Chapter 9 #2
The tips of his ears redden, and he just shrugs. He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. I already know the answer. I’ve never met this man’s dad, but already he leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. No wonder he flocked to my father like a chick to a mother hen.
“Can I ask you something?” Truett skillfully changes the subject.
“Go for it.”
“No offense, but you don’t seem to like running the alley.”
“I don’t.” No point in lying. Truett picked up on that when so many others haven’t. “Is there a question in there?”
“I’m gettin’ to it.” He pauses. “I understand why you’re doing it. You know, for your dad, but if you had a choice, what do you really want to do with your life?”
The question is loaded and catches me off guard.
No one has ever asked me that before. No one has ever cared enough to look through my facade and realize I’m miserable.
I don’t blame them. I could advocate for myself and tell my mom how much I hate the alley, but I don’t want to hurt her.
She’s had enough pain in the last year to last a lifetime.
“Does it matter?” I’m stalling, and Truett knows it.
He gives me a pointed look, one a parent would give an unruly child, so I relent.
“If it were up to me, I would be interning as a tattoo artist in hopes of having my own shop one day.” The words feel strange on my tongue.
I’ve never actually told anyone this, besides Damien.
And even to him, I never said these exact words.
“Really?” Truett seems genuinely surprised.
“I mean, that’s really cool. I do remember you always drawing behind the counter.
You also have this amazing tattoo sleeve.
” He lets his hand trace lightly along my arm, across the eternal flame with the embedded date—11/22/63—at the center of the artwork I designed. The gesture relaxes me.
He continues, not realizing how his touch eases the tightness in my chest. “Now I understand why you’d offer to help Damien in his shop.
Have you done any tattoos? Did you design any of yours?
What’s with this 1963 date here in the flame piece?
Do you still have a sketchbook or something? Can I see it?”
Once again, I find my lips quirking up into a smile. “That’s a lot more than one question.”
“Oh, fine, don’t tell me.” He waves me off, glancing away again. I want to tell him I do have a sketchbook… but I’m not sure I’m ready to share that with anyone yet.
Silence greets us until I can’t take it anymore, and I finally ask the question I dread most.
“You think I’m selfish, don’t you?”
“Absolutely not!” Truett almost looks offended that I would even ask the question. “I think you’re stuck between honoring your family and allowing yourself to be happy on your own path. That’s not selfish. That’s human.”
“I just want to make sure I’m doing the right thing by my family and elevating Spare Time in a way that will make them proud.
Even if I don’t honestly care what Spare Time ends up turning into.
” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them.
I need Truett to truly understand. Someone needs to. Maybe it was meant to be him.
“Fuck. I take that back,” I sigh. “I do care. I need to care. I just… I want you to know I care what happens to the alley.”
I can’t lose this place. The one last thing left in this world that was fully and completely my father’s. His love is wrapped into the alley, even if it’s hard to see right now. But it could be restored, and maybe that will absolve some of this guilt I carry for not loving it as much as he did.
“Ezra, no one who doesn’t care about their family—or the alley—would go to the lengths you do. I know you care, even if you show it differently. Even if it’s tearing you apart inside and preventing you from following your true passions.”
The words settle between us. My hand rests on my knee, and his is there too somehow, close enough that our fingers brush. Neither of us pulls away. There’s something quiet and certain about it—something that feels… right.
“Enough of this!” Truett jumps out of his chair. “I don’t think we should waste a perfectly good trip to a bowling alley. Let’s play a round on me. If you’re sweet, I might even buy you some nachos.”
“Are you flirting with me?” I smirk and love the way he flushes for me.
“Nope. That would be inappropriate. You told Damien this isn’t a date. Even if I’m paying. Plus, I want to see how you handle your balls,” he finishes with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
Flirting. He’s definitely flirting.
And I’m kind of into it.
Truett gives me one last glance before turning and heading toward the counter.
The teenager “greeting” him barely looks up as he hands over his credit card, her attention already drifting elsewhere.
So maybe this place isn’t as perfect as it seems—not when the staff can’t even be bothered to care.
Strangely, that realization eases something in me.
When the bored teenager hands Truett back his card and two pairs of shoes, he heads my way. “I think you’d like Ms. Friendly over there. She’s about as welcoming as you were when I came to Spare Time.”
