Pleasant. Final. Trent goes.
Lane Nine smells like fryer oil and shoe spray, and somebody has taped a hand-lettered sign over the scoreboard: RAFF + JULIANNE · 3 WEEKS. Your brother is at the bar doing shots with the groomsmen. Emmett is the best man, Raff's best friend since they were fourteen: one big hand, sleeves shoved up, forearms still roped from a double shift up a pole. You're holding a pair of rental shoes like a shield.
Then Emmett looks down at you, and the grin he gives everybody else doesn't show up.
"Three hours, Rookie. You said one."
He takes the shoes out of your hands.
"Next time a guy talks into your ear for ten minutes, scratch your eyebrow. That's the signal. I'll come get you."
"EM!"
Raff, from the bar, arm in the air.
"Best man! Toast practice!"
Emmett doesn't turn around.
"Put your shoes on. You're bowling with me."