One

One

112 days until the wedding

Oh, look, a penny. I crouch down and reach my hand out towards the ground, but then quickly draw it back. Nope, that's not a penny. I repeat that is not a penny. I quickly stand back up, attempting to casually run a hand over the top of my ponytail and dart my eyes around at the same time in hopes no one else in line for Starbucks saw my lapse in judgment. My eyes fall back down to the floor at the brown spot sitting merely three inches away from my sandal covered feet. It looks like a decaying piece of gum that was once a bright pastel color, but after being stepped on too many times has turned into a brown color that could deceive seemingly innocent people into thinking they're lucky and found some money. I internally shake my head at whoever disposed of that there. Someone should really clean that up before someone else's dreams get crushed.

"Next!"

My eyes meet with the expectant gaze of the barista, and I slide one more step forward, right over the deceiving brown spot on the floor, until my stomach hits the counter. I inhale a deep breath through my nose before proceeding to provide her with the torture of my long order.

Let's just say that today, about one month after the engagement, was dubbed the perfect day to go pick out save the dates for a wedding going to take place three months from now.  It appears the most logical thing to do would be to order them online, or even send them via email, but no. Instead, on this sunny June day, I was dragged out of my house in order to help pick out pieces of paper that will get mailed out, so people can put it on their refrigerators, accidentally spill stuff on it as it rests on their countertops, or even just accidentally throw it out.

I respect the gesture, I really do, but what I don't understand is how instead of just the people who are actually in the relationship going to pick out these things, it has turned into a whole family ordeal. A family ordeal that the groom's not even a part of because he had to work. This left my older sister and bride to be, Aubrey, to make the decision to turn it into a girls day out, which is how her two best friends, our mom, me, and even a FaceTime with Grandma Josephine ended up in the small little invitation store I didn't even know existed up until today.

I suppose I shouldn't be complaining since I was booted out of the madness anyway. While I was just minding my own business, innocently opening and closing the cards that have sounds in them, everyone decided that I should be the one to go pick up coffee. Since I was caught in the middle of a dramatic lip sync battle with the cartoon dog in one of the cards, I found myself unable to say no. Everyone's orders where typed out in my phone and everyone proceeded to shoo me out the door before I found myself trekking the few blocks over to Starbucks.

"Age!" another Barista yells.

I make my way over to the pickup section of the counter. "A.J.?" I make sure if that's what he meant to say, and he throws me a sheepish smile.

"Yes, sorry about that."  He hands me a four sectioned cardboard cup holder with four hot drinks poised in each section, and my clear plastic frappe cup sitting crookedly in the middle of all of them.

I throw him a closed mouth smile in a "thank you" as he tosses a straw down on top of the already precarious pile before I step out of the way so other customers can get their drinks. I usually say A.J. thinking it'd be easier because it's my initials, but how many times do you get called "Age" before you give up?

I shoulder open the glass door with the four hot drinks in my right hand and my cold drink in my left. I spot the nearest trashcan and try to get my straw open by banging it against the edge of it. Once I'm finally able to get all the paper off of it, I cradle my frappe closer to my chest, trying to hold it in some way by my chin, while trying to push the straw in the hole without dropping all the other drinks in the process.

In the midst of my struggle, I find myself thinking that this is what my life is like. I always seem to be the odd one out. Here I am trying to poke a straw through the plastic cup of a cold drink, a seemingly easy task, while all the other hot drinks remain poised and proper in their place, ready for use. Finally the straw slides in as if trying to assure my thoughts that I'm not the same as a vanilla bean Frappuccino, but then a bike zooms past, almost knocking all the other drinks out of my hand and practically taking my right arm along with it.

"Thanks a lot, buddy." I mumble to myself and hold the drinks closer to my chest.  I guess that's what I get for looking like a "typical white girl" standing on the sidewalk with five Starbucks cups in my hands. Who am I kidding? I am a typical white girl. With pale Voldemort-like skin, red-orange, sometimes even strawberry blonde hair, and I'm tall, in the gangliest kind of way.  Then again, I'm not really a fan of coffee, so I guess that actually exempts me from the full blown status.

I turn back in the direction of the biker watching as the neon orange helmet turns into a distant speck just before someone crashes into my left shoulder. I hear the cracking of the plastic cup in my hand as the lid flies off the top and both the straw and some of its white contents splatter on the ground, just barely missing my feet. My mouth flies open, and I crane my neck up only to lock eyes with a very pissed-off looking guy standing in front of me, who also happens to have somewhat of a wet stain resting in the middle of his ribs.

"Well..." I pull my lips together and then let them go with an awkward pop. "If you wanted my drink you could've asked."

The crease between the guy's eyebrows deepens, and his nose scrunches up as he rips an ear bud out of his ear. "Seriously?"

I stare back at him for a second before glancing down at our feet, but then looking back up again I use the cups in my hands to gesture to myself. "Me seriously, or you seriously?"

"Well, this is your drink"—He pulls his shirt away from his chest—"isn't it?"

"Uh," I clamp my lips shut before the words "I thought that was sweat" can leave my mouth, and instead settle on saying, "from what I recall, you plowed into me and your shirt stole half of my drink."

Anger visible rolls down his spine as he huffs out a breath. "Who said my shirt wanted your drink?"

