Chapter 13
Ilook like a Smurf if he had one too many drinks at the bar and fell down three flights of stairs, bruising every inch of his body.
Damien didn’t fare much better, and both of us underestimated how difficult it is to not make a mess while painting an entire bowling alley.
Of course, his help cost me another favor at his parlor, but I was happy to oblige.
It’s the only practice I get these days.
It took two whole days to paint the alley, since it needed multiple coats, and we didn’t finish until well into the evening on the second day.
I hated keeping the alley closed, but what else could I do?
I couldn’t have customers getting high on the fumes, hurting themselves, and then suing me for their medical expenses.
Honestly, it’s amazing what changing a coat of paint can do, though. I mean, it doesn’t magically fix everything, but it no longer looks like a neglected building with random marks and stains on the wall. Truett was right about the color. It’s exactly the shade Spare Time needed.
By the time Damien and I finally called it a night and headed home, it was already late. A dull, throbbing headache had settled behind my eyes, courtesy of the paint fumes that clung stubbornly to the back of my throat.
I’d originally planned to reopen the alley the next day, but there was no way the paint would be fully dry in time.
And even if it was, the place needed at least a full day to air out.
No one was stepping inside while it still smelled like chemicals.
Which meant the alley would stay closed another day.
It was the last thing on my mind before exhaustion pulled me under into a deep, well-earned sleep.
The next morning, the rich, savory aroma of huevos con chorizo and warm, buttery tortillas drifts into my room, pulling me from sleep before I’m fully ready to wake.
My stomach tightens with sudden hunger, making the decision for me.
There’s no going back to sleep with a smell like that lingering in the air.
The promise of a homemade breakfast is all the motivation I need.
Within minutes, I’ve dragged myself out of bed, thrown on some clothes, and am already making my way toward the kitchen, drawn in by the scent and the steady growl in my stomach.
Mom is in her usual flowy blue dress, mandil tied neatly over it to protect her clothes from flour. She hums along to the Tejano music, completely in her element.
“Morning, Mamá,” I say from behind her.
My mom jumps, turning around as if I’m a robber coming to steal her breakfast, rather than her son—who, admittedly, is coming to steal her breakfast.
“?Ay, Dios mío! Mijo, why are you walking around scaring me? It’s not good for my heart,” she chastises, then scrunches up her nose at me as if she’s smelled something rotten.
Or maybe she still smells the paint on me.
I certainly do. “Why aren’t you ready to go to the alley, Ezra? You slept in today.”
It was only seven-thirty, but my mom is an early riser. She’s usually up by six every morning. She claims she likes to get her day started early, not wanting to miss even a minute of sunshine.
“I painted the alley—”
“You did what?” My mom’s hand flings out, grabbing the counter to steady herself. She takes me in like she’s seeing a ghost—or my father. “Painted?”
Feeling awkward, I shift my weight from foot to foot, bringing my hand up to rub the back of my neck. “I mean, yeah.” I shrug like it’s no big deal. I didn’t expect her to react this way. “Truett and I have decided to renovate the alley a bit before the USBC guys come back to judge it.”
A knowing smile plays on my mom’s lips, eyes lighting up like a child who just received a new toy. I expect her to comment on the initiative I’m taking on the alley to get Spare Time ready for the next inspection. We both know how much the money would help us.
Except she focuses on the wrong thing. “Truett?” She nudges me, waggling her brows at me in a cartoonish fashion. “As in Truett Thorne, the little bowler who used to frequent Spare Time? He’s made quite a name for himself.”
Of course she knows who he is. Everyone in the bowling world does, so I nod.
“Is Truett a friend or a friend?” she pries, prodding for more information.
The warmth climbing up my neck doesn’t go unnoticed.
Her eyes catch it instantly, and a giddy, almost childlike giggle slips past her lips.
If there’s one thing my mother has always wanted for me, it’s a partner—someone to build a life with.
She never cared whether that person was a man or a woman, only that I wouldn’t have to face the world alone.
Before she can get too excited, I quickly say, “He’s just a friend.” A friend I think about kissing and dragging into my bed, but a friend nonetheless.
