Chapter 9
“Nah, despite what he said, he doesn’t go for older men. The biggest age gap he’s ever been with was maybe five years. Mostly, he prefers older women and men his own age,” I say.
“And you?” The moment the words are out, a blush creeps up Truett’s neck and cheeks. He looks like he wants to take the words back immediately, but to his credit, he keeps his mouth firmly shut, though his leg bounces up and down with nervous energy.
I could leave him to stew a little longer, but something in me doesn’t feel right while he's uncomfortable. So I shrug. “I guess I don’t really have a type. Haven’t really had time to date.”
“But if you could, who would your ideal, uhm, woman look like?”
I cock my brow up, glancing over at him before focusing on the road again. “Women aren’t really my thing. They’re beautiful, but I prefer men.”
“Oh.” His voice rises an octave, flush growing deeper.
“Yeah, yeah, me too. I love men. All men. Men are something I love.” He lets out an anxious laugh.
“I mean, I haven’t dated in a while either, but when I do start to date again, it will definitely be with a man.
” Truett prattles on, probably regretting even asking the question, but I find his mumbling entertaining.
We fall into a comfortable silence after that, broken only by the calm, mechanical voice of my GPS directing me to the next exit. A few minutes later, Lunar Lanes comes into view, and the sight of it is enough to make my grip tighten on the steering wheel.
The place is massive.
Unlike Spare Time, which is tucked between neighboring storefronts, Lunar Lanes stands on its own. The building is enormous and surrounded by a sprawling parking lot that looks at least twice the size of mine. Most of the spots are occupied, leaving only a few far away from the entrance.
The car crawls into a spot before I cut the engine, taking out the key a little too aggressively. Truett raises a brow, giving me a pointed look. “You okay over there, big guy?”
Yes. No. I don’t fucking know. I thought I was okay. It’s one thing to say the alley is failing because of me, and an entirely different thing to see it with my own eyes.
“This is what Spare Time should be,” I say, my voice quiet even to my own ears.
“We’re not even inside, Ezra,” Truett says softly. He reaches over but hesitates before placing his hand on my knee. I know it’s supposed to be comforting, but it sends heat through my body, coiling low in my stomach.
“You’re not allowed to freak out until we are at least inside. Those are the rules,” Truett says.
Despite the gnawing panic threatening to consume me, I smirk. “Didn’t realize there were rules.”
“Oh yeah. Tons of them. Don’t want to overwhelm you though, so it’s best if we keep it simple.” Truett shrugs. “So, how about we wait to panic until after we see what Lunar Lanes is working with? Besides, we aren’t here to become Lunar Lanes. We’re here to get ideas. It will be fun.”
I wouldn’t exactly call it fun, but his pep talk does steady my nerves—at least for now. We’re already here, and I’m not about to waste the trip just because I feel overwhelmed. There’s too much on the line right now. I give him a short, decisive nod, push open my door, and step out. “Let’s go.”
A moment later, we’re walking toward the entrance of Lunar Lanes.
The doors glide open automatically, and we step inside.
Cool air exhales from the vents above, wrapping us in a crisp, calming freshness.
There’s no faint burning smell or dirty shoe odor that lingers no matter how many times I clean the bowling shoes.
I take in just how vastly different—and modern, even—Lunar Lanes feels compared to Spare Time.
“Fancy,” I murmur. It’s like stepping into an alternate universe, except this one is so much better.
“We are definitely not in Kansas anymore,” Truett agrees. His head swivels from side to side, in rhythm with the low synth music playing overhead and neon blues and purples casting shifting constellations across the shiny walls and floors.
Everything gleams—polished, bright, and fully functional.
Not a single bulb flickers or burns out.
No matter where I look, the space is vibrant, carefully designed to catch the eye.
Where Spare Time falls short, Lunar Lanes thrives, blending a sleek, modern aesthetic with just enough retro charm to honor bowling’s roots.
The lanes, not a scuff visible, stretch like modeling runways.
The walls are sleek silver, reflecting the glow of LED strips, and the hum of the high-tech pinsetter machines is barely noticeable.
Swanky tables, all chrome and glass, sit beneath floating, ring-shaped light fixtures pulsing in soft, metrical waves.
Even the seating is lustrous with curved metallic benches and plush black cushions.