My brain scrambles for a rebuttal and in my haste I glance to the right noticing a white bike symbol painted into the pavement. "Says the guy running-in-the-bike-lane." My voice comes out more mockingly than I intended, but another puff escapes the seemingly tall dragon still standing in front of me.

"Says the girl standing-in-the-middle-of-the-bike-lane."

"In my defense"—I hold the drinks out in front of me and crane my neck back up to meet his eyes again—"I didn't know this was a bike lane until I almost got ran over by an actually bike." Or until I saw the actual sign and realized I've been practically standing in the middle of the road this entire time. Way to go, Avery. "And you know," I start before the irritated guy standing in front of me can emit another frustrated breath. "I think the real person to blame is the person that decided to put a trashcan near the chaos that is a bike lane. I mean, who does that?"

"Move out of the way!" a shout is my only warning before jogger guy gets shoved into me by another oncoming biker. The loud crushing of the plastic cup against my chest fills my ears, announcing the cold liquid that soon sinks its way into my top.

Once it can be assumed that the biker is completely out of sight, irritated jogger guy finally takes a step back, making me realize that the wet part of his t-shirt was pressed up against my hand, but I have no time to dwell on that fact when an award winning, yet devilish smile is thrown in my direction.

"Now we're even."

My lips part, but before I can fully process his now content retreating form, my eyes cut over to my right hand and a sigh escapes me at the assurance that the four hot drinks are still poised in their positions held by my outstretched hand. At least one thing went right in the last five minutes.

After a car honks behind me, I quickly hop back onto the sidewalk and mentally curse myself for not realizing I somehow stepped off it. A breeze blows past and whips the strands of my ponytail, reminding me of the wet stain now resting in the center of my red tank top covered chest.

Great. Now I have a boob freeze.

****

My head bobs along to beat surrounding me as a line of different colored lights continue to fly about the darkness of the area. They light up what the ultraviolet lights keep dark and another chorus of pins sounds as people cheer, high fiving one another.  My eyes dart around, counting how many lanes are in use before I head over to the computer and click off certain ones, permanently shutting them down for the day.

After I brought everyone's drinks back to the invitation store earlier today I was reprimanded for taking too long and spent the duration of the time worrying about my cold, wet boobs.

I think that's the best part. No one asked about the wet stain on my shirt, no one asked whether, or not I almost got run over by an angry cyclist—twice may I add—but no. All they cared about were their drinks. Well, until my mom finally asked why both my hands where inside my shirt and upon the realization I slowly pulled them out.  At least she sees me for who I am and not as the odd-frappe-out. At least she usually does, but she hasn't been so in tune with her motherly instincts lately. I can't blame her though. I think her minds been on a whirlwind ever since the engagement and all that's followed it.

I pull my phone out of my back pocket and check the time. My shift will be over in a half hour.

I've been working at They See Me Bowlin' since I was sixteen, but it recently got revamped this past spring. The sixties red and white theme was switched out for a brighter more eccentric one. Teal leather couches line the sides of each lane, new neon pink, yellow, and green strobe lights were put in and programmed to stream along to the beats of the songs that play. I'm still able to wear the original black polo, which I happen to have on today, but I also now have the option of wearing a bright pink, or teal one with the same bold red logo resting on the left side of my chest in curvy letters.

As my eyes remain glued to the bright screen of the computer in front of me another philosophical thought falls over me. Not only am I the odd one out, but lately that feeling has been amplified and I know why.

Everything's changing.

My work just changed, Aubrey got engaged, and I graduated from college. Time always has of way of going by fast, but lately I feel like it's been traveling at the speed of light. Each day is just zooming past me and only reminding me of the fact that I have my degree, but no idea what I want to do with it. Actually, I know exactly what I want to do with it. I want it shove up someone's ass because of all the student loans I will now have to pay because of that stupid piece of paper, but that's beside the point.

The point is that we can't go back in time and as much as we hope for a better future no one actually wants to get there. So all that's left to do is hop on to the next bandwagon, hold on for dear life, and pray you enjoy the ride.

I glance up as a woman politely asks for a lane and shoes for her three kids. After completing the task I make my way over to the return pile of shoes filling up the corner of the counter and start pulling shoes from it. I make sure to spray them down with disinfectant spray before placing them back in their rightful spots on the shelves.  At least that's one thing that remained the same in this forever changing world. The ugliness of bowling shoes.

****

"Avery, your bowl is in the microwave."

"Thanks, mom." I send her a smile as I wash my hands and she smiles back as she continues to wipe down the counter.

On the opposite side of the room, chatter overrides the beeps of the microwave as it heats up my bowl of spaghetti, but the moment I stepped into the house that bowl has been the only thing on my mind.

Not paying any attention to the conversation that's going on, because late night get-togethers have also been a continuous occurrence since the engagement, I sit down at the long rectangular table in the free seat next to my dad who's attention remains glued to the phone in his hand. I twirl my fork around a few long strands of pasta until the big clump covers a majority of the fork before shoving it right into my mouth.

As if on cue my eyes dart up only to lock with dark brown ones that I can now note are a similar shade to mine. The same shade of brown that grinned down at me today when I stood by a trashcan with a wet stain in between my boobs.

"What the—" My sentence gets cut off not only by the fistful of pasta that I promptly shoved in my mouth only seconds before, but also by all the pairs of eyes that soon turn in my direction.

For the second time today, way to go, Avery. Way to go.