Chapter 24 #2
She studies me for a second, and some of the teasing slips from her face.
“Baby,” she says, softer now, “I appreciate you caring. Really. But I promise you, I’m okay.
” Then, just as quickly, the toughness snaps back into place.
“And, for the record, nobody gets to tell me what I can and cannot drink. Especially the men in my life.”
“But—”
“Nope.” She points a finger at me. “I already have one husband trying to act like the Beverage Police. I refuse to have my son join the force.”
Despite myself, I laugh.
“There he is,” she says immediately, like she won something. “That’s the face I’ve been missing these past couple of days.”
I shake my head again. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet deeply lovable.” She glances around before spotting the slushie machine behind the concessions counter. Her eyes brighten up. “Oh, now hold on. That is absolutely pina colada-adjacent.”
“Wait. So you really just came to see if I was here?”
“Yes,” she says simply. “But now that I’m here, I want to watch my boy bowl.”
I groan. “Which means pictures for your socials.”
“You haven’t played much this season, and with you maybe taking a break from bowling, who knows when I’ll be able to snap more photos.” She’s already pulling out her phone. “My—well, your—followers are starving for some Bowling Mom posts.”
“They are not my followers.”
“They love you though, and who could blame them?” She squints at me while angling her camera. “Don’t move. The lighting in this place is better than I remember.”
“Ma.”
“I know, I know. Let your mother be proud of what you’ve accomplished before you retire or whatever you end up choosing to do.
You know I’ll support you.” She snaps a picture, then pulls her phone closer to inspect it.
“Perfect. They’re gonna love this.” She smiles, puckers her lips, and blows me a kiss before turning and heading toward the kitchen.
I find my way back to my lane, refocusing, my mind locked in. When I pick up my ball, it feels heavier now, as if it’s carrying everything I have on my shoulders.
My father’s expectations.
My mother’s concern, her social media followers, even.
Every thought or reminder of Ezra and how badly I want him to know I still believe in him. In Spare Time.
It all comes back to him.
So, I line up my next shot, bury the ache, and let the trance take me again. The lanes, on my terms, are the only place where things still fall where they’re supposed to.
Another hour goes by, and I’m coming to a close on my fourth solo game.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot my mom chatting with Ezra’s mom near the concession stand.
Somehow, both Mrs. Jiménez and my mom are sipping pina coladas.
I’m unsure of how she even ordered one, let alone another for Ezra’s mother.
From my knowledge, the alley only serves red-flavored slushies, Pbrs, and bottom-shelf wine on occasions.
Their heads tilt toward each other, their faces lighting up in warm, easy smiles.
This is the first time I’ve seen both Ezra’s and my worlds collide in this way.
It makes something in my chest hopeful. But it also makes me nervously wonder what they are saying?
What could they possibly be talking about besides mine and Ezra’s relationship?
Gah! I can’t shake him. I want to know what’s going on in his head. I need to help. I want to be there. But you can’t pull someone away from the cliff if they don’t care if they slip. I can’t force him to talk. I can’t fix what he won’t work through with me.
I reach for my phone, half hoping there’s a message from Ezra waiting for me.
Instead, my thumb swipes on instinct and opens up the only social media app I have on my phone.
Right at the top of my feed is a new picture from @ThorneyPins of me mid-stride, caught in the motion of a bowling throw from today. It’s sharp and bright.
In the background, some light bounces off the brand-new paint.
The floors are shiny—stunning, really. The LED lights we placed along each gutter make the alley look fresh and unique.
Just by this one photo, you can really tell how much work Ezra has done.
How much love we’ve put into this place.
She posted it twenty minutes ago, tagging Spare Time, and it already has over a thousand likes.
Out of curiosity, I click on the Spare Time tag and am surprised to see that its account was just created today.
There’s only one photo posted so far: an artistic shot of the front entrance sign—the neon lights of Spare Time shining brightly, with a pina colada raised in front.
The photo has 900 likes, with the account having almost a thousand followers already.
Oh @ThorneyPins…what am I going to do with you?
I make my way toward my mother and Mrs. Jiménez. “Is this what you two were talking about over here?” I turn my phone toward them, showing the now-refreshed follower number on Spare Time’s account—fifteen hundred.
