Chapter 24
It’s been a week. Seven days of the same conversation looping through my head like a nightmare I can’t stop reimagining, the words burrowing into my mind deeper every time I hear them.
I see Ezra’s face every time I blink. His drunk, sloppy, sad eyes.
The way his words slurred as he told me he spent every penny of his tattoo artistry dreams just to save the alley.
If he would have just talked to me before he made the decision to spend everything he had, I would have given him my winnings from Dallas.
He wouldn’t have accepted them, but it would have bought us a little more time to think of something.
Anything to save the alley from being closed down.
We could have figured it out. But instead…
Goodbye, Ezra, I—
I don’t know what I was trying to say before I left the alley. It’s still stuck in my chest, half-formed, like something I swallowed wrong and can’t cough up. Was it I want to be with you no matter what? Was it I can’t fight for us if you don’t want to fight too?
Maybe it was both. Maybe it was neither. I don’t know anymore.
All I know is I didn’t say it. I let the moment pass, and now I’m here, a week later, pretending I haven’t given up. But all I’m doing is standing still, waiting for something that isn’t coming. Allowing anger to creep in and blaze fiery flames of regret on the inside.
I keep telling myself that waiting isn’t the same as giving up. That I’m still here, still willing. But if Ezra has decided not to let me in, how are we supposed to pretend we’re still… us?
I don’t know how to fight for someone who’s already walked away, especially when I feel this hopeless. Ezra would rather lose everything we’ve started building than ask me for help.
And I can’t stop wondering if that’s really the kind of person I deserve to be with. Someone I want to save, even when he won’t let me. Everything in me tells me not to give up on him, but I don’t know what else to do to prove he doesn’t have to carry this alone.
Maybe the only thing left I could have given him was to show him the truth.
To give him real proof I would walk away from the USBC Championship for him.
For Spare Time. If I had been honest from the beginning, clear and decisive about not competing, maybe he would have leaned on me more.
Maybe we wouldn’t have spent weeks sneaking around.
Maybe then he would’ve believed he wasn’t alone.
That I chose him because I wanted him, not because of anyone or anything else.
But like Ezra said: That’s it.
I need to move on, even though it’s the last thing I want. I need to do what I do best, I guess. What I was meant to do.
The USBC Championship is coming up. Since taking the Dallas title, I’ve advanced to the finals.
Even though they haven’t announced the hosting alley yet, it doesn’t matter.
I have to be ready. If I’m not allowed to help fix up Spare Time anymore, then fine.
I’ll focus on what I can do. What I’ve given my whole life to do.
I’ll practice, I’ll bowl, and I’ll win. I’ll keep my damn head down and push through because that’s all I have left.
But then there is Spare Time. It’s the only option. If it gets miraculously chosen, I’ll be forced to practice, bowl, and fucking win there.
Because that’s who I am, right? A champion. Nothing else.
When I pull into Spare Time’s parking lot, I glance around, relieved and nauseated all at once. His car sits in the same spot it always does.
It’s a public place. If I pay my way, there isn’t any reason I wouldn’t be able to stay and practice. Right?
Inside, the alley feels off. There are a couple families here today, a couple older customers too. But it’s still very quiet. Too open. Lonely, even.
Ezra doesn’t notice me come in, but I spot him heading down Lane 6 to grab two balls stuck in the gutter.
His head hangs low, the middle of his shoes skimming the lane with every step.
I look behind the counter, hoping he’s asked someone, maybe Damien, to help him out today, so they can set me up and I can avoid talking to him for as long as possible.
Thankfully, and shockingly, Ezra’s mom is there, lining up rows of rental shoes. She looks up when she sees me, relief washing over her face. She hurries around the counter. “Truett.”
“Hi, Mrs. J.” I glance toward Lane 6, making sure Ezra didn’t hear my name carry across the alley. But he’s gone now. Probably disappeared into the back with the pinsetters. “Nice surprise seeing you here today.”
“I needed to show up.” She shoves her hands into her pants’ pocket. “Even if I’m the last person he wants to be around right now, Ezra can’t really turn down free labor while he’s trying to fix this place up.” She forces a small smile. “Which reminds me, you’re here to help too, right?”
