Nick narrows his eyes. “I would hardly refer to my business as a dungeon.”

“You’re right.” I nod. “A dungeon makes it sound much more pleasant.”

Shivan stands up. “I feel like I’m in the middle of a romantic comedy. I don’t wanna sit here anymore.”

“We’re not in a rom-com!” Nick and I shout at the same time.

Shivan squints from his standing position and scratches his chin. “Yeah, what’s that one? When Harvey Met Cindy?”

“When Harry Met Sally,” I say flatly.

He points at me. “Yeah. And they’re always, like . . .” He makes a wavy gesture with his hands. “Bantering. You know?”

“I don’t know, Shivanenator,” I say.

He shakes his head, then points at Nick. “Definitely a Harry.” He points at me. “Totes a Sally.”

I shake my head and Nick and I turn to look at each other. “Are you really okay?” he asks, his voice lower. “Because if you’re not having a good time, we can leave.”

“I’m having a lot of fun,” I say, which surprises me because . . . it’s the truth. I kind of like Nick’s bro friends and their backward baseball caps and their nonsensical nicknames.

Nick offers up a small smile, one that says, Okay, but I’m skeptical.

“All right, Chlo-dog,” Doug says. “You’re up.”

“You can’t add dog to the end of everyone’s name and make it a nickname,” I say.

“And yet, he does,” says Shivan.

“Nicknames are harder than everyone thinks,” Doug grumbles.

I stand up. “Okay, I’m gonna try this, but just so you know . . . I haven’t bowled since maybe fourth grade, and you guys refused to let me use the bumpers like I did back then.”

Nick shakes his head.

“You got this,” Shivan says.

I turn around and grab a ball, then approach the line. I try to mimic the posture I’ve seen on the guys. I bring the ball up to my eyes like I’m lining things up, like I have some sort of plan or strategy and I’m not flinging this ball down the lane and hoping for the best.

And then I go for it. I use all my strength to hurl the ball and then watch from behind my fingers as it slowly makes its way down the lane. It rolls, rolls, rolls, and then . . .

“STRIKE!” everyone behind me shouts. I turn around to see that they all have their hands in the air, expressions of shock and joy on their faces.

“A strike?!” I ask, incredulous. I check the screen to make sure.

“A STRIKE, Chlo-dog!” Doug says, then rushes toward me and picks me up, spinning me around. I’m laughing so hard that I can barely focus on Nick, but then I see him, staring right at me with a smile I can’t decipher.

* * *

When the game is over, the four of us sit down at a flimsy table near the snack bar, the laminate peeling up at the corners, and Doug asks Nick to go get us some nachos.