My mother clearly doesn’t believe me. She pats my shoulder before beckoning me over to the stove. “Come. Eat. Tell me all about the remodeling and this man who has you taking an interest in our alley.” She says the last part with a knowing smirk.
My cheeks flush deeper despite my best efforts, basically confirming my attraction for this sunshine of a man even more. Because that’s what Truett is. The light to my darkness. Optimism to my pessimism. It should annoy me, and yet I find myself yearning for the next time I would see him again.
As expected, breakfast is delicious, and I eat enough for four people.
I also manage to avoid in-depth conversations about Truett.
It’s not like I’m trying to hide him or anything; I’ve just never been good at talking about these sorts of things.
Plus, there’s not much to tell at the moment.
Truett and I… whatever is brewing between us, it’s new and fragile.
I’m not ready to put a name or label to it.
Luckily, she noticed my reluctance to speak about him and didn’t push me. Probably for the first time in history.
However, she did ask me to take her to the alley today so she could see the freshly painted walls for herself, and I’m more than happy to oblige. Pride still hums beneath my skin from yesterday’s work, and I’m curious to see whether the sharp sting of paint fumes has faded at all.
By the time we pull into Spare Time, it’s just shy of nine in the morning.
The lot is only half awake—just a few cars scattered near the tattoo shop and Mrs. Barnes’ antique shop.
Mrs. Barnes herself is already outside, arranging a handful of clearance items along the sidewalk, no doubt hoping to lure in early customers.
Like a bloodhound catching a scent, she perks up the second my car door shuts.
Her head snaps in my direction, eyes sharp and curious, already locked onto us.
Her pinched expression relaxes when she recognizes us—or, rather, my mother—and offers a friendly wave.
My mom thrusts her purse into my chest, stealing the breath from my lungs.
“I’m going to say hi. I’ll meet you inside,” she says and shoos me away.
Before I can protest, she’s already gone.
For such a small woman, she moves with the speed of a viper.
With no other choice, I head inside the alley.
As soon as I push the front door open, I’m hit with the strong smell of paint.
It’s not as bad as it was yesterday but would still get you high if you hung out here for too long.
I keep the doors propped open to allow some fresh air in, hoping it will carry the scent out.
I move farther into the alley, discarding her purse on the front counter and reaching over to turn on the lights.
They flicker once before shining brightly with a soft hum.
The paint color isn’t as dark as yesterday now that it has had time to dry.
It looks even better than it did last night.
My chest swells with something akin to pride.
I may not share the passion for this alley like my parents or Truett, but I’m still proud of the work I’ve done.
Soft footfalls behind me catch my attention, and my head swivels just in time to see my mom enter the alley.
She takes one look at the walls and gasps, her hands coming up to cover her mouth.
“Ezra,” she draws out my name with an emotion I can’t quite place.
I can only hope it’s a good one, since we don’t have the time or funds to repaint the entire alley if she doesn’t like the color.
Suddenly, I’m nervous.
But my insecurities and nerves fade the moment my mom lets out a half-sob, half-laugh. “Mijo, this is beautiful. The color makes Spare Time feel so much more inviting. Your father would be so proud.”
For a fleeting moment, my mood dips at the thought of my father, guilt settling heavy in my chest. I can’t help but wonder if he’d still be proud of me if he knew the truth—that my heart isn’t really in the alley.
Sure, I’ve put in the work. I painted the walls, patched things up, brought it back to life piece by piece… but not out of love for the place.
The truth sits bitter on my tongue. I did it out of obligation, not passion.
He wouldn’t like that. He wouldn’t like knowing that, given the choice, I’d spend every waking hour in the tattoo shop instead of here, chasing something that actually feels like mine. And that thought—disappointing him, even now—presses in deeper than I expect.
“The smell, though, is nauseating,” my mother brings my attention back to her. “Help me get the fans from the storage closet so we can air this place out.”
We kept a decent number of fans because the AC has the annoying tendency to stop working during the summer when the air suffocates you with its heat. I had completely forgotten about them, but they’ll be helpful to get this stench out of here.