Chapter 25
It’s easy to fall back into a familiar pattern.
It takes no thought. Wake up. Go to the alley.
Work. Go home. Back to sleep and redo it all over day after day.
Your body is basically on autopilot, going through the mundane motions you’ve grown accustomed to for so long.
But no one tells you how difficult it is to let go of the happiness you thought you found.
To give everything up just so you can do your duty to your family.
Some days it feels like it will fucking kill me. Especially when I remember the hurt and pain I caused the man I was helplessly falling in love with.
When I saw him standing there in the alley, acting as if nothing had happened, I wanted to collapse right there in the gutter.
But maybe that was just my assumption. If he wasn’t acting like nothing bad happened between us, I wouldn’t have been able to tell.
I looked away too quickly and walked off too fast for me to truly know, even though every part of me wanted to do the opposite.
I wasn’t prepared to see him so soon and face the reality I gave up on my dreams just to save the alley, which is why I had to escape.
I couldn’t bear to look at him for another second. Since then, when I think about how I couldn’t find the strength to just look into his beautiful brown eyes and apologize for everything I’ve said and done, I want to throw up.
But every morning since we ended whatever was between us, before I walk through the doors of Spare Time, I do the same thing: I shove all those thoughts deep down and lock them away in some stupid metaphoric box.
I get to the alley an hour earlier than normal because staying home means more time to face my mother’s sadness about how distant we’ve become.
I can’t take that look anymore, especially since I’m still upset she kept me in the dark for so long, so I’ve found myself in the habit of skipping breakfast and heading in early.
The lights come to life as soon as I flip the switch, no buzzing sound or dull bulbs.
It took me an entire day last week, and I had to learn by following a YouTube video, but I finally fixed the lighting in the alley.
The space looks brighter, and it no longer sounds like the bulbs will explode at any moment. Despite my foul mood, I smile.
At least one thing has turned out alright since Truett and I stopped speaking. I hope he took note of the lights when he was here.
I make my way to the counter and power on the computer. After a few moments, it roars to life, and I pull up our check-in system. As I do, a notification at the top of the screen catches my attention. One new email. I click on it. Once it loads, I quickly scan the contents.
And my heart plummets. Right out of my ass.
It’s not a birthday party inquiry like I first assumed. No, it’s from the official USBC email address—the same one that sent over the rules and regulations weeks ago.
My stomach drops before I even finish reading it.
The email is a reminder that they’re coming for a visit today. Today.
A sharp wave of panic crashes into me so fast my chest tightens.
I knew this was the day of the inspection.
I’d circled it on my calendar, thought about it constantly, lost sleep over it.
But somehow, it still didn’t feel real until now.
Until this exact moment, staring at the email on my screen like it’s a ticking countdown.
Spare Time has changed so much since that first visit.
Fresh coats of paint brighten the walls, we have functioning pinsetters I spent a weekend working on, the lighting is finally fixed, and the kitchen and arcade gleam with new appliances and furniture.
The improvements are obvious, but all they do is make me think of Truett.
The memory of him grips my chest, sudden and sharp.
I wish he were here with me now, standing beside me while the USBC officials inspect the lanes.
In such a short time, he became someone who steadies me without trying.
But I pushed him away.
And now he’s doing exactly what I asked of him.
I just never imagined it would hurt this much.
Despite the improvements to the alley, there is still much more that needs to be done.
The bathrooms could use a deep cleaning, the front desk has more chips on it than paint, and some lanes still need to be polished and waxed with new cans of Fabulon lane finish that aren’t expired.
I suppose none of that matters now—it’s judgment day.
The email states they’ll be here at 9 a.m. sharp.
A quick glance at my watch tells me I only have thirty minutes.
My heart beats rapidly in my chest, but the fear of losing the money attached to being the chosen alley spurs me on.
I head straight to the janitorial closet and grab a sanitizer bottle and a rag.
This whole alley is about to shine as bright as a fucking star.
I start in the bathroom—opting to wear gloves in here.
I wipe down the sinks and finish with the toilet seats.
They are passable, but they’re due for a major spring cleaning soon.
Once both bathrooms are done, I switch out my rag and start to wipe down the counters and tables.
I contemplated vacuuming, but my time is swiftly running out.
Fuck, I’m not ready.
I want Truett here.
He can’t be here, you fucking idiot.
Truett was with me during the first inspection, effortlessly handling the parts I struggled with most. He knew exactly how to talk to these men, how to laugh at the right moments and keep the conversation flowing smoothly, his genuine love for the alley shining through in every word.
When my nerves locked my throat shut, he stepped in without hesitation, carrying the conversation like it was nothing.
He made the inspectors feel welcomed the second they walked through the doors, winning them over with his warm smile and bubbly personality. Two things I don’t have.
Voices carry in from the front entrance, pulling me out of my thoughts.
For a moment, I think it’s Truett. That he magically sensed I needed him, and he’s here diving into loud, obnoxious small talk with the reps and to hold my hand through this damn inspection, pretending like I never broke his heart.
But, of course, Truett isn’t one of the guys chatting as they stride across the alley toward the counter.
Three men in formalwear are. One is the same man who visited the first time, while the other two are new to me.
The new guys carry neon-green clipboards, while the other—Mr. Weathers, I think—gestures around like he’s giving them a tour.
His eyes roam across the alley until they land on me, rag and disinfectant bottle in hand.
Mr. Weathers offers a wave, and without waiting for permission, he tosses his bag onto one of the lane’s settees.
