The Scene Stealer: A Hollywood Romance

“You didn’t study ahead of time? Isn’t that what actors are good at? Studying up for a role to fully translate a character?” I joke as I slip off my sneakers and tie the blue, red, and white bowling shoes to my feet.

He remains silent and I can see that I’ve said something to bother him, though I’m unsure what.

“Hey, I was just joking. I’m happy to teach you what to do, though to be honest, it’s really not that difficult.”

“Yeah? Okay.” I can tell that he’s ignoring whatever it is that I’ve said so I let it go as well.

Trying to lighten the mood, I add, “You’re probably going to be a natural anyway. Seems to me that you’re one of those people good at everything that you do.”

I can’t be sure, but I think I hear him mutter, “Not at everything,” as he ties his own bowling shoes.

Holding my bowling ball of choice in my lap, I give him the lowdown of scoring and how to address himself at the line using the arrows on the lane to mark where he wants to position his swing.

The first round is a disaster filled with a lot of laughing. The most laughter I’ve experienced in a long time. Devyn underestimated his strength for most of his turns and either popped the ball into the gutter or the other lanes. He caused a few sneers from the league players in the lane beside us when his ball knocked down their pins.

But by the end, he starts to get the hang of it.

“Hey, you want some nachos while we

play? Best cheese in the county,” I ask, my enthusiasm from enjoying the game evident in the cheerful tone of my voice. I’m practically bouncing in place.

“Nachos sound good. You sit here; I’ll get them for us.”

“I’d be happy to-” I begin before he interrupts me with a harsh command.

“Sit.”

Devyn retreats up the two steps toward the concession stand and I’m locked in a trance watching his back muscles work beneath his shirt, especially as he leans against the counter. I barely notice how the young worker is staring at him as if he’s hung the moon. I can’t say that I blame her. I bet he’s unleashing that devilishly handsome smile he’s worked on half the town. The smile that makes women weak in the knees and men drop their guard.

I don’t notice as he turns around and leans against the counter facing me. It’s not until he winks in my direction that I break free from my hypnotic stare. Turning back to face the lane I look down at the bowling ball in my lap, using my finger to trace the white marbled pattern on the black ball. Each line reminds me of my markings, a constant clash between the broken skin. But instead of feeling obtrusive and out of place, these lines work to create a beautiful design.

“Hey, I brought us some waters too,” Devyn announces from the table behind my seat.

I ease the ball back on the return and join him.

“You know, most people here order a pitcher of beer with their nachos,” I joke as we simultaneously scoop out a chip covered in plastic-like cheese from the bowl.

Quietly he looks up from beneath his lashes. “I can get you a beer if you’d like, but I. . . uh. . .stopped drinking.”

In surprise, I almost drop the chip in my hand. After Devyn arrived in our town, I used my good friend the internet browser to do a search. They called him a fallen star, a has-been, and other terrible things I can’t imagine ever wanting to be said about me. The articles also mentioned his stint in rehab for drug abuse and his current penchant for alcohol and women.

“Really?” I whisper, wishing I could take it back when anger flashes in his dark irises.

“Yes.”

He hesitates as if he wants to say more, but instead draws his chip into his mouth and takes a hearty bite.

“I’m sorry, Devyn. Truly. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“It’s fine. I know that you didn’t. I’m guessing you took a chance to look me up?”

“Sorry,” I tell him bashfully. I’d hate to think of someone digging through all of the dirt in my life. I was more curious than anything about why this beautiful man would end up in our town – an answer I still haven’t found. “Is any of it true?”

“Probably. I don’t read what’s written about me, but the media have an odd way of figuring out things that people want to keep private.”

I contemplate his type of life while I eat a few more chips, wondering how invasive it must feel to have your life splashed onto a magazine.

“Is there any privacy? I mean, why continue acting if you hate having your life speculated about and torn apart?”