Chapter 21
These last few days have been the best of my life, and I’ve been riding that high ever since I dropped Truett off late last night.
Going to his tournament was a split-second decision, one I tried to talk myself out of because it meant closing the alley.
I mean, what man drives three hours for a guy who may or may not be his boyfriend?
Apparently, that’s the type of man I’m turning into for Truett.
Seeing Truett in his natural element was spectacular.
My guy made each frame look effortless. The way he could command the ball and make it seem like he was gliding it down exactly where he wanted to go.
Each and every time. I almost felt bad for his competitors.
Even when he faltered, he always found a way to bring himself back up to the top.
Our night together was everything and more.
And then to spend the entire day together?
It was more than I had hoped for. He somehow convinced me to give him his first tattoo, a permanent reminder of our weekend together.
The only person I know, other than Damien, who has let me tattoo them.
More than that, he believed in me and thought I could make my dream of becoming a tattoo artist and owning my own shop a reality.
Crazy part is I’m starting to believe it myself.
Maybe. Just maybe. Hope for the future is dangerous, sharp enough to cut if I hold it too tightly, but I can’t deny the thrill of it either.
While I tattooed True, something inside me settled into place.
Happiness bloomed, warm and steady in my chest, the kind that felt unfamiliar after so long without it.
For the first time in a while, I wasn’t just surviving. I was exactly where I was meant to be.
Needless to say, I’m in an unbelievably good mood when I pull into the parking lot this morning. The memory of our time together lingers, wrapping around me like a warm buzz, and I can’t help the knowing smile that creeps onto my face as I get out of the car. It’s very out of character for me.
When I reach the front door of Spare Time though, my smile slips into a confused frown when I see a bright yellow sign on the door.
At first, I think it’s a flyer for some fundraiser or a lost pet announcement.
There have been many put up throughout the area.
My brain is slow to process what I’m actually seeing.
It’s not a missing pet or fundraising flyer.
In big, bold letters at the top is a word that makes everything inside me grind to a halt. The happiness drains out of me in an instant, replaced by an icy wave that rushes through my body. Just like that, one word strips it all away—the last word any business owner ever wants to see.
FORECLOSURE.
No, this has to be a mistake. I reach for the vibrant sun-colored paper—a color better suited for an invitation, and not one that’s about to take away my livelihood—and rip it from the door. My eyes scan the page, heart beating rapidly in my chest with each word.
A foreclosure action has been filed against this property, and you are at risk of losing your building. Multiple payments have been missed, or you are otherwise in default. You have twenty days to produce payment. Failure to do so will result in a foreclosure.
I read the top paragraph over and over again, praying the words will change. That this is some sick joke, and at any moment, someone is going to jump out and yell “surprise!”
But the words don’t change. And no one jumps out of a bush to declare this is just a joke.
This is my reality, and yet it still doesn’t feel real.
How did I not know we were behind on payments?
My mom handles the finances, something I’ve meant to take off her hands for a long time, but I’ve never quite gotten around to it.
Did she know? More importantly, if she knew, why the hell did she keep this from me?
Crumpling the paper in my hand, I fumble with the keys, trying to open the door.
The keys fall out of my hand. “Fuck!” I want to punch something.
To break something, but I’m holding it down on the slight chance this could all be a misunderstanding.
Only one person could clear this up, and I need to get her on the phone.
Angrily, I reach down to retrieve the keys and manage to open the door without another hiccup. I let it slam closed behind me as I storm inside, tossing my shit down on the counter. I don’t even turn on the lights, but rather go straight to the computer.
It takes forever to power on, but after what feels like an hour, I get logged in and search for our finance folder, something my father kept updated meticulously.
Since his death, Mom has been the one to update it.
I never thought I needed to go in and check her work, since she had been dealing with the money side of Spare Time way before I took over.
But when I pull up the spreadsheet that recounts our expenses, I notice it was last updated three months ago.
Three fucking months.
“Fuck!” I scream, and my voice echoes around the alley, as if taunting me.
On the counter, my phone glows with a call. I half expect to see my mom calling me, as if sensing my distress with her weird mom powers. But it’s not my mom’s name that flashes across my phone. It’s Truett’s.
“Not now, True,” I grit through my teeth, declining the call. I’ll feel bad about it later, but right now, I have a singular focus. A text from him comes in a moment later, which I also ignore in favor of calling my mom.
It rings once. Twice.
“Pick up your damn phone,” I snarl.
Then, on the fourth ring, she finally answers. “Mijo, I’m gardening with—”
“Did you pay the mortgage?” I blurt out, stopping her before she can get out the rest of her sentence.
Silence on the other line. It goes on for so long, I think I’ve lost her. Until she speaks again in a soft voice, “What?”
“Did. You. Pay. The. Mortgage?” Each word is pulled from me.
My barely contained anger simmers to the surface.
Anger at my mother, but even more anger at myself for not checking up on this when I’m supposed to be running the alley.
This should have been my responsibility.
“For the last three months, have you paid the mortgage?”
I want her to tell me she has. To reassure me that everything is fine, and this has all been a misunderstanding.
But I know my mom. I know the signs of her guilt.
She goes silent, not wanting to upset anyone more than she already has.
