Chapter 16 #3
Ezra chuckles, his smile reaching the corners of his eyes in a way that makes them crinkle, giving him a boyish charm.
He shakes his head, semi-pleased but bashful.
“Let’s get ourselves together. I have no idea what’s in store for me downstairs.
That sounded very cryptic. I’m sorry about the interruption.
But believe it or not, this isn’t the worst thing someone from my family has walked in on.
Remind me later to tell you about the Christmas three-way my cousin and her two best friends had in the shed. ”
Well, that’s definitely a story I need to hear later. I push the sheet off and sit up, rubbing a hand over my face before reaching for a water bottle on Ezra’s bedside table. I just need a quick gurgle before I can function in public.
Ezra moves beside me, stretching as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Neither of us speak as we dress. The quiet between us pulsates, slightly picking at my anxieties, because we just crossed an invisible boundary there’s no coming back from.
When I grab my shirt from the floor, I notice it landed on a black sketchbook. It wasn’t hidden, just lying on the floor. The cover is worn, and the corners are bent from what seems to be consistent use. I pick it up, flipping it open without really thinking, and the first page stops me cold.
Bold, intricate lines twist and connect into designs that tell elaborate stories.
Tattoo sketches, all of them, spanning the pages like they belong permanently inked on someone’s skin.
Skulls, chains, scrolls, and delicate florals all threaded between jagged edges of geometric patterns.
There was even a design of a smoking, bloody gun with an inscription on the handle of John F.
Kennedy’s famous quote, Ask not what your country can do for you.
Ask what you can do for your country. Some pieces are dark, but all of them are stunning.
Being impressed doesn’t begin to cover what I feel as my fingers graze the pages.
“You drew these?” I ask, still flipping through, still trying to process if Ezra is the one responsible for this portfolio of a whole other world I would never have known about if I didn’t see it lying here.
“Yeah,” he says, a little guarded at first, then firmer. “It’s mine. Tattooing brings me to a place of peace. I love it. I’ve always wanted to do it for real one day, but obviously life had other plans.”
That catches me off guard. I figured he loved tattoos because his gorgeous arms are full of them.
He’s mentioned helping out Damien at his parlor, but I never truly saw his passion until now.
It’s damn good—the designs. He doesn’t want to run a bowling alley.
He’s only managing and restoring the alley for his family.
He’s been telling me this since the beginning, but it seems like I haven’t really connected the dots.
The alley is his burden. Just like being a professional champion is mine.
Ezra takes the sketchbook from me and closes it gently before tossing it onto his desk like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t hold pieces of him that are bigger than what his life has turned out to be.
“You ready?” he asks.
I nod, but my thoughts are stuck on whether I’m another person responsible for pushing him to do something he doesn’t want to do with the alley.
When we walk down the stairs, the murmur in the living room dies. Heads turn, one by one, until all eyes are on us. Something shifts in the air, like we’ve walked into the middle of a conversation that only stopped because we entered.
Oh god. Do they know what we just did upstairs? Did they hear?
I keep my eyes down, afraid to look up to see any ounce of judgment. His mom, aunts, uncles, and cousins fill every centimeter of this living room.
Beside me, Ezra goes rigid. Stiff, like he’s just run into something more intimidating than the storm of police officers he told me about, the ones who always show up at the alley because of Mrs. Barnes.
His voice is shaky, but he tries to steady it.
“What’s all this? What’s happening?” There’s a flicker of curiosity under the wariness that matches my own.
His mom steps forward, smiling, her hands clasped together like she’s holding back some of that piping hot tea we joked about earlier. If she’s smiling, this couldn’t be about what her son and I just did upstairs. Right?
“Ezra,” she starts, smiling. “Your family has pulled together and would like to gift you something really special because of how hard you’ve been working these last few weeks.”
Mrs. Jiménez nods toward Tía Lucia, who steps up, her expression warm as she extends her hand.
Resting in her palm is a check. “We know how much the bowling alley means to you, your mother, and your father’s legacy,” she says.
“Your mother told us all about the USBC Championship and how it could be held at Spare Time. So, we hope you put this money to good use and spice that place up so much that the USBC has no reason not to choose it.”
Together, our jaws drop. It doesn’t matter what number is written across the check Tía Lucia holds. What matters is that Ezra’s family—both his mom’s side and his dad’s—came together for Spare Time.
The corners of my eyes tingle as tears begin to well, but Ezra doesn’t move right away.
For a split second, something strained and heavy crosses his face, like the weight of expectation, or even the love he’s supposed to feel as deeply as his father did.
Then it’s gone. He pastes on a smile that almost looks real.
He hugs his aunt, thanking the entire family for their generosity, but his movements look robotic to me.
He’s been giving so much of himself to his family over the years, and now they are returning the favor.
But is this a favor Ezra wants to receive?
I’m sure a little part of him wants this. He told me himself. He wants the alley to succeed.
For his parents.
I stand there, watching the way they all surround him. Every look, every word, like it all matters more than anything else in the world.
It’s… a lot.
Not just love. Not just kindness. Something heavier than that. Something that holds on no matter what.
And I get it, at least a little. Why he stays. Why he keeps the alley going, even if it’s not what he really wants.
This weight. This pressure. This love. It’s what family does.
I let the thought settle in, feeling eager to reorient. Is this what settling down here in Pflugerville, with no more competitions, will feel like for me?