Chapter 27
For the first time in… well, ever, the parking lot is packed when I pull up for work this morning. Normally, I can park wherever I want, but today I’m forced to take a spot near the back of the alley.
The crowds have definitely been growing these last few days—which is still bizarre enough on its own—but nothing close to this.
People linger outside the shop, voices carrying through the morning air as more cars squeeze into every available space.
The only explanation I can come up with is that Damien is running some kind of tattoo special.
Last year, he did a Halloween event with thirty-one-dollar tattoos that drew a decent crowd, but even that wasn’t this busy.
After a few tense seconds and a final, forceful twist, the lock clicks. The door creaks open, revealing a dimly lit backroom cloaked in shadow. I step inside, the air stale and heavy with the scent of dust and neglect.
Like a shadow, I silently walk through the dark, turning on the lights.
The rooms brighten, exposing a sparkling clean alley.
I needed an outlet for my spiraling thoughts, so I threw myself into cleaning the entire alley from top to bottom, taking out all my anger in the process.
The room smells of my childhood, artificial lemons with a dash of chemicals.
Strangely enough, it brings me comfort. Thinking of anything other than Truett brings me comfort these days.
And yeah, I know I’m the cause for both of our pain.
I’m the one who pushed him away and iced him out.
The reality is I’m a fucking coward. Scared of how Truett was making me feel.
How he opened my eyes to new possibilities outside the alley.
The future I saw with him didn’t scare me, but having a taste of that happiness only for it to be ripped away terrified me.
In the end, I suppose I made my fears a reality.
My watch buzzes, reminding me it’s time to open the alley.
With nothing else pressing, I make my way to the door and unlock it with a soft, mechanical click.
Reaching up, I switch on the glowing neon sign that signals the alley is open, its electric hum joining the quiet of the early hour.
Then I turn on my heels, heading toward the front counter.
But I don’t make it far before the door opens behind me.
I whirl back around just as a group of people crowd the entrance.
This is the busiest I’ve seen Spare Time in years.
For the past year, the place has been practically dead, quiet enough most nights to hear the old neon signs buzzing over the arcade machines.
But over the last week, something shifted.
A steady flow of people started coming in, and now the place is nearly packed.
A small crowd clusters near the entrance, their excited chatter echoing through the room as I blink, trying to make sense of it all. Why now?
There must be some kind of event happening at one of the nearby businesses. A grand opening in the plaza maybe? A pop-up sale? That would explain the sudden influx of people. Still, it’s strange—no balloons, no signs, nothing to draw attention.
Whatever it is, it seems to be working in my favor.
As the crowd filters in and out of the neighboring stores, a few curious customers drift toward my area.
I straighten up, trying to look casual, like I’ve been expecting them all along.
But deep down, I can’t shake the feeling that something about this doesn’t quite add up. That I’m missing something.
“Hey, can someone check us in?” a voice calls, pulling me out of my confused thoughts.
“Right, sorry.” I head over to take care of the first group of people.
It doesn’t stop there, as more and more groups request lanes and shoes.
Honestly, the sheer number of people coming into this place is overwhelming, and I already notice a few standing by the kitchen in the arcade, waiting to be served.
I’m one fucking person. This is a good issue to have, but an issue nonetheless.
“Will you excuse me?” I ask the couple debating on how long they should rent the lane.
Before they can answer, I quickly turn my back, pulling my phone from my pocket.
A few names flash in my mind, one being the person I most desperately want to call.
Truett.
Except I can’t.
Because I’m a dick, but not enough of a dick to invite over the man whose heart I broke just to help me handle a crowd.
I could call Damien, but he has his own shop to run.
Plus, he’s not a morning person. That leaves one person, and guilt churns my gut.
I haven’t exactly been talking to her, too upset with everything that has transpired, but I swallow my pride and click on her name.
It rings twice before she answers, “Mijo, what’s wrong? Everything okay?” My mom’s voice cuts through the noise of the alley. She sounds worried, almost ready for the other shoe to drop. Again, I’m hit with remorse. I can’t keep pushing her away when all she’s ever wanted to do is help me.