“Your mother is teaching me all about branding,” Mrs. Jiménez says with a laugh before taking another sip of her colada. “Excuse me one moment; let me check these people out.” She stands and heads toward the cash register, where one of the families from earlier is ready to close out.
“You didn’t tell me how fun Mrs. Jiménez is, Truett,” my mother says, still smiling. “We’re having a blast over here.” She gestures toward the kitchen. “You should get yourself one of these. Or at least eat some pizza. You haven’t eaten all day.”
I should stop and eat something. That would make sense. I’ve been here for hours.
But if I step away from my frame, I lose momentum. I can already feel it slipping just thinking about it. My father’s voice threads through my head, sharp and familiar, reminding me about carbs, about staying light, about everything I should and shouldn’t put in my body before a tournament.
And I hate that it still sounds like guidance instead of pressure.
Even though I know Spare Time’s pizza is good. Even though I can practically taste it. I still catch myself doing the math anyway, like food is another thing I have to optimize instead of enjoy.
Then Ezra’s voice cuts in, uninvited, like it’s been doing all week when I’m closest to ignoring myself. This time it’s calling me out for not eating, for letting my father’s rules take up too much space like he does with everything.
But that’s not fair anymore. We aren’t together. Ezra doesn’t get to sit in my head like that. He doesn’t get an opinion.
“Baby, you look hungry. Go get something,” my mom’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
“I’m good.”
She clears her throat. “Just like you were worried about me earlier, I’m starting to worry about you with food.”
“I know.” I look down. “I didn’t even realize it until Ezra said something about it.”
“I’m glad you have him.”
I don’t say anything, even though all I want to say is but I don’t have him. Not anymore.
“Go get a pizza. We’ll split it.” She winks at me.
“I’m done for the day anyway.” I hoist my bag over my shoulder as Mrs. Jiménez comes back over.
I tell her, “I’m going to head out, Mrs. J. I only paid fifty dollars earlier, but I think I played more games than that. How much do I owe you?”
She waves her hand. “It’s been paid. Your mom just gave a very healthy donation, which covers your games today and for the rest of the year. As long as you keep coming back?”
I glance at Mom. Her eyes meet mine, warm and a little tipsy, and she smiles. I mouth, thank you.
She nods, her smile faltering just slightly, and my chest twists again. I want to be grateful. I am grateful. But I wish Ezra could be here. He should be leaning against the snack bar, grinning like an idiot, thinking about what more we could do to spruce up the place with my mom’s generosity.
“You’ve always loved this place,” she says, like she’s reading my mind. “It’s the least your father and I could do for Spare Time.”
I laugh once, too sharp. “So, Dad knows you gave a donation?”
She doesn’t flinch. “Yes, of course he does. We’ve always seen your dedication to something you love. No matter what you think, your father loves you, Truett. He just doesn’t know how to show it.”
She looks at Mrs. Jiménez, then back at me.
“I was telling Mrs. Jiménez that you remind me a lot of him, actually. You both work hard and are extremely dedicated. He will come around to whatever decision you make about your future in bowling. He’s definitely lost his way with pushing you to be the best, but he’ll figure it out. You’ve got to trust that.”
I stare down at the grip tape I unraveled from my wrist, turning it in my hands like I can smooth away the stickiness reminiscent of what’s building in my chest. “Well,” I say slowly, “I want to always show someone how I care for them. I don’t want to be like my dad.”
“Then make sure you fight for him.”
It’s all she says, and I know she’s not talking about my father anymore.
I sit with it, letting it settle. And then something shifts.
The thought of Ezra whirls back toward me like a ball return. The last words I said before I left him echo in my head. Goodbye, Ezra… I…
I wasn’t able to finish it. I couldn’t. But now I realize what I wanted to say.
Goodbye, Ezra. I love the man you made me.
And I do. I am that man now. Or at least, I want to be.
The one who stays when things get hard. The one who encourages.
The one who wants to have fun. The one who wants what’s best for those he loves and shows up for them when they share their wishes and dreams. The one who wants to stay and make a life—a life with Ezra.
I glance back at the now darkened lane I occupied all day. The neatly reset pins and the balls repositioned on the lift. It was like I’d used nothing, like my attempts at coping vanished with the light over the lane.
I need to make a choice. Be the man I want to be for Ezra, or the one I thought everyone else expected me to be. And maybe those two people don’t have to be so different.