Chapter 22 #2
A flicker of worry gets caught in my throat. I swallow, pushing down air I needed to use for my next breath. “Oh? He’s not home?”
She shakes her head, eyes welling again.
“No. I… I messed up. I did something I shouldn’t have.
So, I went to the alley to talk to him, to make it right, but it was closed.
The lights were off. I saw his car in the lot, but he didn’t come to the door when I knocked.
I didn’t want to bang any harder…como una loca.
You don’t want to spook Mrs. Barnes. She’ll call the police on you.
So I came home, hoping he came back here somehow… ”
She trails off, and I glance down at the soup, still warm in my hands. The silence lingers, tentative. My eyes drift past her, toward the staircase and the nearby hallway, half hoping he’ll appear. But the house is still.
I step back. “Do you mind if I try to give him a call?”
She nods, but it’s clear she doesn’t have hope for me getting through to him either.
I turn toward the car, my mind already sifting through the short list of places Ezra might go when he doesn’t want to be found. Out of responsibility, the alley is where he’d most likely be, but for his own peace of mind, I can only think of one place he might have gone.
Ezra’s mom was right. The Closed sign is hanging on the front door of the alley, and the lights are off. No sign of anyone in the building. Ezra’s car is sitting in a spot further out from where he usually parks. Closer to Damien’s tattoo parlor.
After stepping out of the car, I slam the door with a little more force than necessary. The container of Ribollita sits untouched on the passenger seat as I leave it behind.
The tattoo parlor doesn’t look busy, but the dim lights are still on, and the door is unlocked. I push it open, hoping to find Ezra tattooing, cleaning up, anything. At least then I’d know he’s safe. But the shop is quiet. No movement.
“Hello?” I call out.
No response.
I step farther inside, past the flash art and the cluttered counter. “Ezra?” This time, my voice is a little louder.
Nothing.
“Damien? Someone? Is anyone here?”
Still nothing.
Then, suddenly, the curtains separating the shop from the back fling open. Ezra stumbles through the fabric. He’s shirtless and missing his pants, left in nothing but boxers and socks. His face is flushed, eyes unfocused. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s dangles loosely from his hand.
“Who’s yellin’ my name out here? Why is it so hot in—so hot in herrr,” he slurs, the words running together.
Damien appears behind him, tightening his belt and shaking his head. “Dude, I took a break to piss. I told you to stay in the chair,” he snaps. “And put your fucking shirt back on. I’m literally just tattooing your leg.”
What the fuck?
“Ezra?”
I don’t say anything else, not because I can’t, but because there’s too much racing through my head all at once. I can’t grab hold of a single thought long enough to speak it out into existence.
My jaw clenches as I look him over. There’s a new tattoo on his thigh, raw and swollen. The skin around it is red and irritated, the artwork clearly still unfinished. Damien stands off to the side, seemingly frustrated by Ezra’s drunken state.
“Truett, what’re you doin’ ‘ere?” His voice comes out loose and sloshed. His eyes land in my direction but don’t quite lock onto me, like he knows I’m there, but he can’t fully see me or even make out where my eyes are.
“I could ask the same of you.” I look over at Damien. “Do you always tattoo people when they are intoxicated?”
“Yo, I know what this looks like, and I can guaran-damn-tee you he wasn’t this smashed an hour ago when we started.
He had like two shots, and when I stopped to hit the head, I came out, and his ass downed almost my entire bottle.
” He turns to Ezra. “Bro, I definitely can’t finish your tattoo tonight.
I’m sorry you’re going through whatever it is you’re going through.
You know I’ve been there. But this…this isn’t the way to go. Truett—”
At the sound of my name, Ezra scoffs, like I’m the reason he’s completely plastered.
Damien continues, “Truett, you think you can drive him back home?”
Ezra’s head wobbles between me and Damien. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes and lips move like he’s trying to argue. Nothing comes out. He shakes his head, exhaling short, angry bursts through his nostrils.
He clearly wants nothing to do with me right now, but I don’t know what I’ve done to warrant this kind of reaction. I can see Damien was put in a hard spot, so I don’t want to put too much blame on him. Grief is hard, and at least Ezra has someone he could go to who understands.
But I want to be that person for him.
Damien quickly cleans him up, making sure the start of his tattoo is protected.
Ezra wrestles his shirt back on and stumbles toward the chair, tripping over himself as he pulls on his jeans, rolling them up so they don’t brush against his tattoo.
He shuffles past me without a word, bumping my shoulder on the way.
I glance at Damien to mouth, sorry, thank you, and he nods.
If his behavior toward me says anything, it’s that my entire world is about to crash in front of me.
Since coming back home, I’ve wanted nothing more than to settle down and figure out whether bowling still has a place in my life moving forward.
Connecting with Ezra, I’ve wanted us to build something…
real. Especially with everything we’ve done in the alley…
And now this.
The real Ezra.
Cold, distant, and detached.
Was it all for nothing?