When I don’t respond right away, she continues, “It’s loud there. Are you at the alley yet?”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m calling you. It’s busy,” I say urgently, trying to remain calm as more people line up outside the door. A fucking line. Who knew this many people were aware this alley existed?
“That’s good! It’ll keep you busy—”
“No, Ma, it’s busy.” I stress the word again, hoping she understands. “As in there’s a line out the goddamn door, a line at the counter, and a line at the kitchen. I’m the only person here.” Which has never been a problem until today.
“?Dios mío!” There’s shuffling from the other side before the audible click of a door opening. “Hang on. I’ll have Mrs. Helen take me over. She can come help too. Don’t turn anyone away!”
Mrs. Helen is one of our neighbors, only a few years younger than Mom. I’d rather be the one driving her, but I’m clearly not able to right now. Still, needing to rely on someone else to take care of Mom in that way feels a little strange. But for now, Mrs. Helen will have to do.
“I won’t. But, Mom—” I hesitate, knowing there’s a lot I need to say to her, but all that comes out is, “I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t ask me what I’m sorry about. She knows. There’s a deep intake of breath on the other end before her soft voice returns, “And I’m sorry too. I love you so much, Ezra. I’m on my way, okay? Just keep doing what you’re doing.” That’s the last thing she says before the line goes dead.
Ten minutes. I only have to survive ten minutes. Inwardly, I’m freaking out, and outwardly… well, I’m also freaking out. This is probably some freaky miracle that will never happen again, so I just need to deal and ride this wave while it’s here.
Fuck, I’m nervous.
The man behind me clears his throat, gaining my attention. “Can we rent for two hours? Two pairs of shoes too. A woman’s seven and a man’s ten.”
My body kicks into autopilot, just trying to keep up.
I ring up a couple at the register without really acknowledging them, then flip on Lane 5 like it’s second nature.
The line near the kitchen has doubled—maybe tripled?
—and my chest tightens. Of course it has.
I grab the mic and make a quick announcement, trying to sound calm even though I’m anything but.
“Unfortunately, the kitchen won’t be open for another thirty minutes,” I announce, wearing a smile no one can see. It probably looks more manic than anything. “I’m calling in some reinforcements, so please forgive the inconvenience.”
There are a few grumbles, a dramatic sigh or two, but thankfully, no one throws a bag of chips at me, or worse, a bowling ball.
Most flash me understanding smiles, content to wait a little longer until help shows up.
They shuffle back to their lanes, and I take a second to breathe.
Just a second. Then I’m off again, already behind on my next task.
By the time I get through six more groups, all lanes have been claimed.
The chatter and laughter in the alley convey joy and excitement as people compete in friendly—and sometimes not so friendly—games.
There’s still a line of people waiting for space, and I have no system in place for a waitlist. I’ve never needed one before.
What the fuck did my dad do? He was old school, so he probably made a list by hand.
I scramble behind the desk and find blank sheets of paper and a few pens to have the crowd sign up with their names and party numbers. It’s not the most efficient way, but it works for now. At least until I can figure out a better system.
Just as the last group puts their name on the list, the front doors open again. I freeze, wondering if this is a second influx of people, but immediately sag in relief when I see Mom and Mrs. Helen walk in.
My mom’s eyes are wide, darting from lane to lane as laughter, music, and the crash of bowling pins echo around us.
There’s a childlike wonder sparkling in her eyes that I haven’t seen in over a year, the kind that makes her look lighter somehow, like grief isn’t weighing so heavily on her shoulders for once.
Her smile trembles as she takes everything in, one hand pressed against her chest like she’s trying to hold together the overwhelming happiness shining across her face.
When her gaze finally lands on me, her eyes glisten with tears. “This is your father’s doing,” she says once she’s close enough to pull me into a hug. “I know he’s watching over us. I know he’d be proud of you, son.”
I bristle at her words, not feeling like I deserve the praise.
I’m still lying about my own happiness and wants.
I still don’t love the alley like my father loved the alley.
But I don’t say any of this because my mom clearly finds comfort in this story she’s created. I’m not going to take that from her.