Chapter 6
The glare from the afternoon sun blinds me as I pull into the bowling alley’s parking lot. No parked cars nearby, no lights on inside the building, and no sign of Ezra Jiménez.
Nothing.
I grip the steering wheel a little tighter knowing I’ve traveled coast to coast, and, unless there was major construction, a pandemic, or a natural disaster, I’ve never seen a bowling alley closed on a Sunday at noon.
Every bowling fan knows there’s nothing like throwing the heat of a couple frames before the next hectic week starts.
I glance down at the pair of bowling shoes on the passenger seat, the ones I still haven’t forgiven myself for taking.
I regret not coming back yesterday to rid myself of them, but at least today I can see if a good night’s rest helped Ezra decide if he would be willing to accept my offer to get the alley in shape.
I won’t know what I’m doing when it comes to being a handyman, but at least I know the difference between a wrench and a plier. I think.
It’s the least I can do to honor the memory of Mr. Jiménez.
I turn off the ignition of my mom’s Mercedes-Benz—another loaner from the garage, since owning a car doesn’t make much sense when I’ve barely been in one place long enough—grab the shoes, and head toward the entrance.
With each footstep comes a soft, crunching sound as the bottoms of my shoes step on the loose gravel of the asphalt.
Its desolation echoes throughout all the small businesses within the plaza.
The antique shop brings in the rare straggler, the Laundromat seems to be a cover for something darker, the hardware store’s prices are probably too high, and the tattoo parlor is never busy-looking because it’s mostly run on scheduled appointments.
The only business that seems to boom in the plaza is Judy’s BBQ.
People in Pflugerville might not have good taste in recreational activities anymore, but they sure do know good food.
I take the last few steps toward the entrance and see it—the sign hanging in the glass.
Closed.
Clearly it's closed, but I reach for the handle anyway, hoping if I don’t acknowledge the sign, it doesn’t exist. That Ezra is waiting for me inside. That the sign is not meant for me.
The door doesn’t budge.
I grasp the brass a second longer than I need to, staring past my reflection into the dark interior like something might move in there if I wait it out.
Maybe he’s taking out the trash. Maybe he got held up on a phone call for a reservation as soon as he walked in.
Maybe the lights are off because he’s trying to fix another blown bulb.
Or is this just wishful thinking?
C’mon, Ezra.
I told my mom I believe he has good intentions for the alley, but now I’m starting to doubt it.
My frustration wells up inside me, building an uncomfortable amount of hot pressure rising in my chest. Is he taking this seriously at all?
Closing down for the day—even for one day—is just asking for trouble.
I’m no businessman, but I at least know you have to keep the doors open in order for paying customers to come in.
It’s almost like he wants the whole thing to fall apart on purpose.
Does he?
I laugh at the absurdity, clutching bowling shoes under my arm that look straight out of the eighties. Why am I even bothering? Why did I ever think twice about having them? It’s not like he’s even looking for the shoes anyway. Ezra clearly doesn’t care. So why should I?
I bend down and set the shoes by the door. “Fine,” I mutter, my voice low but sharp. “If Ezra doesn’t care, then I won’t either.” Let someone steal them. Who cares? They’re not mine. Not my problem.
I straighten up, dusting my hands off, but the anger’s still there, simmering between my fingers. I glance back at the alley one more time. It looks just as empty and hollow as my offer to Ezra.
But right now, looking far into the window at the darkened lanes, I can’t help but think of my dad and the life he’s forced me to fight for, just to make himself feel proud.
I can’t keep fighting for things that were never mine.
But then I think of Mr. Jiménez and how he showed me the magic within those lanes.
He gave me reason to fight for the success I’ve earned.
I can’t help but look up and see all the letters of Spare Time now completely unlit. I remember the R and the I being the problem. This would be a good time to change those neon bulbs while the light switch is off.
God dammit, Truett. Make up your mind. Are you helping or not?
The hardware store is literally two shops down. I could easily grab what’s needed, and I could fix at least one thing for Ezra while I’m here.
It’ll only take five minutes. Right?
The bell above the door at Hendrick’s Hardware gives a tired jingle when I push inside.
It smells like dust and metal. Rows of screws and nails line the walls in little labeled drawers, the kind you have to squint at to read. There’s a ladder display near the back, all different heights, like they belong in the Three Little Bears story.