“Mr. Jiménez, good to see you again,” he says with polite enthusiasm.
I nod. “You as well, Mr. Weathers.”
“These two gents are Rafael and Grant.” He gestures to the men behind him, who both give me a curt wave. “As you might have guessed, they’re from the bowling association as well. I suspect you received our email about the inspection today. Is now a good time?”
As if I actually have a say in the matter. I want to scream no, but that would automatically disqualify me. I can’t lose my chances, slim as they are. “Now is a great time,” I lie far too easily.
“Great,” Mr. Weather says in an overly cheerful voice.
“No need to show us around. We are just going to walk around the area and take notes. Much like last time.” He and his fellow associates walk by me, swiveling their necks to look from wall to wall.
“I see you’ve updated some things since the last visit.
” Mr. Weathers looks down at his clipboard, clearly reading something. “The wall color is new, yes?”
“Yeah, fresh paint. Goes with the flooring better,” I say lamely, my tongue feeling like lead in my mouth. I feel so out of my element here. My dad was good at this shit. Not me.
Mr. Weathers nods again. “Well, we will get to it then. Don’t mind us.
Continue what you were doing before we arrived.
I’m sure you’ll have customers coming in soon.
” His colleagues fall in line behind him, already commenting on a few things I can’t quite hear.
Not wanting to be awkward, I head back over to the front counter.
I figured the alley would stay quiet during the inspection, leaving me with nowhere to hide from my own panic. No customers to distract me. No work to lose myself in.
Every attempt at cleaning ends with me forgetting what I was even holding, and inventory is impossible when I keep rereading the same numbers without processing them.
My nerves are so wound tight I can barely stand still for more than a minute before I’m pacing again, constantly checking on the men who hold the fate of the alley in their hands, searching their expressions for any sign we’re about to lose everything.
But then, strangely enough, customers begin filtering through the doors one after another.
Some stroll in alone; others arrive in groups, and eventually a small busload pulls up outside.
The passengers climb out slowly, looking as though they’ve come from an adult daycare before making their way into the alley.
Before long, I barely have time to think about Mr. Weathers and the others inspecting the building around me.
It’s odd to have so many customers, but maybe, for once, the universe is on my side. Even if it’s a fluke, I’ll take it. As I finish greeting and assisting more customers than I’ve seen in a single morning all year, I finally find a moment to sit.
The phone in my pocket feels like it’s burning through the denim, as if it’s begging me to pull it out and call the one person who would want to hear how busy it’s been—and who could probably calm me down before I spiral while waiting for the USBC reps’ verdict.
It’s been a while since I’ve felt this kind of anxiety. My body doesn’t know what to do with it. My hands shake. My breath comes too fast and too shallow. Every second I resist calling him feels like I’m fraying at the edges, coming undone.
Just as I feel like I’m about to break, Mr. Weathers clears his throat, nearly making me jump out of my skin.
He smiles, clearly oblivious to the stress I’ve been under this morning.
“We’ve finished the inspection. We appreciate the changes you’ve made to the alley, Mr. Jiménez.
It’s also nice to see how busy it is. Is this what it normally looks like in the morning? ”
I scoff without hesitation, even though it’s a total lie. “Oh? This is nothing. You should see this place in the evenings.”
“Wonderful! Which reminds me, the last thing we will need to see is your financial records for the last three months. It’s not a deciding factor, but we still want to gauge the popularity of the alley to see what kind of turnout we can expect.”
All the color drains from my face. “That’s a requirement?” The words come out more like a question, my voice sounding too shaky even to my own ears.
“Yes.” Mr. Weathers’ eyebrow lifts. “We’ll need a simple Statement of Financial Position Summary.
A one-pager, if you will. But don’t worry about pulling that now.
Send it in an email.” He pulls something from his jacket pocket.
“Here’s my card. Feel free to send it directly to me or the generic email box we’ve been corresponding through. ”
Mr. Weathers hands me the card, and I have no choice but to take it. It feels heavier than it should—like it’s made of stone instead of paper. “Right,” I murmur, because I can’t think of a single damn thing to say.
Once they look at our records, it’ll all be over.
They’ll see the truth spelled out in black and red—months of losses, desperate attempts to keep the lights on, the cracks we’ve tried so hard to hide.
Surface-level changes like paint and fixing the lights can only hide so much.
Everything we’ve done to improve the alley will have been for nothing.
They’ll see what Spare Time has become: a shadow of what it once was.
And just like that, the dream slips completely out of reach. No more chance at hosting the championship. No crowds. No spotlight. No redemption.
Just the gut-punch of knowing I’ve failed—not just myself, but the place I’ve poured everything into.
“I believe that’s it then.” Mr. Weathers holds out his hand. I take it, not even caring that my handshake is weak. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Jiménez.”
And then I watch them walk out—maybe for the last time—taking with them not just the air in the alley, but every chance we had of hosting the championship and all the money that came with it. The silence they leave behind is heavier than the loss itself.
I swallow hard and force myself to move. One foot in front of the other, I make my way to the office computer. The monitor wakes when I jiggle the mouse, stalling on the login screen for a few agonizing seconds before finally loading.
Login.
Click.
Finance folder.
Click.
My fingers move despite my hesitation, dragging the cursor to drop the new QuickBooks file into an email for Mr. Weathers.
As soon as I hit send, the window vanishes, leaving a hollow ache to settle deep in my chest.
The USBC seeing the most recent debt settlement isn’t just a setback for Spare Time.
It’s a collapse.
And maybe it’s what I deserve.