These seats are a far cry from the cracked vinyl booths and high-top stools at Spare Time.
It only amplifies my dread and sense of impending doom.
Beyond the bowling lanes, a disco ball hangs over a glossy dance floor, speckling the entire alley with shifting silver dots, like we’ve stepped straight into some high-end intergalactic lounge.
A vibrant arcade room to the left of the kitchen is filled with young gamers with bright yellow tickets bursting out of their liberal change pockets.
“Am I allowed to freak out now?” I snarl, leaning into anger, an emotion easier for me to control than insecurity.
If Truett is offended by my tone, he doesn’t show it.
He’s not even looking at me, but rather ahead at the bowlers.
They range from young to old, all seeming to enjoy their time here.
The chatter and delighted squeals remind me of my youth, especially on the weekends at Spare Time.
My father would always have something going on, whether it be free lessons or half-price bowling. It sounded a lot like this.
I didn’t realize how much I missed the sound. I might not love the alley like my father did, but I loved how much he loved it.
Still, I’m not certain my father would like all the fancy bells and whistles of this place. He was a simple man with simple pleasures, which always extended to his taste in decor.
“This isn’t what my dad wanted Spare Time to be. This place? It’s all wrong,” I say after a prolonged silence.
“Why do you say that?” Truett tears his gaze away from the bowlers, his curious gaze now on me. “You don’t think Mr. Jiménez would like this place?”
“Oh, I’m sure he’d like it, but he wouldn’t ever want Spare Time to turn into this. He wanted the focus to be on bowling and family, not the aesthetics. I’m not saying this place isn’t great, but doesn’t it feel… mechanical and robotic to you?”
Truett frowns and shakes his head. “Not really, but the alley doesn’t have to be an exact replica of this place.
Remember, we’re here for ideas. Try to find something you like, even if it’s small.
In fact, it will be better if it’s small because of our lack of budget,” he points out, reiterating what I already know.
For the second time today, Truett reaches for me, his gentle fingers wrapping around my forearm in a grounding touch. “Tell me one thing you like. Just something small.” He offers me a timid smile, and it’s impossible to ignore him.
So, I look.
And look.
And look.
Before my usual pessimism has a chance to creep in, something else catches my eye—the walls.
It’s not the paint color that draws me in, but the soft glow washing over it.
I look closer and realize the entire perimeter is lined with a strip of light, casting a subtle, almost futuristic illumination that transforms the space.
It’s a small touch, easy to overlook, but it’s nice.
“The lights. I like the lights,” I finally admit, pointing at them.
“The… lights? Gotta say I was not expecting that, but hey! Progress! A good light is a good light. I do think we should probably start with the paint at Spare Time before we get extravagant with wall lighting. But that’s just my opinion.
You’re the bossman; I’m just the help. With really good ideas,” he murmurs the last part under his breath, but I hear it anyway.
He has a point.
“Are we good to go now?” The large building suddenly feels as if it’s pressing down on me, getting smaller by the second.
Everywhere I look, it reminds me of my shortcomings, how I’ll never be able to compete with something like this.
The oxygen in the room seems to disappear, and I’m gasping for breath because I can’t fill my lungs.
“Oh shit,” Truett curses. He says something else, but I can’t hear it. Not when I’m fighting for my life. Not when I can never measure up to what my father wants me to be.
My ass hits a firm surface, and Truett is guiding me to breathe again. Fuck, this again? The overwhelming sensation gives way to anger, and I welcome it. I breathe in the anger, though I don’t think that’s what Truett planned for me to do. It helps though. A lot.
“Sorry.”
He’s taken me to the arcade. Small children and teenagers run around with the same enthusiasm. It should be overstimulating, but it’s not. I can drown out my own thoughts with their chatter.
“It’s fine. Who hasn’t had a freak out at an alley before?
” Truett chuckles and pulls up a chair next to me.
“I had the biggest panic attack at an alley in Omaha once. To this day, I still can’t show my face there.
It was so stupid too. My father was being his usual self, stressing me out and getting angry because I ate too big a meal before a competition. Learned my lesson fast.”
I frown. “Lesson? What lesson?” There’s no goddamn lesson in that.
But Truett shrugs. “Be careful around my father and don’t eat before a big tournament.”
My frown only deepens. “True, that’s not a lesson. That’s incredibly bad advice. Do you still do that?”