I flip him off, and he just laughs.
“I grabbed you a size thirteen.” He smirks and dangles a pair of rentals in front of me with two fingers. “Which reminds me of something else Spare Time needs to stock.”
Standing up, I reach for them. “And what’s that?”
“Shoe sizes for giants. I noticed you’re lacking bigger sizes. God forbid a sea of big-footed people come to Spare Time and all have to share a pair of bowling shoes.”
“Seems to me you’re jealous of my size.”
“Jealous?” he snorts. “I’m the size of a normal person. I’m not jealous.”
“Well, nothing about me is average, True.” I smirk. “Everything about me is big.”
For a brief second, Truett’s gaze lowers to my crotch. My damn dick twitches in interest, and Truett’s gaze snaps up. “Just take your damn shoes,” he mumbles. “We’re Lane 5.”
I take the shoes from him, and we settle on Lane 5, the one where the overhead light functions as a disco ball. While I get my shoes on, Truett grabs us bowling balls—mine blue and his neon green. “Looks like I’m up first. I’ll go easy on you.” He winks. “Maybe you’ll win.”
There’s no universe in which I win, and we both know it.
Truett lines up, making it look so effortless.
His form is perfect—no surprise there, but it’s amazing to see up close.
As soon as the ball flicks from his wrist—smooth and calculated—the crash at the end of the lane thunders loudly.
This strike sends an LED choreographed light routine down the middle of the lane.
Blue, green, and pink lights embedded in the wooden floorboards celebrate his successful roll.
I hate it, but I suppose it’s better than the silly animations our screens play when someone gets a strike.
“I thought you were going easy on me,” I say as he passes me.
Truett laughs, shrugging. “I changed my mind. I’d think I’d rather go hard on you.”
Ignoring that loaded statement, and knowing I’m about to make a fool of myself in front of a major bowling star, I line up stiffly—no warmup, no practice swings, just gritted teeth and a sharp stride to the line.
Everything about my form is awkward and uncomfortable.
The ball lobs unceremoniously from my grip, rolling wildly down the lane.
I manage to knock down a total of one pin.
I guess at least it’s not a gutter bowl.
“Relax,” Truett murmurs from behind me. I hadn’t even heard him move. “Let it flow. You’re too tense.”
His hands find my biceps, one sliding down to adjust my elbow. My body tenses even more, and it takes everything in me not to lean back into his touch. I shouldn’t feel this way for Truett. Hell, I shouldn’t even let him touch me and blur our working relationship.
But I like it too much to care.
For a second, I don’t move, just stand here short-circuiting because a cute guy is touching me. Fuck, I’m pathetic. Clearly, I need to get out more, preferably not to another bowling alley.
I exhale, trying to loosen my grip, adjusting like he’s directed me. His hands linger a little too long before he steps back. “You got this, Ezzie,” he says, his voice quieter now.
I’m so surprised at the nickname that my aim leans more to the right than I anticipate. It’s a good throw—much better than my last one—but still doesn’t get me a spare. I manage to knock down all but two pins.
“Ah, man, you almost had it!” Truett sighs.
“My dad called me Ezzie when he started teaching me how to bowl,” I blurt. “No one else has called me that since he died. It took me off guard.”
His eyes widen in horror as if he just committed a blasphemous sin. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I… don’t even know what possessed me to say it. Maybe I heard your dad call you Ezzie once, and it kinda just stuck in my brain?”
“No, it’s okay,” I assure before he can work himself up. We’ve already had one bowling alley freak out; we don’t need another. “It was surprising to hear, that’s all. I don’t mind though.”
My words seem to calm him, and his shoulders slump, relaxing.
“Your turn.” I gesture to his bright neon ball before taking a seat to watch him.
We fall into an easy rhythm, both throwing jabs at the other.
I’m losing terribly, but I’m still a shit talker.
Truett takes everything in stride, though.
He’s probably heard it all before from opponents. Maybe even his father.
The crashing and the clattering from other bowlers knocking down pins blur, mixing in with the other sounds of the alley. It’s my last frame, and I manage to get a spare before following it up with a rather embarrassing gutter ball.
“I win,” he sings, looking far too smug for a man who already knew he was going to win. “I get to pick a prize now.”