The silence is confirmation enough, and yet I need to hear her say it.
“Answer me, Mom!” One thing about me, I don’t raise my voice at my mom.
Ever. She’s put a roof over my head and food in my belly for over two decades.
I owe this woman so much more than I’ll ever be able to repay.
However, at the moment, I remember none of that.
My anger at her lying over something this important outweighs everything else.
“I didn’t want you to worry!”
And there’s the knife she lodges deep into my heart. I bark out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Well, I am! Very worried. You should have told me.”
“I had hoped I could sort this out soon, gather the money needed, and you’d never be the wiser—don’t scoff at me, mijo.
I’m still your mother, and you will respect me,” she threatens.
I hold my tongue for now. “But one bad month turned into two, turned into three. We’ve been able to get by with the savings your father had for us, but the truth of the matter is, Spare Time isn’t making enough money to pay the bills.
Or you. You get very little, and that’s not fair.
You deserve so much more for all you do. ”
I don’t give a damn how much I make. I’m quite aware my paychecks here are shit, which is why I help Damien out at his tattoo shop after hours when I can. I’ve been putting money aside, spending frugally, in hopes the money I make could be invested in my future. One I hoped included tattooing.
Except, that dream seems out of reach now. Because I’m reminded once again that my place is here, and I refuse to let everything my father work for die because he did.
“You should have told me this before I started fixing up the alley for the tournament. We could have used that money for bills!”
“And that’s exactly why I didn’t tell you!” she shoots back. “I knew you’d want to put it into bills, but I wanted you to focus on getting the alley back to its original glory. Not just for the tournament, but to honor your father’s memory. If he saw the alley now…”
My mom’s voice trails off, and then I hear it—soft sniffling on the other end of the line. I hate hearing my mother cry. She rarely does, not liking to show her weakness. It guts me every time.
Whatever anger I feel drains from my body, leaving behind a hollow ache.
A shell of myself. I know she’s holding on to Spare Time because it keeps a part of my dad alive.
For her, the bowling alley isn’t just a business—it’s a piece of him.
If he were still here, he’d never let it fall into the state it’s in now.
He built this place with his bare hands, poured his heart, time, and everything he had into making it what it was.
Everything it could be. One day. Maybe.
But not if we’re going to lose it.
“We’ll take out a loan. Ask the family for more donations if we have to.
Something.” My mom sobs on the other end of the phone, burying the knife a little deeper because I know what I have to do.
“I can’t lose Spare Time. I just can’t. I know I should have told you, but I thought I could handle it. I really did.”
To my mother, losing Spare Time would be too much like a final death.
Like my dad, the man my mom spent over half her life with, would truly be gone.
I think of the money sitting in my savings account.
Enough to avoid foreclosure and pay the late fees.
It would wipe me out, truly taking away my hopes for tattooing in the future.
But what’s this sacrifice compared to everything my parents have sacrificed for me?
I’ve always known this alley would be my future.
To think anything else was foolish of me.
I’ve been distracted. Believing in a future I knew was unattainable. Because hopes and dreams are fickle and change like the season. Nothing is ever guaranteed. I knew this. Know this. And yet I still lost track of what’s important.
I either get the life I want, or the life my parents carved out for me. There’s no having my cake and eating it too. One or the other. That’s always been the choice, hasn’t it?
Even so, something inside me breaks fundamentally. It feels an awful lot like grief. The kind of grief people don’t come back from.
“I’ll take care of this,” I say at last, strengthening my resolve.
“Mijo, no. I will figure this out. I don’t want this burden to be on your shoulders.”
It’s too late for that. I’m already carrying it. I’m always carrying it.
“I have the money and will take care of this,” I say with more steel in my voice. “But for now, you’ll give over the finances to me. If you want me to run the alley, I need to run every aspect of it.”
“Ezra—”
“Promise me.”
My mom is silent. There’s a sniffle, then rustling around as if she’s trying to find something to wipe away the tears. Finally, she says, “Okay…okay. You’re a good son, mi amor. A good man.”
Except I don’t feel like one. Far from it, actually. I feel cracked and broken. I just nod, even though she can’t see me. “I’ve got to go. Don’t wait up for me tonight. I don’t know when I’ll be home.”
I know that will make her worry, but I can’t bring myself to care. I hang up before my mom can say anything else. My phone reminds me I still have a text from Truett left unanswered, but I ignore it. I'm not in the mood to talk. Not to my mom. Not to Truett. Not to anyone.
With a deep sigh, I know what I must do.
I use the computer to log into our mortgage portal.
I’m not surprised to see the red number flashing on the screen.
All the money we still owe. It’s going to wipe me out, but I can’t lose this shop, regardless of my personal feelings about it.
I promised my father I’d take care of my mom, and that’s exactly what I plan on doing.
It’s far too easy to transfer the money. No warning. No pause. No desperate question asking if I’m sure—if I’m about to make the biggest mistake of my life.
Just a click.
I stare at the balance, at the money I’ve been saving for years—ever since I first opened this account. Every deposit, every sacrifice, every moment I chose saving over living.
And then, in an instant, it’s gone.
Just like that.
As if it was never there to begin with.