Chapter 7 #2
Well, he’s not wrong. I know I can come off as a dick sometimes. Uncaring. But that’s the thing. I care too damn much, and it often manifests in anger. Maybe I have been a little too hard on him.
“Sorry,” I say, shocking the hell out of Truett. His head whips up, eyes wide. “I just mean, I’m sorry I made you think I didn’t like you. That’s not true. You’re fine.”
“I’ll take fine. I mean, I would have liked to hear, ‘You’re my knight in shining armor, True!’ But we can work up to that.” He shrugs and then bites his lip in a way that has my mind running completely off course, and I nearly miss his next words. “Does this mean I can help?”
“I guess it does.” The words tumble out of my lips before I can stop them. “But if we’re going to do this, you need to be on time and reliable. I get final say on everything. Oh, and you must come fully clothed.”
“Boo, you’re no fun.” Still, he’s all but bouncing in glee. The happiness on his face is startling because when has anyone been so excited about the alley? No one since my father.
“Do you agree, though?”
“Of course! You’re the boss man, and I’m the sidekick.”
“Sure.” I resist rolling my eyes, trying to prove I’m not always a grump. “Grab my backpack. I have the USBC rulebook in there. Take a seat in the arcade, and I’ll join you once this pizza is done.”
Truett salutes me, and just like that, he’s off.
Apparently Truett is immune to molten hot cheese because the moment I put the pizza on the table, he’s shoveling a piece into his mouth and moaning.
Moaning.
Fuck me.
We eat in companionable silence, enjoying a slow morning with pizza for a late breakfast. After he devours his first two slices, Truett grabs for a third. “Do you have any reservations today?”
“About you? Ever since I met you,” I tease, a bit surprised by my own words.
“I mean customers, you ass.”
I shake my head. “Just gotta worry about the walk-ins.”
“Easy enough. When we’re done eating, we can walk the perimeter and make notes on what we need to prioritize on fixing or updating before the next visit.
Do you have a notepad and pen? I can make notes so we don’t forget.
Oh, you should also let me know how handy you are.
That’s going to determine what we can realistically accomplish. There’s no strict budget, right?”
Shame fills me at the talk of money. It always feels like a personal failure when I admit we have hardly any.
“We may have a few dollars we can spend, but it’ll be safer to assume our budget is zero.
” It would take a lot of money to bring this alley up to par with the competitors, but maybe we can make it more welcoming and hit on the nostalgia factor.
“Fair enough. We have a plan then.” He beams. “I’m excited. This is going to be fun.”
“I think our definitions of fun are different,” I mumble and reach for the rules and regulations inside my backpack, tucked safely away in a manila folder.
I open it carefully, as if afraid it might magically disappear.
The top few pages are just a brief overview of USBC and their mission.
The rules don’t actually start until the fifth page.
Most of them are pretty straightforward, things like the lanes need to be exactly sixty feet long and the wood polished and waxed. The ball return must be fully operational, as well as the pin setter. Those rules are easy and don’t intimidate me.
No, it’s rules like inspection and codes. I point to the rule, turning it so Truett can see it. “What does it mean when they say everything must be up to date?” It goes on to list food permits, fire inspection, daily safety checks for hazard prevention, and health inspections.
“They just want to make sure you are current in all of your permits and inspections. You’ll just need to show them the documentation. If anything is coming up, I’d schedule it soon so you have the most up-to-date documents to give to the USBC.”
All the color drains from my face. I’ve mostly kept up with these requirements, but I haven’t paid as much attention as I should have.
Keeping permits and certifications current costs money, and if I don’t renew them, there are fines—assuming I get caught.
Over the past year, I’ve managed to avoid that, but I know it’s not sustainable.
I told Truett we were working with a small budget, but that isn’t true. Before we make any decisions, I’ll have to check with my mom to see what’s actually in the accounts. The idea of worrying her weighs on me more than anything.
Unless I just use my own personal savings.
I don’t mind spending some of it, but I wanted it to go to something else. Something just for me, but maybe that’s no longer possible.
Fuck, this is falling apart before it even begins. My fingers drum restlessly against the table, desperate for some kind of release from the tight, gnawing anxiety coiling inside me.
Then a soft hand brushes mine. The contact startles me so sharply I nearly jolt out of my chair.
“Sorry!” Truett snatches his hand back. “You looked like you were freaking out.”
“I am freaking out, Truett.” I don’t mean for the words to come out angry, but they do. “All of these things listed cost money. Which, surprise! We don’t have much of it. Yes, I realize I need to keep up with maintenance, and I’m at fault for letting these things take the back burner, but—"
“Ezra, I need you to breathe. Can you do that for me? Just breathe?” Truett demonstrates by taking an exaggerated breath in and releasing it. He does it again, giving me a pointed look until I reluctantly join in.
Admittedly, it helps.
“Better?” he asks after a moment.
“Yes,” I say begrudgingly.
“Listen, your father filled out this application, right? He probably also researched the rules. I bet if we look, you’ll find that everything is up to date.
I doubt Mr. Jiménez would leave you high and dry.
I wouldn’t worry too much about that. We’ll find the documents needed, and if anything needs updating, we’ll handle it. ”
“How? I already told you we don’t have much of a budget.”
Truett waves me off, and I have to clamp down my anger. “I’ll worry about that. For now, let’s focus on cosmetics. Like fixing kitchen appliances or painting the wall that’s in desperate need of it.”
Although I can’t stop thinking about the inspections and permits, Truett is right about the small fixes. There’s much to be done, so maybe we need to start there.
Before I can answer, Truett reaches for another slice of pizza—the last slice—but hesitates and drops his hand.
“Oh, you can have it.” I turn the pan, offering it to him.
Again, he hesitates, only this time, heat flushes his neck and cheeks. “Better not. Dad’s already going to be pissed if he finds out I’ve had pizza twice this week.”
My brow furrows. “So? Why would he care?”
A bitter, humorless laugh leaves his lips. “When it comes to my life and how he thinks I should live it, my father has many opinions. Even ones on food.”
“He tells you what you should eat?” The words come out sharper than I intend, a sudden, inexplicable anger tightening in my chest at a man I’ve never even met. What Truett chooses to put into his body is no one’s business but his own.
But Truett only shrugs, his body language closed off in a way I haven’t seen before. Clearly, this is a touchy subject, which means I’m not going to push him on it. If he wants to vent to me one day, he can.
As if a switch has flipped inside him, Truett grins again, pushing away his plate—and the uneaten slice of pizza—before standing up. He wipes his hands on a napkin and crumples it up before tossing it away. “Alright, I’ve been thinking—”
“I’m realizing that’s a dangerous thing coming from you.”
“—and I have an idea.” He pauses for dramatics. Just as I’m about to tell him to spit it out already, he puts me out of my misery. “I think we need to get out of here. Like, today.”
The words hang heavy between us, and I mentally brace for whatever he’s about to drag me into.