The clerk looks up from behind the counter. He’s older, gray threading through his beard, glasses low on his nose. “Help you find something?”
I run my hand through my hair and shift over to the counter. “Yeah. Uh… maybe. I’ve got a neon sign I need to fix. Do you have any recommendations?”
His eyebrows lift just a little. “Neon, huh? Those can be finicky.”
“Yeah, well,” I mutter, glancing at a rack of wrenches like they might save me, “I was hoping I could… fix it for someone.”
He studies me for a second longer than I’d like. Not judging exactly. Just measuring.
“Is it flickering or completely out?”
“Out,” I say. “Just two letters.”
He nods slowly, like that confirms something. “Could be the tubes, could be the transformer. But if it’s old, chances are the bulbs are shot.”
“Bulbs,” I repeat, like I’m confirming I’ve always known the issue. “That’s what I thought.”
He pushes off the counter and gestures for me to follow.
I trail after him down an aisle, past extension cords and boxes of electrical tape.
He grabs a couple long, narrow boxes from a shelf.
“Replacement neon tubes.” He hands them to me.
“You’ll want to match the size and color as best you can. What’s the sign say?”
“Spare Time.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Figures.”
We stop by the ladders next. He taps one with his knuckle. “You got a way to reach it?”
I hesitate. For a moment, a little butterfly flutters in my stomach. The image of the sign being higher than I would prefer flickers in my memory.
My lips pressing tightly together is enough of an answer for him. He nods and pulls a ladder down. “Take this. Eight-foot should do it.” I grip the ladder. “And you’ll need gloves,” he adds, grabbing a pair and tossing them on one of the ladder’s rungs.
The clerk lays a box of neon light bulbs on the counter, rings everything up, bags the bulbs and the gloves, and ties it on to the ladder. “You’ll want to be careful carrying all of this at once. Those bulbs are fragile.”
“Got it.” I tap my credit card on the reader, grimacing as the total confirms my suspicion about the store’s price hikes. I step out slowly, careful not to knock anything over.
The bell follows me back outside. Halfway to the alley, I stop in front of Mrs. Barnes’ antique shop.
She’s been in the plaza for a long time, so I think it’ll be better for me to say hello and let her know what I’m doing next door.
The last thing I need is to be swarmed by the police thinking I was breaking and entering.
With a quick greeting and a glance at the ladder and supplies in my arms, she seems to understand.
After she asks me to say hello to my mother and to check if she’s coming to book club next week—which strikes me as odd since Mom probably hasn’t read a book that wasn’t a health trend guide in years—I head back out and make my way to the alley.
I set up the ladder and stand at the base. Before climbing, I give it a little shake to double-check and make sure it’s sturdy. I saw that in a movie once.
It’s solid, no wobble.
So far, so good.
I grab the box of bulbs and start climbing, one rung at a time, trying to ignore how the ground seems to get a little farther away with each step.
Halfway up, I pause and glance back down. I can’t remember the last time I was on a ladder. Probably because I don’t think I’ve ever been on one before. But it’s not too bad, or at least I don’t think?
I keep climbing, but as I reach the top, my stomach does a weird flip inside.
Way more intense than the butterfly flutter earlier.
I can feel the cool metal under my hands, but suddenly, the cold sensation rises to a clammy heat as the ladder doesn’t feel so steady anymore.
Is this thing moving, or is it just me? I grip the sides a little harder.
What am I doing up here?
I look down again and instantly regret it. The ground looks... far.
Like, really far.
Like, really, really, am I in freaking outer space? far.
My heart does an unusual thump in my chest, and the tips of my ears begin to tingle. The thundering sound of a bowling ball crashing into pins, not a single one left standing, is the exact noise I hear in my head when I think of falling to the ground.
Great. This is great.
I let out a shaky breath, trying to calm myself. Maybe this is why Ezra never bothered with the lights. Maybe it wasn’t laziness or lack of motivation. Maybe it was self-preservation.
Oh god. This isn’t normal behavior. Normal people don’t climb this high.
With luck and luck alone, I’m able to change the two lights, but I really need to get the hell off this thing. I let out a dry, barely nonexistent breath. Working lights aren’t worth all this trauma.