“Unfortunately, no.” I shake my head. “And you’re wrong about being the last person he wants to be around right now. Ezra definitely doesn’t want to see me either.”
She frowns. “I don’t think that’s true.”
A defeated smile barely tugs at the corner of my mouth.
She presses a hand to her chest. “I’m so sorry, mijo. This is all my fault.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, Mrs. J. There are a lot of other factors.”
“No, I should have been honest with him about the books. The budget. The finances.” Her voice thins. “I thought we’d have more time. My husband was always just so good at managing everything. If things were bad, he never let it show.”
“Mr. Jiménez was a pretty spectacular man.”
“He was. And so is Ezra. I really thought my son could have it all. I was hoping for it.” She gives me this look that’s somehow full of love and apology at the same time.
“Even if things don’t work out with you two, I want you to know you’ll always have a home here.
Spare Time is as much yours as anyone’s.
My husband would have agreed, and I know Ezra does too. ”
I swallow the knot rising in my throat and smile, polite but small. I could ask if she knows more, but small conversation and walking away feels like the right thing to do. “Thank you, Mrs. Jiménez. Really. That means a lot.”
I don’t stay standing. I don’t let myself linger there. I throw down a fifty-dollar bill before heading straight to the rack, grabbing a ball, and asking for permission to use Lane 2.
Ezra reappears from the back. Our eyes meet for half a second, and he tenses.
It’s only been a little over a week, but he somehow looks older than before.
Weighed down in a way I haven’t seen before.
My heart aches for him, wanting to reach out and hug him.
To tell him everything will be alright. But that’s not my place anymore.
Ezra composes himself first and looks away, and it feels like another knife to the heart. He keeps walking until he reaches his mom at the counter. He leans in and whispers something to her, then grabs his keys and repeatedly flips them over his finger on his way to the exit.
Mrs. Jiménez braces herself against the counter after he leaves, pressing her palms to her face before dragging in a long, exhausted breath.
The hours slip by without me noticing. Frame after frame, shot after shot.
Some are clean; some are ugly. I adjust, reset, throw again.
I lose myself in the rhythm of it, the sound of the ball gliding down the lane, the crack of the pins.
A large part of me doesn’t even care where the ball lands.
The way I’m throwing, I’m surprised they’ve all landed in my lane.
Although I talked myself into thinking I’m only here to practice, there is a bigger part of me—maybe more than I’d like to acknowledge—waiting for him to come back. Waiting for some stupid sign he’ll walk through that door and beg me to forget everything he said.
But I don’t think that will happen.
And so I keep throwing, keep fighting for the one thing already determined for me.
About an hour later, Ezra still hasn’t returned. I can’t stop myself from checking and double-checking the entrance, hoping to see him and also hoping I don’t. But when the door finally opens, I catch sight of someone unexpected slipping through. I can’t tell if I’m surprised or just… confused.
It’s my mom.
I blink, unsure if I’m seeing things. Then I wave her over. “Hey… what are you doing here?”
“Hey, sweetie,” she calls out as I meet her halfway. “I’ve been worried about you these past couple of days. You’ve been extra quiet. Carlada says you haven’t even been coming down for breakfast. I figured you’d be here.”
“Did Dad send you to check on me?” I roll my eyes.
“He did ask about you,” she says. “But, no, he didn’t send me. I am your mother. I’m fully capable of launching my own investigations.” She gestures toward the concessions area. “Also, does this place serve pina coladas?”
I stare at her.
“What?” she asks defensively. “Concerned mothers deserve tropical beverages.”
I shake my head, trying not to let my irritation over my father asking about me—or the fact that she knows me well enough to tell I’m hurting—bleed onto her.
The part of her that is concerned takes precedence, and I love that about her, but I don’t have it in me to process everything that’s happened between me and Ezra. Not right now, at least.
“Ma, I’m starting to worry a little about you and your drinking.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“I’m serious.”
“Oh my god,” she mutters, pressing a hand dramatically to her chest. “First your father starts monitoring me, now my own son? What’s next? An intervention? A celebrity rehab reality show?”
“I’m not trying to gang up on you.” The thought of teaming up with my father on anything right now sends a wave of irritation through my body.
“Well, it feels a little coordinated.”
“It’s just…” I shrug. “Now that I’m older and actually home more, I notice it.”